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Authors: Rhys Bowen
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clients. I expect her to order a lot of gowns while we are there.”
“Always the businesswoman,” Vera muttered to me.
Chanel ignored her. “And we shall work on turning you into my model,” she added.
While we had been talking I had a strange pricking sensation between my shoulder blades. I glanced around and saw that the handsome Frenchman was watching me as he ate his dinner.
“That man,” I whispered. “He keeps staring at me.”
Vera spun around. “It’s no good gazing at us wistfully, Jean-Paul,” she said. “We’re not going to invite you to join us. We’re having girl talk.”
“This charming young lady,” the Frenchman said, in English this time, “I do not think that she has been to the Riviera before?”
“This is Lady Georgiana Rannoch,” Vera said. “Bertie’s daughter.”
“How delightful.” He raised his glass to me. “I shall look forward to getting to know you better.”
“Watch out for that one,” Vera muttered as we turned back. “He eats little girls like you for breakfast and spits out the bones.”
“Who is he?”
“The Marquis de Ronchard. Old family. Loads of property in the colonies. Frightfully rich. Playboy, gambler. A little like your papa.”
It was startling to hear my father described in these terms, also to hear him called Bertie. I knew his name was Albert Henry, but I had only ever heard him called Rannoch by our equals and “Your Grace” by subordinates. I knew he had frittered away the last of the family fortune on the Riviera. I knew he had almost gambled away Castle Rannoch, but it was still a shock to hear him described as a playboy and a gambler. To me, on the few occasions I had seen him, he had seemed rather like Binky—affable, easygoing, inoffensive. I remembered that he had got down on all fours on the carpet to play at bears with me, and I had squealed with delight and terror. It was one of the few strong memories I had of him.
“I don’t think the marquis is too interested in a girl like me,” I said. “I’m not glamorous enough.”
“He likes virgins,” Vera muttered darkly. “Hunting runs in the blood, you know.”
“But of course he will have to settle down one day,” Coco said. “It is required that he produce the heir on the right side of the blanket. And then he will be a good catch. For someone who doesn’t mind the constant nocturnal straying.”
The meal was delicious and the conversation equally so. I felt the champagne bubbling in my head as I went back to my compartment. I found that my bed had been pulled out and made up for the night, also that the compartment now had a lingering hint of foreign cigarette smoke. Queenie, of course, was nowhere to be seen.
“Queenie?” I called.
I heard stirrings next door and she appeared. “Sorry, miss. I must have dozed off.”
“Queenie, did you watch my bed being made up?”
“Yes, miss—I mean, meelady.”
“Was the attendant smoking when he did it?”
“Oh, no, miss. Of course he wasn’t.”
“But there’s a distinct smell of French cigarettes. Has anyone else been in here?”
“Of course not.”
She had admitted to dozing. My first thought was my jewel case. I don’t have many jewels but the ones I have are family heirlooms. I climbed up to get it down from the rack and was relieved to find the jewels all there. Then I opened my big suitcase and stared at it in surprise.
“Queenie, have you been in my suitcase?”
“Why would I do that?” she asked. “I ain’t touched nothing of yours. Honest.”
“Haven’t touched anything,” I corrected.
“That’s what I said. Ain’t touched nothing.”
I stared at it again. “That’s distinctly odd. Someone has been through this suitcase. But it only contains my clothes and they’re not exactly valuable or high fashion. I wonder what they could have been looking for.”
I went back out to the corridor and located the Pullman attendant.
“Did you see anyone going into my compartment?” I
“Always the businesswoman,” Vera muttered to me.
Chanel ignored her. “And we shall work on turning you into my model,” she added.
While we had been talking I had a strange pricking sensation between my shoulder blades. I glanced around and saw that the handsome Frenchman was watching me as he ate his dinner.
“That man,” I whispered. “He keeps staring at me.”
Vera spun around. “It’s no good gazing at us wistfully, Jean-Paul,” she said. “We’re not going to invite you to join us. We’re having girl talk.”
“This charming young lady,” the Frenchman said, in English this time, “I do not think that she has been to the Riviera before?”
“This is Lady Georgiana Rannoch,” Vera said. “Bertie’s daughter.”
“How delightful.” He raised his glass to me. “I shall look forward to getting to know you better.”
“Watch out for that one,” Vera muttered as we turned back. “He eats little girls like you for breakfast and spits out the bones.”
“Who is he?”
“The Marquis de Ronchard. Old family. Loads of property in the colonies. Frightfully rich. Playboy, gambler. A little like your papa.”
It was startling to hear my father described in these terms, also to hear him called Bertie. I knew his name was Albert Henry, but I had only ever heard him called Rannoch by our equals and “Your Grace” by subordinates. I knew he had frittered away the last of the family fortune on the Riviera. I knew he had almost gambled away Castle Rannoch, but it was still a shock to hear him described as a playboy and a gambler. To me, on the few occasions I had seen him, he had seemed rather like Binky—affable, easygoing, inoffensive. I remembered that he had got down on all fours on the carpet to play at bears with me, and I had squealed with delight and terror. It was one of the few strong memories I had of him.
“I don’t think the marquis is too interested in a girl like me,” I said. “I’m not glamorous enough.”
“He likes virgins,” Vera muttered darkly. “Hunting runs in the blood, you know.”
“But of course he will have to settle down one day,” Coco said. “It is required that he produce the heir on the right side of the blanket. And then he will be a good catch. For someone who doesn’t mind the constant nocturnal straying.”
The meal was delicious and the conversation equally so. I felt the champagne bubbling in my head as I went back to my compartment. I found that my bed had been pulled out and made up for the night, also that the compartment now had a lingering hint of foreign cigarette smoke. Queenie, of course, was nowhere to be seen.
“Queenie?” I called.
I heard stirrings next door and she appeared. “Sorry, miss. I must have dozed off.”
“Queenie, did you watch my bed being made up?”
“Yes, miss—I mean, meelady.”
“Was the attendant smoking when he did it?”
“Oh, no, miss. Of course he wasn’t.”
“But there’s a distinct smell of French cigarettes. Has anyone else been in here?”
“Of course not.”
She had admitted to dozing. My first thought was my jewel case. I don’t have many jewels but the ones I have are family heirlooms. I climbed up to get it down from the rack and was relieved to find the jewels all there. Then I opened my big suitcase and stared at it in surprise.
“Queenie, have you been in my suitcase?”
“Why would I do that?” she asked. “I ain’t touched nothing of yours. Honest.”
“Haven’t touched anything,” I corrected.
“That’s what I said. Ain’t touched nothing.”
I stared at it again. “That’s distinctly odd. Someone has been through this suitcase. But it only contains my clothes and they’re not exactly valuable or high fashion. I wonder what they could have been looking for.”
I went back out to the corridor and located the Pullman attendant.
“Did you see anyone going into my compartment?” I
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