Naughty In Nice (A Royal Spyness Mystery)

porters. As I watched them go, another voice rose clearly over the station hubbub. “Do watch out with my luggage, porter, or the whole lot will come crashing down.”
    I turned to see a veritable Matterhorn of trunks, valises and hatboxes heading my way on a trolley, pushed by a red-faced and struggling porter, while behind it, carrying a small crocodile train case in one hand, a cigarette holder in the other, came my dearest friend, Belinda Warburton-Stoke.
    “Belinda!” I called, dropping the ladle and wiping my hands on my apron as I ran toward her.
    She looked up, confused for a moment; then a big smile spread across her face as she recognized me. “Georgie! Good God. What on earth are you doing here?”
    “Obviously not on my way to the Continent like you, you lucky old thing,” I said. “I would hug you, but I’m rather carrot encrusted at the moment.”
    “Er—yes, I can see.” She took a step backward, moving her gorgeous fox fur coat out of danger. “So you’re still doing your Girl Guide good deeds at the soup kitchen. Positively destined for sainthood, darling.”
    I grimaced. “Anything’s better than spending all day at Rannoch House, with Fig telling me what a burden I am to them and how sad it is that I’m not married yet.” I studied her, wrapped in her long fox fur, with her neat little pillbox hat perched jauntily to one side. She was the height of glamour, while I was conscious of my soup-stained apron and windblown hair. “I had no idea you were home or I would have come to visit you to cheer myself up.”
    “I haven’t been in London at all, darling,” Belinda said. She turned to the porter, who was hovering impatiently. “Take my luggage to my compartment. I’ll be along in a minute,” she commanded.
    “As you say, miss,” he grunted and pushed the trolley into motion again. The mountain of luggage teetered dangerously as he picked up speed.
    “He’ll probably tip the lot onto the rails,” Belinda commented. “I always seem to get the one clueless porter. You’d think with all this unemployment that those who got jobs would be top-notch, wouldn’t you?”
    “So where have you been?” I asked. “Why haven’t I seen anything of you?”
    She gave a resigned shrug. “Home in the bosom of my family, darling. I came home for Christmas, because family togetherness is expected of one, isn’t it, and because Father usually gives me a generous check in my Christmas stocking, but now I’m rushing back to the Riviera as fast as my legs can carry me. Too bleak and dreary in London and nobody fun is still here. Between you and me, I’m positively sex starved. I haven’t had a good roll in the hay in weeks.”
    “Belinda!” I exclaimed. After having known her all this time she still managed to shock me.
    She looked surprised. “One does so enjoy it.”
    I tried to imagine if it was as good as she claimed. Darcy’s kisses had certainly been blissful, but I couldn’t quite believe that the next part could be as great as Belinda claimed. Obviously my mother thought so. She had done it with a great many men on every continent except Antarctica.
    “I don’t think I could live without sex,” Belinda added. “I could never be a nun.”
    I laughed. “They’d never have you!”
    “Which is more than any man of my acquaintance could say.” She gave a wicked smile, then the smile faded. “Crockford’s was like a morgue when I popped in for a quick flutter last night. Only a few dreary businessmen. Not a wealthy playboy in sight.”
    “Did you win anything?”
    Belinda made a face. “I didn’t stay long. I try not to play with my own money, you know, and I couldn’t find anyone sympathique enough to fund me. The casino at Monte Carlo will be friendlier.”
    “So you’re going to Monte, are you?” I tried to hide my look of envy.
    Belinda hesitated. “Ah. That part’s not quite settled yet. I don’t exactly have a firm invitation from anyone.”
    “So what are you going to do?”
    “I was planning to camp out at the Negresco in Nice and do a little scouting around, but frankly Father’s check is less generous this year. I blame it on the wicked stepmother. Like your sister-in-law, she objects to family money being spent on the unmarried daughter. So I’ve got about enough cash to get me there, and then, who knows? I may have to have my car conveniently break down outside someone’s villa, like I did in Romania.”
    “Belinda. You’re