On Her Majesty's Frightfully Secret Service (Her Royal Spyness #11)(11)
I had to smile. “I didn’t know he planned to do that. He can be rather impulsive, and he was so relieved that his father had been exonerated and he was now free to marry.”
“If we had said no, if we denied you this right, what would you do?” she asked.
“Move abroad. Defy the ban and marry there,” I said.
She smiled now. “That’s all I wanted to hear. Very well, Georgiana. You need worry no longer. I will make sure this goes through without a hitch and soon. When are you thinking of planning the ceremony?”
“In the summer, ma’am. Of course not too close to the jubilee celebrations.”
“The jubilee celebrations will be over by the end of May,” she said with a smile. “I see no conflict there. And you will be married in London or Ireland?”
“In London, I hope. Darcy was thinking of the church on Farm Street in Mayfair.”
“Not Westminster Cathedral or the Brompton Oratory?”
I gave a sheepish grin. “I don’t think I have enough friends and family to fill either of those.”
“Your choice. It’s your day, after all.” She reached across and patted my hand. “Do you plan to convert to his religion?”
“I’m not sure at this moment. I do have to agree to raise our children as Catholics and I have no objection to doing that.” I took a bite of shortbread and managed to chew and swallow it without coughing. I was making so many improvements. I was jolly proud of myself!
“So where do you go now?” the queen asked. “Back to Ireland?”
“No, ma’am. Darcy is away at the moment and frankly I find the castle rather gloomy with just Lord Kilhenny in residence. And I have a task I have to fulfill. A friend is currently living in Italy and not in the best of health. She has asked me to join her for a while.”
Did I sense that the queen’s ears pricked up? She turned to look at me. “In what part of Italy does she reside?”
“On Lake Maggiore. Near Stresa.”
It was she who coughed on her shortbread. I wondered whether protocol would allow me to pat her on the back, but she took a sip of tea and recovered her composure. “A remarkable coincidence,” she said.
“What is, ma’am?” I asked, trying not to sound too curious and carefully replacing my own teacup on the table so that whatever she told me next I did not react with surprise and slop tea into my saucer.
She turned toward me suddenly. “Do you know the Martinis?”
This was not what I had expected. “You make them with gin and vermouth, I think. I don’t drink cocktails very often.”
She shook her head. “No, I mean the family, not the drink,” she said. “Old Italian family. The Counts of Marola and Martini?”
“I’m afraid I don’t mix much with European aristocracy.”
“But you know his wife,” she went on. “You and she were school chums.”
Oh no. Not another supposed dear friend I had either never heard of or long forgotten about? She had sprung these on me before when she wanted me to do something for her—usually something difficult or unpleasant.
“We were?”
“Well, maybe not bosom friends, as she must be a little older than you, but you were at the school in Switzerland at the same time. Waddell-Walker is the name.”
“Oh yes. Camilla Waddell-Walker. I do remember her,” I said. An image swam into my head of a bony, horsey-faced girl with a permanent supercilious sneer. Belinda called her Miss Cami-Knickers. She had been the prefect in my dorm during my first year at Les Oiseaux and she was always finding fault with Belinda and myself. Mostly Belinda, of course. I would have been a well-behaved young lady if Belinda hadn’t tried to lead me astray. Camilla was constantly saying “It simply isn’t done!” when we giggled or played pranks or behaved in any kind of unladylike way. Luckily she didn’t know that Belinda sneaked out to meet ski instructors or to smoke behind the gardener’s shed. I don’t know what she would have said to those sorts of infringements!
The queen smiled. “Splendid. You do know her. As I was saying, she made a really good match and is now the Contessa di Martini. Paolo’s family is extremely wealthy and powerful in Italy, although I have heard that they are showing Fascist leanings, of which I do not approve. That horrible bald-headed man Mussolini.” She shuddered. “I can’t understand what these Continentals are thinking when they elect such unappealing leaders. Hitler—short, dark and that ridiculous hedgehog mustache—and Mussolini, bald and pudgy.”
This was not getting us any closer to revealing why we were on this topic. She must have realized this because she said, “Now, where was I? Oh yes. The Martinis have a villa on Lake Maggiore. Near the town of Stresa. They are currently in residence and going to hold a house party next week.”
Oh crikey, I thought. I bet she wants me to crash the house party and steal some antique for her. I should tell you that Her Majesty is passionate about antiques and will go to great lengths to obtain an object that completes her collection. Not that she would condone stealing, exactly, but if she found out that a particular jug that was missing from her Royal Worcester service might be found at a particular house or castle, she might be tempted to ask me to retrieve it for her. She had done so in the past.
She cleared her throat and went on. “My son the Prince of Wales is going to be a member of that house party. So is a certain American woman I will not name.” She paused. “He is being rather obtuse and secretive about why he is going there. And it is all the more embarrassing as an official British delegation is being sent to an important conference there, at the same time. His father told him it would put them in an awkward situation if it were known that he was in the vicinity. They might feel obliged to include him in official functions, but he absolutely refused to change his plans. So this leaves me to wonder why this particular house party is so important to him, and a disturbing thought enters my mind. . . .”