A Royal Pain by Rhys Bowen

say what you like here, however silly it is.”
    “You think communists are silly?” she asked.
    “Don’t you?”
    “I think it would be nice if all people had money and houses and enough food.”
    “And you think the communists could deliver that? Look at the mess in Russia.”
    “I don’t know,” she said, then gave a little squeak as her glove dropped onto the wet ground. Instantly one of the young men lowered his sign and leaped for her glove.
    “There you are, miss,” he said, handing it back to her with a charming bow.
    “Thank you very much.” Hanni blushed prettily. “Your friend speaks very well,” she told him.
    He beamed at her. “Are you interested in coming to one of our meetings? We hold them at St. Mary’s Hall in the East End. You’d be most welcome.”
    “You see. Communists are nice people, no?” Hanni whispered as he retrieved his sign. “He was handsome guy.”
    I had to agree he was handsome, even though he was wearing a threadbare tweed jacket and hand-knitted pullover. The interesting thing was that he spoke like a gentleman.
    At that moment there was the tramp of boots and a group of young men wearing black shirts, adorned with an emblem of a lightning bolt, marched up to the communists.
    “Go back to Russia where you belong,” one of them shouted. “England for the English.”
    “We’re as bloody English as you are, mate, and we’ve a right to speak here,” the man shouted from his platform.
    “You’re a bunch of intellectual pansy boys. You’re no bleedin’ use to anybody,” one of the blackshirts jeered and leaped up to push him from the platform. Suddenly a scuffle broke out around us. Hanni screamed. The young man she had spoken to tried to fight his way through the melee toward her, but he was punched by a large thuggish black-shirt. Suddenly a strong arm grabbed me around the waist and I found myself being propelled out of the skirmish. I looked up to protest and found myself staring at Darcy O’Mara.
    “Over here, before things get ugly,” he muttered and steered Hanni and me away into the park, just as the sound of police whistles could be heard.
    “Those hooligans can’t stop free speech in Britain. We’ll show them the right way,” someone was shouting as the police waded in to break up the fight.
    I looked up at Darcy. “Thank you. You arrived at the right moment.”
    “Ah well, didn’t you know I’m your guardian angel?” he asked with that wicked grin. “What on earth were you doing at a communist rally? Are you about to trade Castle Rannoch for a peasant’s hovel?”
    “We were only there by accident,” I said. “We went for a Sunday afternoon stroll and Hanni wanted to know who was shouting.”
    Darcy’s gaze turned to Hanni. “A friend of yours?” he asked. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
    “Highness, may I present the Honorable Darcy O’Mara, son and heir of Lord Kilhenny of Ireland. Darcy, this is Her Highess Princess Hannelore of Bavaria,” I said. “She’s staying with me at Rannoch House.”
    “Is she, by George.” I saw his eyes light up. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Your Highness.” He gave a very proper bow, then lifted her outstretched hand to his lips. “I’d volunteer to escort you ladies back to Belgrave Square but unfortunately I’m already late for an appointment. I look forward to seeing you again soon, now that I’m back in London. Your Highness. My lady.” Then he melted into the by-then considerable crowd.
    “Wow, holy cow, hubba hubba, gee whiz. That was some guy,” Hanni said. “Don’t tell me he’s your main squeeze!”
    “My what?”
    “Your honey. Your sugar. Isn’t that right word?”
    “In England we’re a little less colorful with our language,” I said.
    “So you say it?”
    “Boyfriend? Escort?”
    “And is he?”
    “Obviously not anymore,” I said with a sigh.

Chapter 9
    Rannoch House
Monday, June 13, 1932
    Monday morning—cold and blustery again. More