Royal Flush by Rhys Bowen Page A

she’d be close enough to visit. And you know Binky—always too softhearted. Can’t say no to anybody. And he looks up to the prince, always has done. So of course he said yes.”
    I nodded with sympathy.
    “And the prince suggested that maybe we build a little house party around her and her husband—oh, did I mention that she still has a husband in tow? Mooches around like a lost sheep, poor fellow. Spends his time playing billiards. Can’t even shoot. So Binky goes ahead and invites some people to make up a house party—the cousins, of all people, to start with.”
    “Which cousins?”
    “On the Scottish side. You know that dreadful hairy pair, Lachan and Murdoch.”
    “Oh yes. I remember well.” Lachan and Murdoch had always rather terrified me with their wild Highland appearance and behavior. I remember Murdoch demonstrating how to toss the caber with a fallen pine tree and hurling it through a window.
    “Well, my dear, they haven’t improved with age, and you have no idea how much they eat and drink.”
    I had a pretty good idea, if Murdoch’s caber tossing was any indication. We broke off as there was a discreet tap at the door and Hamilton entered, bearing a tray with a neat pile of sandwiches decorated with watercress, a decanter containing Scotch, and two glasses.
    “Thank you, Hamilton,” I said.
    “My lady.” He nodded, smiling at me with obvious pleasure. “May I pour you a little sustenance?” and without waiting for the go-ahead, he poured a liberal amount into one of the tumblers. “And for you, Your Grace?”
    “Why not?” Fig said. This was also unusual. She normally drank nothing stronger than the occasional Pimm’s on summer outings. But she took hers instantly and had a jolly good swig. I tucked into a sandwich. Local smoked salmon. Mrs. McPherson’s freshly baked bread. I couldn’t remember tasting anything more divine. Hamilton retreated.
    “But that’s not the worst part of it,” Fig said, putting her empty glass back on the tray with a loud bang.
    “It’s not?” I wondered what was coming next.
    “The dreadful American woman arrived and guess what? She’s brought her own house party with her. The place is positively crawling with Americans. They are eating us out of house and home, Georgiana, and you have no idea how demanding they are. They want showers instead of baths, for one thing. They told me that baths are quite unhygienic. What can be unhygienic about a bath, for heaven’s sake? It’s full of water, isn’t it? Anyway, they had the servants rig up a shower contraption in the second-floor bathroom, and then it fell on some woman’s head and she was screaming that she’d been scalded and got a concussion.”
    I gave a sympathetic grin.
    “And what’s more, they are always taking showers and baths. They want them every day, can you imagine? And at all times of the day and night. I told them that nobody can possibly get that dirty in so short a time, but they bathe every time they come in from a walk, before dinner, after dinner. It’s a wonder they’re not completely washed away. And as for drinking . . . my dear, they want cocktails, and they’re always experimenting with new cocktails. They used Binky’s twenty-year-old single-malt Scotch to make some drink with orange juice and maraschino cherries. I’m only glad that Binky was lying in agony upstairs and didn’t see them. I tell you it would have finished him off on the spot.”
    For the first time in my life I looked at my sister-in-law with some sympathy. She was definitely looking frazzled. Her short, almost mannishly bobbed hair was usually perfectly in place and it currently looked as if she’d come in from a gale. What’s more she had spilled something down the front of her gray silk dinner gown. Tomato soup, I’d gather.
    “It must have been terribly trying for you,” I said. “And as for poor Binky . . .”
    “Binky?” she shrieked. “Binky is lying up there being fussed over by