Her Royal Spyness by Rhys Bowen Page A

solicitor in Bromley in Kent, of all places. I’m not sure that I’m cut out for the law, but my guardian wanted me to have a stable profession, so I suppose I’ve got to stick with it. Frankly I’d much rather be off on adventures and expeditions like him.”
    “A little more dangerous,” I pointed out.
    “But not boring. How about you?”
    “I’ve just arrived in London and I’m not sure what I’m going to be doing with myself. It’s not quite as easy for me to just go out and get a job.”
    “No, I suppose it wouldn’t be,” he said. “Look, now that you’re in London, maybe we can do some exploring together. I happen to know the city quite well and I’d be delighted to show you around.”
    “I’d like that,” I said. “I’m staying at the family home. Rannoch House on Belgrave Square.”
    “And I’m in digs in Bromley,” he said. “A slight difference.”
    Another young man in a morning coat approached. “Buck up, old thing,” he said to Tristram. “We need all the grooms-men outside toot sweet. We’ve got to sabotage the car before they drive away.”
    “Oh, right. Coming.” Tristram gave me an apologetic smile. “Duty calls,” he said. “I do hope we meet again soon.”
    At that moment Darcy appeared. “Are you ready to go, Georgie? The bride and groom are about to leave and I thought . . .” He broke off when he saw I was standing beside Tristram. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. How are you, Hautbois?”
    “Pretty fair. And yourself, O’Mara?”
    “Can’t complain. Will you excuse us? I have to take Georgie home.”
    “I turn into a pumpkin at six o’clock,” I attempted to joke.
    “I look forward to seeing you again, Lady Georgiana,” Tristram said formally.
    As Darcy turned away and attempted to fight his way through the crowd to the door, Tristram grabbed my arm. “Watch out for O’Mara,” he whispered. “He’s a bit of a cad. Not quite trustworthy.”

Chapter 7
    Rannoch House
Saturday, April 23, 1932
     
    We came out to a mild April evening. The setting sun was streaming across the park.
    “There,” Darcy said, taking my arm to help me down the steps. “That wasn’t so bad, was it? You survived perfectly well and you’re considerably better fed and wined than you were a couple of hours ago. In fact there are now nice healthy roses to your cheeks.”
    “I suppose so,” I said, “but I don’t think I plan on doing it again. Too hair-raising. There were people who knew me.”
    “Like that twerp Hautbois?” Darcy said scathingly.
    “You know Tristram, then?”
    “I can’t say I actually socialize with him these days. We were at school together. At least, I was a couple of years above him. He snitched to the masters and got me a beating once.”
    “For doing what?”
    “Trying to take something from him, I believe,” he said. “Sniveling little brute that he was.”
    “He seems quite pleasant now,” I said.
    “Has he asked to see you again?”
    “He’s offered to show me around London.”
    “Has he now.”
    With a thrill I realized that he might be jealous. I grinned.
    “So how on earth do you know him?” Darcy went on. “He can’t have been one of your partners at those dreary deb balls, surely?”
    “We were practically related once. My mother was married to his guardian. We used to—to play together.” Somehow I couldn’t use the word “naked” with Darcy.
    “I’d imagine you are probably practically related to a good many people on several continents,” he said and raised an eyebrow.
    “I think my mother only actually married the first few bolts,” I said. “In those days she was conventional enough to still believe she should marry them. Now she just—”
    “Lives in sin?” Again that challenging smile that did something to my insides.
    “As you say.”
    “That would never work for me,” he said. “As a Catholic, I’d be damned to hell if I kept marrying and divorcing. The church considers marriage