Malice at the Palace Read Online Free Page A

could do.”
    â€œGeorgie, don’t be silly. The
Lady
has advertisements for governesses and ladies’ maids.”
    â€œAnd things like companions and social secretaries. Anything’s better than Castle Rannoch.”
    â€œI agree with that. But feel free to sleep on my sofa until you find something. I don’t want to turn you out into the storm.”
    I smiled. “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s a lovely sunny morning.”
    She glared blearily at the window. “Is it? I hadn’t noticed.” Then she turned back to me and smiled. “Sorry. You should know by now that I’m not at my best in the morning. I’ll cheer up as the day goes on. And I’ll be in top form by the time I go to Crockford’s.”
    I thought about Belinda as I went upstairs to wash and dress. I had always envied her her confident worldliness, her savoir faire, her elegance and style. I had always thought if anyone knew how to survive, it was she. I put on my cashmere jumper—one of my mother’s castoffs—and tartan skirt, topped it with my old Harris tweed overcoat, and out I went into the cold, crisp morning. I loved walking on days like this. At home in Scotland it would have been a perfect day for a ride through the heather, with my horse’s breath coming like dragon’s fire and the sound of his hooves echoing from the crags.
    As I walked I began to feel more optimistic. Maybe Castle Rannoch wouldn’t be that bad. I could go out riding and walking and play with my adorable nephew and niece. And even Fig couldn’t object to my visiting for a week or so—long enough to scan the
Lady
and send out letters of application. After all, I had helped out at a house party last Christmas. Maybe I could do the same sort of thing this year. Lady Hawse-Gorzley would give me a good reference. Or I could perhaps be someone’s social secretary. I might not be able to type properly but I could write a good letter and I did know the rules of polite society. Maybe someone newly rich would be tickled to have a secretary with royal connections who knew the ropes. And the family couldn’t frown at that sort of job, out of London, away from the prying eyes of the press.
    Then I had another encouraging thought. I could always go to stay with the Dowager Duchess of Eynsford. I had been a sort of companion cum social secretary to her, hadn’t I? She had been grateful for my company earlier in the year and I was sure she’d welcome me back. Perhaps the young duke and his cousin had returned from Switzerland, in which case it might even be quite jolly. I strode out with renewed vigor along Pont Street. My head was so buzzing with ideas that I hardly noticed where I was walking. By the time I had to stop to cross Sloane Street, I realized I was in Belgravia, very close to our London home in Belgrave Square. I couldn’t resist taking a look at it, although I had hardly ever stayed there as a child and it had never felt like home to me. I crossed and entered the quiet of Belgrave Square with its elegant white-fronted houses and the gardens in the middle, with trees standing stark and bare behind their iron railings.
    Two nannies were walking their charges, talking together as they pushed prams. A maid was scrubbing a front step. A milkman was making a delivery, the bottles rattling as he carried them down to a service entrance. It was all so peaceful and domestic that I found myself staring up at Rannoch House with longing. It was in the middle of the north side of the square—the biggest and most imposing of the houses.
    â€œI wish . . .” I heard myself saying out loud, but when I analyzed it, I didn’t quite know what I wished. Probably that I had a place where I still belonged in the world. I was just about to walk past when the front door opened and none other than my brother, Binky, current Duke of Rannoch, came down the steps, adjusting