Royal Flush (2 page)

Chapter 2

Belinda Warburton-Stoke’s mews cottage
Knightsbridge
London W.1.
August 12, 1932

Belinda’s eyes opened wide with recognition. “Georgie! Oh, my goodness, you poor thing. Just look at you. Paolo, you’ve nearly drowned my best friend.”

The other motorcycle rider had now removed his own helmet and was revealed to be an absolutely gorgeous man of the Latin type, with dark, flashing eyes and luxuriant black hair. “So sorry,” he said. “I did not see you. The shadows, you know. And we were going rather fast.” He spoke with a pronounced foreign accent, overlaid with an English education at some stage.

“Paolo just loves anything fast,” Belinda said, gazing at him adoringly. The thought crossed my mind that she probably fit this criterion. Fast and loose, that was Belinda all right.

“We’ve just come from Brooklands,” she went on. “Paolo’s been practicing his motor racing. And he flies an aeroplane too. He’s promised to take me up.”

“You must introduce me, Belinda,” Paolo said, “and then you must take your friend inside, give her a drink to calm her nerves and clean her up a little.”

“Of course, darling,” Belinda said. “Georgie, this is Paolo.”

Paolo turned those incredible dark eyes on me. “Georgie? This is a name for a boy, no?”

“It’s short for Georgiana,” I said.

“Oh, very well, I suppose I had better introduce you formally,” Belinda said. “May I present Count Paolo di Marola e Martini. Paolo, this is my dearest friend, Lady Georgiana of Glen Garry and Rannoch.”

Paolo turned that devastating gaze onto me again. “You are Binky’s sister?” he asked.

“I am. How do you know Binky?”

“We were at school together for one dreadful year,” Paolo said. “My father wanted to turn me into a Civilized English Gentleman. He did not succeed. I loathed it. All those cold baths and hearty rugby games. Luckily I was asked to leave because I pinched the bottoms of the maids.”

“Yes. That sounds like you,” Belinda said. She opened her front door and ushered us in. “Florrie,” she called, “I need a bath run straight away.” She turned to look at me. “I’d ask you to sit down but frankly you’d make an awful mess of my sofa. But you can mix her a drink, Paolo. A good strong one.”

“I’m afraid I have to be on my way,
cara mia
,” Paolo said.

“I will leave you two girls to your gossip. But tonight we will go dancing,
sì
? Or I take you to Crockford’s for a little gambling, and then to a nightclub if you like.”

“I’d adore it,” Belinda said, “but unfortunately I’m busy this evening.”

“Nonsense,” Paolo said. “Telephone whoever it is and say your long-lost cousin just came into town, or your sister has had a baby, or you’ve come down with chicken pox.”

“I must admit it’s very tempting,” Belinda said. “But I really can’t back out now. The poor dear would be devastated.”

“Another man?” Paolo demanded, eyes flashing.

“Keep your hair on,” Belinda said.

“My hair? What has this to do with my hair?”

Belinda chuckled. “It’s an expression, darling. It means don’t get upset over nothing.”

“These English expressions are very silly,” Paolo said. “Why should I not get upset if you have a date with another man?”

“Don’t be silly. Of course I don’t have a date with another man,” Belinda said. “I’m doing my brother a favor and entertaining an old American who wants to buy one of his racehorses.”

“And you could not cancel that for me?” Paolo moved dangerously close to her and ran his fingertips across her cheek. I could see her weakening.

“No, I couldn’t let my brother down,” Belinda said.

“I shall be devastated,” Paolo moaned. “Absolutely bro kenhearted. I shall think that you don’t truly love me.”

Why did men never say things like this to me, I wondered.

“You know, I’ve just had a brilliant idea.” Belinda swiveled around to look at me. “Georgie could go instead of me, couldn’t you, darling?”

“Oh yes,” I said bitterly. “I’m certainly dressed for entertaining visiting Americans.”

“It’s not until eight thirty, darling,” Belinda said, “and you can have a bath here and wear whatever you like from my wardrobe. My maid will help you dress, won’t you, Florrie?” She turned to the maid, who was hovering at the foot of the stairs.

Nobody waited for the maid to reply.

“Splendid,” Paolo said, clapping his hands. “Then I bid you ladies
arrivederci
and I will call for you at nine,
cara mia
.”

“Not on your motorcycle, Paolo,” Belinda said. “I refuse to perch on the pillion in my evening togs.”

“Dogs? You wish to bring dogs?”

“Togs, darling. Another word for clothes.”

“English is such a silly language,” Paolo said again. He bowed to me. “
Arrivederci
. Until we meet again, Lady Georgiana.” And he was gone.

“Belinda,” I said as she turned to face me with a big smile on her face. “You have a frightful nerve. How can I entertain this visiting American? I know very little about racehorses, and he’ll expect to be meeting with you.”

“Don’t be silly, darling.” Belinda put a comforting hand on my arm and steered me toward the stairs. “He’s not really here to buy racehorses. He’s in oil or something. I met him at Crockford’s when I was having a little flutter last night, and I agreed to go to dinner with him because the poor lamb is in town on business and he hates to dine alone. But of course I couldn’t tell Paolo that. He’s madly jealous.”

“So you’ve stuck me with an unknown American, who is going to be disappointed that I’m not you and is probably expecting more than dinner.”

“Of course not.” We had reached the bathroom, from which steam was now billowing. “He’s from the Midwest and the only thing that’s likely to happen to you is that you’ll die of boredom. He’ll be so impressed when he finds out that he’s dining with the king’s cousin. And you’ll get a lovely dinner and good wines. I’m doing you a favor, really.”

I laughed. “Belinda, when have you ever done anybody a favor? You are one of the world’s great manipulators.”

“You’re probably right.” She sighed. “But you will do it for me?” She almost dragged me up the last of the stairs.

I sighed. “I suppose so. What have I got to lose?”

“I don’t know. What have you?” She regarded me quizzically. I blushed. “Don’t tell me you haven’t done it yet! Georgiana, I despair of you. Last time I saw you and Darcy, you appeared to be very chummy.”

“The last time I saw him I thought we were chummy too,” I said, feeling a black cloud of gloom settling over me. “But he was in hospital at the time, remember. Weak and recovering from a gunshot wound. The moment he came out of hospital he went home to Ireland to recuperate and that’s the last I’ve seen of him. Not even a postcard.”

“I don’t think he’s the postcard-writing type,” Belinda said. “Don’t worry, he’ll turn up again, like the proverbial bad penny. Darcy’s as much an opportunist as I am. He’s probably found someone to host him on a yacht off the French Riviera.”

I chewed on my lip, a bad habit that my governess, Miss MacAlister, had tried to break but never fully succeeded. “The problem is that I’m due up in Scotland soon. That means I won’t be seeing him all summer.”

“You should have leaped into bed with him when you first had the chance,” Belinda said. “Men like Darcy won’t wait around forever.”

“I know,” I said. “It’s that Castle Rannoch upbringing. All those ancestors who did the right thing. I kept thinking of Robert Bruce Rannoch, who stood his ground at the battle of Culloden and fought on alone until he was hacked to pieces.”

“I fail to see what that has to do with your losing your virginity, darling.”

“Duty, I suppose. A Rannoch never shirks her duty.”

“And you feel it’s your duty to remain a virgin until you either wed or die, do you?”

“Not really,” I said. “In fact it seems rather silly when you put it that way. I just had this vision of my mother, leaping from one bed to the next all her life, and I didn’t want to turn out like that.”

“But think of the fun she’s had doing it. And all those lovely clothes she’s acquired along the way.”

“I’m not like that,” I said. “I’m afraid I must take after my great-grandmother, Queen Victoria. I want to find one man to love and to marry. And I really don’t care about the clothes.”

“I can see that.” Belinda eyed me critically. She turned to her maid, who was standing patiently with arms full of towels. “Help Lady Georgiana out of those disgusting wet clothes, Florrie. And then take them away and wash them and bring her a robe.”

I allowed myself to be undressed and then lowered myself into the bathtub while Belinda perched on the tub rim.

“So what do you think of Paolo?” she asked. “Isn’t he divine?”

“Very divine. Did you meet him in Italy?”

“He came to the villa where I was staying”—she paused for effect—“with his fiancée.”

“His fiancée? Belinda, how could you?”

“Don’t worry, darling. It’s not the same over there. They are Catholic, you know. He’s been engaged to this girl for at least ten years. She’s very proper and spends half her time on her knees, praying her rosary, but it keeps his family happy, knowing he’ll eventually marry someone like that. In the meantime . . .” She gave me a wicked grin.

I felt rather odd, lying in a tub of hot water while Belinda perched on the rim, but she seemed to feel this was quite normal. “This is like old times, isn’t it, darling?” she commented. “Remember the chats we used to have in the bathroom at school?”

I smiled. “I do remember. It was the only place we could go where we couldn’t be overheard.”

“So what have you been doing with yourself?” she asked.

“How is your char lady business going?”

“It’s not a char lady business, Belinda. It is a domestic service agency. I prepare people’s London houses for their arrival. I don’t scrub floors or anything like that.”

“And the relatives at the palace still haven’t found out about it?”

“No, thank God. But in answer to your first question, it’s not going at all. I haven’t had a job in weeks.”

“Well, you wouldn’t, would you?” Belinda stretched out her long legs. “Nobody comes to London in the summer. Anybody who can escape from it does so.”

I nodded. “I’ve begun to feel that I’m the only person still here. Even my grandfather has gone to Clacton-on-Sea on an outing.”

“So how have you been surviving?”

“Not very well,” I said. “I’m pretty much down to tea and toast. I’ll have to do something soon, or I’ll be joining the lines at the soup kitchens.”

“Don’t be silly, darling. You could get yourself invited to any number of country houses if you wanted to. You probably are the most eligible spinster in the country, you know.”

“I don’t know people the way you do, Belinda. And I wouldn’t know how to invite myself to someone’s house.”

“I’ll do the inviting, if you like.”

I smiled at her. “The fact is that I just don’t enjoy sponging off people.”

“Well, you could always go home to Castle Rannoch.”

“I considered that, which shows you how desperate I’ve been feeling. But if it was a choice between Fig and starvation, then I think starvation would win.”

She looked at me with concern. “My poor, sweet Georgie: no work, no friends and no sex. No wonder you’re looking gloomy. We must cheer you up. You’ll get a good meal tonight, of course, and tomorrow you can come with me to Croydon.”

“Croydon? That’s supposed to cheer me up?”

“The aerodrome, darling. I’m going to see Paolo’s new plane. He may even take us up.”

Having seen the reckless abandon with which Paolo drove a motorcycle, I wasn’t too keen to go up in his plane, but I managed a smile. “Spiffing,” I said. At least it would be better than sitting at home.

Chapter 3

Rannoch House
August 13, 1932
Weather still muggy.

At ten o’clock the next morning Belinda showed up on my doorstep, looking fresh and stunning in white linen trousers and a black-and-white-striped blouse. The ensemble was topped off with a jaunty little black pillbox hat. One would never have guessed that she had probably been out all night.

“Ready?” she asked, casting a critical eye over my summer dress and the cloche, from which most of the mud had been removed. “Are you sure that outfit will be suitable for flying upside down?”

“I think I’ll leave the flying upside down to you,” I said, “and I don’t possess any trousers other than the ones I wear around the estate at home, and they smell of horse.”

“We’ll have to do something about your wardrobe, darling.” She attempted to smooth the creases from my cotton skirt. “What a pity your mother is so petite, or you could have all her castoffs.”

“She’s offered to buy me new clothes on several occasions, but you know my mother. She always forgets and flits away again. Besides, I don’t think I’d feel comfortable accepting money that comes from her German boyfriend.”

“She’s still with her beefy industrialist, then?”

“The last time I heard. But that was a month ago. Who knows.”

Belinda chuckled. I closed the front door and followed her to a waiting taxicab.

“So do tell, I’m dying to hear about last night,” she said as the cab drove off. “How was your dinner with Mr. Hamburger?”

“Schlossberger,” I corrected. “Hiram Schlossberger, from Kansas City. It went exactly as you predicted. He was completely overawed by my royal connections and he would keep calling me ‘Your Highness’ even though I told him I was only ‘my lady’ and that we didn’t have to be so formal. He was rather a dear, actually, but I’m afraid he was rather boring. He produced snapshots of his wife and children and dog and even the cows on his ranch.”

“But you did get a good meal out of it?”

“Delicious. Although Mr. Schlossberger wasn’t happy with it. He turned his nose up at the foie gras and the lobster bisque and said all he wanted was a good steak. Then he complained about the size of it. Apparently at home he eats steaks that are so large they hang over the sides of the plate.”

“Heavens, that’s half a cow. But you had some decent bubbly, I hope?”

I shook my head. “He doesn’t drink. Prohibition, you know.”

“How ridiculous. Everybody knows that prohibition exists, but everybody drinks anyway. Except him, apparently. So what did you drink?”

I made a face. “Lemonade. He ordered it for both of us.”

Belinda touched my arm. “My darling, I am so sorry. Next time I foist off one of my men on you, I’ll make sure he doesn’t drink lemonade.”

“Next time?” I asked. “Do you make a habit of this sort of thing?”

“Oh, absolutely, darling. How else does one get a decent meal occasionally? And one is doing a public service, actually. These poor men come to London to do business and they don’t know anybody so they are delighted to be seen with a young society woman who can show them how to behave. Your Mr. Hamburger will be bragging about you for years, I’m sure.”

We alighted from our taxicab at Victoria Station and soon our train was huffing and puffing through the drea rier parts of south London on our way to Croydon. Belinda had launched into a long description of the villa in Italy. I was half listening as I stared out of the window at those pathetic back gardens with lines of washing strung across them. Because an idea was germinating in my mind. All those men Belinda had mentioned—in London alone on business and having to eat without companionship. What if I started a service to supply each of them with a charming dinner companion of impeccable social pedigree—in other words,
moi
. It would be better than cleaning houses and at the very least would keep the wolf from the door. At best it might prove to be highly successful and I’d be able to buy myself a decent wardrobe and mingle in society a little more frequently.

I had never been to Croydon Aerodrome before and I was surprised at the hustle and bustle and brand-new buildings. As our taxi approached along a leafy lane, a large biplane roared over our heads and landed on the runway. I had never even seen a real airliner land before at close quarters and it was an impressive sight as the great bird touched down on the tarmac, bounced a few times and then went rolling along as an earthbound machine. To me it was quite remarkable that anything so large and clumsy-looking could actually fly.

As we were walking over to the new white terminal building in the art deco style, the airliner came roaring toward us, propellers whirling, making a terrible din. I paused to watch as steps were wheeled up to it and one by one the passengers disembarked.

“That’s an Imperial Airways Heracles, just in from Paris,” someone behind me remarked.

It all seemed so glamorous and improbable. I tried to picture stepping into that little capsule and being whisked across the globe, above the clouds. My only trips abroad had been across the Channel to Switzerland, thence by uncomfortable train.

“The weather doesn’t look too promising, does it?” Belinda said, brushing away the midges that danced in front of our faces. “It feels like thunder again.”

It did indeed feel extremely muggy and unpleasant. “Where are we to meet Paolo?” I asked.

“He’ll be over by the hangars.” Belinda started off for the more ramshackle part of the airport, dotted with huts and bigger buildings that actually housed aeroplanes. We located Paolo standing beside a shiny new aeroplane that looked incredibly flimsy, so I was relieved when he greeted us with, “Sorry about the weather. We will not be going up this afternoon, I fear. The Met boys have warned us of another storm.”

“Oh, that’s too bad, after we’ve come all this way,” Belinda said. “And I was so looking forward to it.”

“You would not enjoy being shaken like a cocktail,
cara mia
, and besides, you would see nothing flying through cloud, and you might get struck by lightning.”

“In that case”—Belinda was still pouting—“you had better take us for a good lunch to make up for our disappointment. We’re starving.”

“There is a restaurant in the passenger terminal,” Paolo said. “I cannot vouch for the quality of the food, but you can eat and watch the airliners come in from around the world. It’s quite a spectacle.”

“All right. It will have to do, I suppose.” Belinda slipped her arm through his and then her other arm through mine. “Come on, Georgie. We’ll make this man pay for not arranging for good weather, shall we?”

“But I have no control over your British weather,” Paolo complained. “If we were in Italy, I could guarantee that the weather would be good. In England it always rains.”

“Not always. Two days ago you were complaining it was too hot and sunny,” Belinda said.

We passed through the sparkling new building, our feet tapping on the marble floor. I looked up in fascination at the mural that decorated the wall. It depicted the time zones around the world. It was already night in Australia. I experienced a pang of longing. So much of the world waiting to be explored, and the farthest I had been was Switzerland—all very safe and clean.

The lunch was surprisingly good with a well-cooked fillet of plaice and strawberries and cream to follow it. As we lingered over our coffee I stared out of the window with rapt attention, while trying not to notice Belinda and Paolo sharing bites of a strawberry in a most erotic fashion. I had seen the storm clouds building in a great bank of darkness, so I wasn’t really surprised by the first clap of thunder immediately over our heads. People who had been standing on the tarmac rushed for shelter as the rains began. Chauffeurs hastily put covers on open motorcars.

“Well, that’s put an end to any more flying today,” Paolo said. “I hope it stops before I have to ride back to London. Riding a motorcycle in a storm is simply not fun.”

“You could get struck by lightning,” Belinda said. “I thought you loved danger.”

“Danger,
sì
. Getting soaking wet, no.”

“You’ll have to leave the motorcycle here and come back on the train with us,” Belinda said.

“But I could not reach the house where I am staying without my motorcycle,” he said. “Where could I spend the night, do you think?”

Of course he knew the answer perfectly well.

“Let me think,” Belinda said.

I turned away, wishing I were not the wallflower again. Then somebody shouted, “Look! There’s an aeroplane attempting to land.”

I peered into the downpour and thought I could make out a blacker speck against the dark clouds.

“He must be crazy to try and land in this,” someone else said. “He’ll get himself killed.”

Everybody rushed to the windows to watch the spectacle. We could see the tiny machine bobbing around, disappearing into cloud one minute and reappearing the next. Then it went into a great bank of darkness. Lightning flashed. Thunder roared. There was no sign of the plane. Suddenly a cheer went up. The little craft came out of the cloud, only a few feet above the runway, and touched down, sending out a sheet of spray behind it.

Everyone streamed out of the restaurant. We followed, caught up in the excitement, and stood under the canopy as the small craft came toward us. It was a biplane, no bigger than a child’s toy.

“It’s a Gypsy Moth,” Paolo said. “Open cockpit, you know. I don’t think I’d be brave enough to land a Moth in this kind of storm.”

The aeroplane came to a halt. The pilot swung himself out of the rear cockpit and climbed down to applause and cheers. Then he took off his helmet and a gasp went up from the crowd. The pilot was a woman with striking red hair.

“It’s Ronny!” Paolo exclaimed, pushing forward through the crowd.

“Ronny? It looks like a girl to me,” I said.

“Veronica Padgett, darling.” Belinda was following Paolo through the crowd. “You know, the famous aviatrix. She just set the solo record from London to Cape Town.”

The pilot was now making her way into the building, graciously accepting the cheers and congratulations as she moved through the crowd.

“Ronny, well done,” Paolo called out as she passed us.

She looked up, saw him and gave him a big smile. “What-ho, Paolo. Bet you couldn’t do that.”

“Nobody in his right mind would have attempted that, Ronny. You’re quite mad, you know.”

She laughed. She had a rich, deep laugh. “Possibly. I told myself so many times during the last half hour.”

“Where have you come from?” Paolo asked.

“Not far. Only over from France. I knew I probably shouldn’t have taken off, but I didn’t want to miss a party this evening. But the whole thing was utterly bloody. Couldn’t see the blasted railway lines in France and then there was fog over the Channel and then I flew into this bank of filthy weather. Bucketed around all over the place. I almost lost my lunch, and my compass was playing up too. No idea where the damned runway was. My God, it was fun.”

I looked at her in amazement. Her face was positively glowing with excitement.

“Come on, let’s get out of this infernal weather,” she said, turning up her flight jacket collar as another clap of thunder sounded overhead and the wind whipped across the aerodrome. As we fell into place behind her, Belinda tapped Paolo on the shoulder. “Are you planning to introduce us or are you keeping her all to yourself?” she asked.

Paolo laughed, a trifle nervously. “I’m sorry, I should have introduced you. Ronny, these are my friends Belinda Warburton-Stoke and Georgiana Rannoch. Girls, this is Ronny Padgett.”

I saw Ronny’s eyes widen. “Rannoch? Any relation to the dukes of?”

“The last one was my father; the current one is my brother,” I said.

“Good God. Then we’re almost neighbors. My family place is not too far from you on the Dee.”

“Really? It’s amazing we’ve never run into each other before.”

“I don’t go up there often,” she said. “Too damned quiet for my taste. And I’m a good bit older than you. When I was shipped off to boarding school you were probably still crawling around in nappies. And I left home for good when I was sixteen. Didn’t want any part of being presented and all that bosh. Since then I’ve never stayed in one place for long. Born with wanderlust, I suppose. Are you up there much yourself?”