Royal Blood Part 1

Royal Blood.

by Rhys Bowen.

This book is dedicated to my sister-in-law Mary Vyvan, who always makes us so welcome in her lovely Cornish manor house where Lady Georgiana would feel completely at home.

Acknowledgments.

Thanks as always to my brilliant team at Berkley: my editor, Jackie Cantor, and publicist, Megan Swartz; to my agents Meg Ruley and Christina Hogrebe and to my at-home advisors and editors Clare, Jane and John.

Chapter 1.

Rannoch House Belgrave Square London W.1.

Tuesday, November 8, 1932 Fog for days. Trapped alone in London house. Shall go mad soon.

November in London is utterly b.l.o.o.d.y. Yes, I know a lady is not supposed to use such language but I can think of no other way to describe the damp, bone-chilling pea-souper fog that had descended upon Belgrave Square for the past week. Our London home, Rannoch House, is not exactly warm and jolly at the best of times, but at least it's bearable when the family is in residence, servants abound, and fires are burning merrily in all the fireplaces. But with just me in the house and not a servant in sight, there was simply no way of keeping warm. I don't want you to think that I am a weak and delicate sort of person who usually feels the cold. In fact at home at Castle Rannoch in Scotland I'm as hearty as the best of them. I go out for long rides on frosty mornings; I am used to sleeping with the windows open at all times. But this London cold was different from anything I had experienced. It cut one to the very bone. I was tempted to stay in bed all day.

Not that there was much reason for me to get out of bed at the moment, and it was only Nanny's strict upbringing that did not allow bed rest for anything less than double pneumonia that made me get up in the mornings, put on three layers of jumpers and rush down to the comparative warmth of the kitchen.

This particular morning I was huddled in the kitchen, sipping a cup of tea, when I heard the sound of the morning post dropping onto the doormat in the upstairs hall. Since hardly anyone knew I was in London, this was a big event. I raced upstairs and retrieved not one but two letters from the front doormat. Two letters, how exciting, I thought, and then I recognized my sister-in-law's spidery handwriting on one of them. Oh, crikey, what on earth did she want? Fig wasn't the sort of person who wrote letters when not necessary. She begrudged wasting the postage stamp.

The second letter made my heart lurch even more. It bore the royal coat of arms and came from Buckingham Palace. I didn't even wait to reach the warmth of the kitchen. I tore it open instantly. It was from Her Majesty the queen's personal secretary.

Dear Lady Georgiana,Her Majesty Queen Mary asks me to convey her warmest wishes and hopes you might be free to join her at the palace for luncheon on Thursday, November 8th. She requests that perhaps you could come a little early, say around eleven forty-five, as she has a matter of some importance she wishes to discuss with you.

"Oh, golly," I muttered. I'd have to get out of the habit of such girlish expletives. I might even have to acquire some four-letter words for strictly personal use. You'd think that an invitation to Buckingham Palace for luncheon with the queen would be an honor. Actually it happened all too frequently for my liking. You see, King George is my second cousin and since I'd been living in London Queen Mary had come up with a succession of little tasks for me. Well, not-so-little tasks, actually. Things like spying on the Prince of Wales's new American lady friend. And a few months ago she foisted a visiting German princess and her retinue on me-rather awkward when I had no servants and no money for food. But of course one does not say no to the queen.

You might also wonder why someone related to the royals came to be living alone with no servants and no money for food. The sad truth is that our branch of the family is quite penniless. My father gambled away most of his fortune and lost the rest in the great crash of '29. My brother, Binky, the current duke, lives on the family estate in Scotland. I suppose I could live with him, but his dear wife, Fig, had made it clear that I wasn't really wanted there.

I looked at Fig's letter and sighed. What on earth could she want? It was too cold to stand in the front hall any longer. I carried it down to the kitchen and took up my position near the stove before opening it.

Dear Georgiana,I hope you are well and that the London weather is more clement than the current gales we are experiencing. This is to advise you of our plans. We have decided to come down to the London house for the winter this year. Binky is still weak after being confined to bed for so long after his accident, and Podge has had one nasty cold after another, so I think a little warmth and culture are in order. We plan to arrive at Rannoch House within the next week or so. Binky has told me of your housekeeping prowess, so I see no need to pay for the additional expense of sending servants on ahead when I know you'll do a splendid job of getting the house ready for us. I can count on you, Georgiana, can't I? And when we arrive, Binky thinks we should hold a couple of parties for you, even though I did remind him that considerable amounts were already spent on your season. He is anxious to see you properly settled and I agree it would be one less worry for the whole family at this trying time. I hope you will do your part, Georgiana, and not snub the young men we produce for you as you did poor Prince Siegfried, who really seemed a most well-mannered young man and may even inherit a kingdom someday. May I remind you that you are not getting any younger. By the time a woman reaches twenty-four, which you are approaching, she is considered to be on the shelf, remember. Her bloom has faded.So please have the place ready for us when we arrive. We shall only be bringing the minimum number of servants with us as travel is so expensive these days. Your brother asks me to convey his warmest sentiments.

Your devoted sister-in-law, Hilda Rannoch I was surprised she hadn't also put "(d.u.c.h.ess of )." Yes, Hilda was her given name, although everyone else called her Fig. Frankly if I'd been called Hilda I'd have thought that even Fig was preferable. The image of Fig arriving in the near future galvanized me into action. I had to find something to do with myself so that I would not be stuck in the house being lectured about what a burden I was to the family.

A job would be a terrific idea, but I had pretty much given up all hope of that. Some of those unemployed men standing on street corners held all kinds of degrees and qualifications. My education at a frightfully posh finishing school in Switzerland had only equipped me to walk around with a book on my head, speak good French and know where to seat a bishop at a dinner party. I had been trained for marriage, nothing else. Besides, most forms of employment would be frowned upon for someone in my position. It would be letting down the family firm to be seen behind the counter in Woolworths or pulling a pint at a local pub.

An invitation to somewhere far away-that's what I needed. Preferably an invitation to Timbuktu or at least a villa on the Mediterranean. That would also get me out of any of the queen's little suggestions for me. "I'm so sorry, ma'am. I'd love to spy on Mrs. Simpson for you, but I'm expected in Monte Carlo at the end of the week."

There was only one person in London I could run to in such dire circ.u.mstances-my old school chum Belinda Warburton-Stoke. Belinda is one of those people who always manage to fall on their feet-or rather flat on her back, in her case. She was always being invited to house parties and to cruises on yachts-because she's awfully naughty and s.e.xy, you see, unlike me, who hasn't had a chance to be either naughty or s.e.xy.

I'd paid a visit to Belinda's little mews cottage in Knightsbridge when I returned to London from Castle Rannoch in Scotland a couple of weeks ago, only to find the place shut up and no sign of Belinda. I supposed that she had gone to Italy with her latest beau, a gorgeous Italian count, who was unfortunately engaged to someone else. There was a possibility that she had returned, and the situation was urgent enough to warrant my venturing out into the worst sort of fog. If anyone knew how to rescue me from an impending Fig, it would be Belinda. So I wrapped myself in layers of scarves and stepped out into the pea-souper. Goodness but it was unearthly out there. All sounds were m.u.f.fled and the air was permeated with the smoke of thousands of coal fires, leaving a disgusting metallic taste in my mouth. The houses around Belgrave Square had been swallowed up into the murk and I could just make out the railings around the gardens in the middle. n.o.body else seemed to be out as I made my way carefully around the square.

I almost gave up several times, telling myself that bright young things like Belinda wouldn't possibly be in London in weather like this and I was wasting my time. But I kept going doggedly onward. We Rannochs are known for not giving up, whatever the odds. So I thought of Robert Bruce Rannoch, continuing to scale the Heights of Abraham in Quebec after being shot several times and arriving at the top with more holes in him than a colander, managing to kill five of the enemy before he died. Not a cheerful story, I suppose. Most stories of my gallant ancestors end with the ancestor in question expiring.

It took me a while to realize I was hopelessly lost. Belinda's mews was only a few streets away from me and I had been walking for ages. I knew I'd had to move cautiously, one small step at a time, with my hand touching the railings in front of houses for security, but I must have gone wrong somewhere.

Don't panic, I said to myself. Eventually I would come to a place I recognized and I'd be all right. The problem was that there was n.o.body else about and it was impossible to read the street signs. They too had vanished into the murk above my head. I had no choice but to keep going. Surely I'd eventually come to Knightsbridge and Harrods. I'd see lights in shop windows. Harrods wouldn't close for a little thing like fog. There would be enough people in London who had to have their foie gras and their truffles no matter what the weather. But Harrods never appeared. At last I came to what seemed to be some gardens. I couldn't decide what they would be. Surely I couldn't have crossed Knightsbridge and found myself beside Hyde Park?

I began to feel horribly uneasy. That's when I noticed the footsteps behind me-slow, steady footsteps, keeping exact pace with mine. I turned but couldn't see anyone. Don't be so silly, I said to myself. The footsteps could only be a strange echo produced by the fog. I started walking again, stopped suddenly and heard the footsteps continue another couple of beats before they too stopped. I started walking faster and faster, my mind conjuring the sort of things that happened in the fog in Sherlock Holmes stories. I stumbled down some kind of curb, kept going and suddenly felt a great yawning openness ahead of me before I b.u.mped into some kind of hard barrier.

Where the devil was I? I felt the barrier again, trying to picture it. It was rough, cold stone. Was there a wall around the Serpentine in Hyde Park? I felt a cold dampness rising to meet me and smelled an unpleasant rotting vegetation sort of smell. And a lapping sound. I leaned forward trying to identify the sound I could hear below me, wondering if I should climb over the wall to escape from whomever was following me. Then suddenly I nearly jumped out of my skin as a hand grabbed my shoulder from behind.

Chapter 2.

"I wouldn't do that, miss," a deep c.o.c.kney voice said.

"Do what?" I spun around and could just make out the shape of a policeman's helmet.

"I know what you was going to do," he said. "You were about to jump into the river, weren't you? I was following you. I saw you about to climb over the bal.u.s.trade. You were going to end it all."

I was still digesting the information that I had somehow walked all the way to the Thames, in quite the wrong direction, and it took a minute for the penny to drop. "End it all? Absolutely not, Constable."

He put his hand on my shoulder again, gently this time. "Come on, love. You can tell me the truth. Why else would you be out on a day like this and trying to climb into the river? Don't feel so bad. I see it all the time these days, my dear. This depression has got everyone down, but I'm here to tell you that life is still worth living, no matter what. Come back to the station with me and I'll make you a nice cup of tea."

I didn't know whether to laugh or be indignant. The latter won out. "Look here, Officer," I said, "I was only trying to make my way to my friend's house and I must have taken a wrong turn. I had no idea I was anywhere near the river."

"If you say so, miss," he said.

I was tempted to tell him that it was "my lady" and not "miss," but I was feeling so uncomfortable now that I just wanted to get away. "If you could just direct me back in the direction of Knightsbridge," I said. "Or Belgravia. I came from Belgrave Square."

"Blimey, then you are out of your way. You're by Chelsea Bridge." He took my arm and escorted me back across the Embankment, then up what he identified as Sloane Street to Sloane Square. I refused his renewed offer of a cup of tea at the police station and told him I'd be all right now I knew which street I was on.

"If I was you, I'd go straight home," he said. "This is no weather to be out in. Talk to your friend on the old blow piece."

Of course he was right, but I only used the telephone in emergencies, as Fig objected to paying the bill and I had no money to do so. I realized it would have been more sensible today, but actually it was human company I craved. It's awfully lonely camping out in a big house without even my maid to talk to and I'm the sort of person who likes company. So I set out from Sloane Square and eventually made my way to Belinda's mews without further incident, only to find it was as I suspected and she wasn't home.

I tried to retrace my steps to Belgrave Square, really wishing I'd taken the policeman's advice and gone straight home. Then through the fog I heard a noise I recognized-a train whistle. So some trains were still running in spite of the fog, and Victoria Station was straight ahead of me. If I found the station I'd be able to orient myself easily enough. Suddenly I came upon a line of people, mostly men, standing dejectedly, scarves over their mouths, hands thrust into their pockets. I couldn't imagine what they were doing until I smelled the boiled cabbage odor and realized that they were lining up for the soup kitchen at the station.

That was when I had a brilliant idea. I could volunteer to help out at the soup kitchen. If I volunteered there the family would approve, in fact the queen herself had suggested that I do some charity work, and at least I'd get one square meal a day until Binky and Fig arrived. I hadn't been able to afford decent food for ages. In fact there was a horrid empty sick feeling in my stomach at this moment. I started to walk past the line to try to find somebody in charge when a hand shot out and grabbed me.

" 'Ere, where do you think you're going?" a big, burly man demanded. "Trying to cut in, weren't you? You go to the end and take your turn like the rest of us."

"But I was only going to speak to the people who run the kitchen," I said. "I was going to volunteer here."

"Garn-I've heard every excuse in the book. Go on, to the back of the queue."

I turned away, mortified, and was about to slink off home when the man behind him stepped out. "Look at her, Harry. She's all skin and bone and anyone can see she's a lady, fallen on hard times. You come in front of me, ducks. You look like you're about to pa.s.s out if you don't get a good meal soon."

I was about to decline this kind offer but I caught a whiff of that soup. You can tell how hungry I was when boiled cabbage actually smelled good to me. What harm could there be in sampling the wares before I offered my services? I gave the man a grateful smile and slipped into the line. We inched closer and closer and finally into the station itself. It had an unnaturally deserted air, but I heard the hiss of escaping steam from an engine and a disembodied voice announced the departure of the boat train to Dover, awaking in me a wistful longing. To be on the boat train to Dover and the Continent. Wouldn't that be ripping?

But my journey terminated a few yards ahead at an oilcloth-covered table to one side of the platforms. I was handed a plate and a spoon. A hunk of bread was dumped onto the plate and then I moved on to one of the great pots full of stew. I could see pieces of meat and carrot floating in a rich brown gravy. I watched the ladle come up and over my plate, then it froze there, in midair.

I looked up in annoyance and found myself staring into Darcy O'Mara's alarming eyes. His dark, curly hair was even more unruly than usual and he was wearing a large royal blue fisherman's sweater that went perfectly with the blue of his eyes. In short he looked as gorgeous as ever. I started to smile.

"Georgie!" He could not have sounded more shocked if I'd been standing there with no clothes on. Actually, knowing Darcy, he might have enjoyed seeing me standing in Victoria Station naked.

I felt myself going beet red and tried to be breezy. "What-ho, Darcy. Long time no see."

"Georgie, what were you thinking of?" He s.n.a.t.c.hed the plate away from me as if it were red-hot.

"It's not how it looks, Darcy." I attempted a laugh that didn't come off well. "I came down here to see if I could help out at the soup kitchen and one of the men in line thought I was coming for food and insisted I take his place. He was being so kind I didn't like to disillusion him."

While I was talking I was conscious of mutterings in the line behind me. Good smells were obviously reaching them too. "Get a move on, then," said an angry voice. Darcy took off the large blue ap.r.o.n he had been wearing. "Take over for me, Wilson, will you?" he called to a fellow helper. "I have to get this young lady out of here before she faints."

And he almost leaped over the table to grab me, taking my arm and firmly steering me away.

"What are you doing?" I demanded, conscious of all those eyes staring at me.

"Getting you out of here before someone recognizes you, of course," he hissed in my ear.

"I don't know what you're making such a big fuss about," I said. "If you hadn't reacted in that way n.o.body would have noticed me. And I really was coming to offer my services, you know."

"You may well have been, but it is not unknown for gentlemen of the press to prowl the big London stations in the hope of snapping a celebrity," he said in that gravelly voice with just the trace of an Irish brogue, while he still propelled me along at a rapid pace. "It's not hard to recognize you, my lady. I did so myself in a London tea shop, remember? And can you imagine what a field day they'd have with that? Member of the royal family among the down-and-outs? 'From Buckingham Palace to Beggar'? Think of the embarra.s.sment it would cause your royal relatives."

"I don't see why I should worry about what they think," I said. "They don't pay to feed me."

We had emerged from the soot of the station through a side door. He let go of my arm and stared hard at me. "You really wanted that disgusting slop they call soup?"

"If you must know, yes, I really did. Since my last attempt at a career last summer-a career you cut short, by the way-I haven't earned any money and, the last time I heard, one needs money to buy food."

His expression changed and softened. "My poor, dear girl. Why didn't you let someone know? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Darcy, I never know where to find you. Besides, you seem to be broke yourself most of the time."

"But unlike you I know how to survive," he said. "I am currently minding a friend's house in Kensington. He has an exceptionally good wine cellar and has left half his staff in residence, so I don't do badly for myself. Are you still all alone at Rannoch House, then?"

"All alone," I said. Now that the shock of seeing him in such upsetting circ.u.mstances had worn off, and he was looking at me tenderly, I felt as if I might cry.

He steered me to the edge of the curb and found a taxi sitting there.

"Do you think you could manage to find Belgrave Square?" he asked.

"I could give it a ruddy good try, mate," the taxi driver replied, obviously only too glad to earn a fare. "At least we won't have to worry about traffic jams, will we?"

Darcy bundled me inside and we took off.

"Poor little Lady Georgie." He raised his hand to my cheek and stroked it gently, unnerving me even more. "You really aren't equipped to survive in the big world, are you?"

"I'm trying to," I said. "It's not easy."

"The last I heard of you, you were with your brother at Castle Rannoch," he said, "which I agree is not the jolliest place in the world but at least you get three square meals a day there. What in G.o.d's name made you leave and come down here at this time of year?"

"One word: Fig. She reverted to her usual nasty self and kept dropping hints about too many mouths to feed and having to go without her Fortnum's jam."

"It's your ancestral home, not hers," he said. "Surely your brother is grateful for what you've done for them, isn't he? Their son would be dead and so might Binky be, had it not been for you."

"You know Binky. He's a likeable enough chap, but he's too easygoing. Fig walks all over him. And he's been laid up with that horrid infection in his ankle; it has left him really weak. So all in all it seemed more sensible to bolt. I hoped I'd be able to find some kind of work."

"There is no work to be had," he said. "n.o.body is making money, apart from the bookies at the racecourses and the gambling clubs. Not that they make money out of me." He gave me a smug grin. "I won fifty quid at the steeplechases at Newmarket last week. I might not know much but I do know my horses. If my father hadn't sold the racing stable, I'd be home in Ireland running it right now. As it is, I'm a rolling stone like you."

"But you do work secretly, don't you, Darcy?" I said.

"Whatever gave you that idea?" He shot me a challenging smile.

"You disappear for weeks at a time and don't tell me where you're going."

"I might have a hot little piece on the side in Casablanca or Jamaica," he said.

"Darcy, you're incorrigible." I slapped his hand. He made a grab at mine and held it firmly.

"There are certain things one does not discuss in taxi-cabs," he said.

"I think this is Belgrave Square." The taxi driver pushed open the gla.s.s part.i.tion. "Which house?"

"In the middle on the far side," Darcy said.

We came to a halt outside Rannoch House. Darcy got out and came around to open the door for me. "Look, there's little point in going out anywhere tonight in this fog," he said. "It will be impossible to get a cab to drive us anywhere after dark. But it's supposed to ease up a little tomorrow. So I'll pick you up at seven."

"Where are we going?"

"To have a good meal, of course," he said. "Posh frock."

"We're not gate-crashing someone's wedding, are we?" I asked, because we had done that the first time we went anywhere together.

"Of course not." He held my hand as I started up the steps to the front door. "Society of Chartered Accountants dinner this time." Then he looked at my face and laughed. "Pulling your leg, old thing."