Her Royal Spyness by Rhys Bowen Page B

all. I’ve just remembered that I promised to have Sunday lunch with my grandfather. In fact”—I glanced at my watch—“I have to run and get changed instantly.”
    “Your nonroyal grandfather, I take it?”
    “The other one is long dead, so that would have to be a séance and no lunch.”
    “And your living one? Don’t I remember that your family discouraged any communication with him? Why was that?”
    “He’s a Cockney, Belinda, but he’s an old dear, quite the nicest person I know. I just wish I could do more for him. He’s not exactly in funds at the moment and he needs a good holiday by the sea.” I brightened up again. “So maybe my housecleaning experiment will be so successful that I can send him on his holiday and all will be well.”
    Belinda eyed me suspiciously. “I am not normally one to look on the dark side of things, but I think you are courting disaster, my sweet. If news of your new career choice ever made it back to the palace, I fear you’d be married off to the frightful Siegfried and locked away in a castle in Romania before you could say Ivor Novello.”
    “This is a free country, Belinda. I am twenty-one years old and nobody’s ward and I’m not next in line to the throne and frankly I don’t give a hoot what they think!”
    “Well said, old thing.” She applauded. “Come on then, let me help you compose your advertisement before you depart.”
    “All right.” I went over to the writing desk and took out pen and paper. “Do you think the Times is preferable to the Tattler in attracting the right clientele?”
    “Do both. Some women never read a newspaper but always look at the Tattler to see if they are in it.”
    “I’ll bite the bullet and pay for both then. I hope a commission comes along quickly or I’ll be standing in a bread line myself in a week or so.”
    “It’s a pity you can’t come to the party with me this afternoon. Sophia is a robust girl in that typically middle-European way, so I’m sure food will feature prominently. And she mixes with all kinds of delightful bohemians—writers and painters, that kind of thing.”
    “I wish I could, but I’m sure food will figure prominently at my grandfather’s too. He’s promised me a roast and two veg. So what shall we say in this advertisement?”
    “You have to make it quite clear that you are not interested in scrubbing their loos, just light dusting and opening their houses up for them. How about: ‘Coming to London but want to leave your staff at the country seat?’”
    I scribbled away. “Oh, that’s good. Then we could say Coronet Domestics Agency will air out your house and make it ready for your arrival.”
    “And you have to give an endorsement from someone of status.”
    “How can I do that? I can hardly ask Fig to recommend me and she’s the only one for whom I’ve ever cleaned a house so far.”
    “You endorse yourself, you chump. As used by Lady Victoria Georgiana, sister of the Duke of Glen Garry and Rannoch.”
    I started laughing. “Belinda, you are positively brilliant.”
    “I know,” she said modestly.

    Lunch was a huge success—lovely leg of lamb, crispy roast potatoes and cabbage from Granddad’s back garden, followed by baked apple and custard. I felt the occasional pang of guilt as I wondered whether he could really afford to eat in this way, but he was taking such obvious pleasure from watching me eat, that I let myself enjoy every bite.
    “After lunch,” I said, “you really must teach me how to light a fire. I’m not joking. My brother will be arriving tomorrow and I’ve been instructed to have a fire lit in his bedroom.”
    “Well, blow me down. Of all the cheek,” he said. “What do they think you are—a skivvy? I’m going to give that brother of yours a piece of my mind.”
    “Oh, it’s not Binky,” I said. “He’s actually quite a dear. Very vague, of course, never notices anything. And not very bright. But essentially a kind person. And it is my