Pierre. They bowed to the inhabitants of carriages on either side of them, all bound in the same direction. This wasn’t the time or place for frank discussion. Still, he had to do it before he spoke to the inspector tomorrow.
‘Who will be at this silly old match?’ Dora inquired, twiddling her parasol carelessly.
‘Gentlemen or Players?’ he grunted.
‘Which are which?’
Lord Westbourne was apoplectic. Dammit, the woman was a fool. Or was she? He shot a sharp glance at her. ‘The English are the Gentlemen, of course, the foreign johnnies the Players. We’ve got Harry Washington for us, naturally.’
Naturally England’s famous amateur cricketer would be playing at Cannes. Wherever society was, there was Harry Washington, tall, slim, handsome and, above all, eligible.
‘Then there’s that johnny in the Colonial Office, Tucker, Rachel Gray’s husband, and that poet fellow and of course H.R.H. himself.’ And a fat lot of use he’d be to the side. Westbourne knew he wasn’t much of a bat himself, but he was W. G. Grace himself compared to H.R.H. He relatedthe other members of the team, keeping a careful eye on an apparently fascinated Dora.
‘And on the other side?’
‘The Grand Duke Igor, of course. That stuffed shirt, Trepolov, and some other foreign count or other.’
He still watched her narrowly. Occasionally he remembered the time when he used to call her puss and he was her great big roaring lion. Unfortunately the puss had grown into something uncommonly like a cat – and at the moment one who had licked the cream. The cream? Surely not. The dreadful possibility that it was indeed H.R.H. raised itself again. After all, he flattered himself, he resembled the Prince of Wales, and Dora had a penchant for beards, as well as princes.
‘Now, Dora,’ he said casually, as the landau rattled over the cobbles into the Allées de la Liberté, which on this March morning was thronged with crowds come to see the heir to the British throne lay the foundation stone for their new jetty. ‘I’m meeting a fellow from Scotland Yard tomorrow afternoon after the match. I’ve got some information on who took your . . . ruby.’
There was an infinitesimal pause before the last word as he caught himself at the last moment. It did not go unnoticed, and the correct inference was made. A parasol snapped shut abruptly, as Dora thought through all the consequent ramifications. She would have preferred her husband knew nothing about the affair with dear Igor. Indeed, she hardly remembered it herself. It was as boring as her current amour. The time had come to tell the latter so too. It had upset all her plans to find he was coming to Cannes. After all, the other
he
would be here too. The last thing she wanted was an inquisition by her husband on the past, when the present was so much more on her mind. She could not speak to
him
today, but tomorrow at the match she . . .
Natalia Kallinkova danced a pirouette of pleasure in the small (by Cannes’ standards) Villa Lavendre on the route de Fréjus and glided sensuously into
The Awakening of Flora
. Enough of dull old practice for today. Now, regaled in sober gunmetal grey, albeit enlivened with bright pink trimmings, and pearls, and a pink hat with matching feathers that the Ladies Page of the
Illustrated London News
would undoubtedly classify as provocative, she was waiting for Auguste, to escort her to the opening ceremony. She was happy, oh how happy she was. It had been a good idea to give her ten-year benefit performance at the Hermitage Theatre and receive the usual hideous Imperial brooch from the Tsar as a reward. Now she could please herself, for her reputation was assured. She had danced in London, in Paris, now Monte Carlo, next Vienna, and then, perhaps, back to Russia. How pleased Igor would be to hear that. She laughed to herself.
Poor Igor. She was still fond of him, despite everything – she recalled the first time he had invited her along the
‘Who will be at this silly old match?’ Dora inquired, twiddling her parasol carelessly.
‘Gentlemen or Players?’ he grunted.
‘Which are which?’
Lord Westbourne was apoplectic. Dammit, the woman was a fool. Or was she? He shot a sharp glance at her. ‘The English are the Gentlemen, of course, the foreign johnnies the Players. We’ve got Harry Washington for us, naturally.’
Naturally England’s famous amateur cricketer would be playing at Cannes. Wherever society was, there was Harry Washington, tall, slim, handsome and, above all, eligible.
‘Then there’s that johnny in the Colonial Office, Tucker, Rachel Gray’s husband, and that poet fellow and of course H.R.H. himself.’ And a fat lot of use he’d be to the side. Westbourne knew he wasn’t much of a bat himself, but he was W. G. Grace himself compared to H.R.H. He relatedthe other members of the team, keeping a careful eye on an apparently fascinated Dora.
‘And on the other side?’
‘The Grand Duke Igor, of course. That stuffed shirt, Trepolov, and some other foreign count or other.’
He still watched her narrowly. Occasionally he remembered the time when he used to call her puss and he was her great big roaring lion. Unfortunately the puss had grown into something uncommonly like a cat – and at the moment one who had licked the cream. The cream? Surely not. The dreadful possibility that it was indeed H.R.H. raised itself again. After all, he flattered himself, he resembled the Prince of Wales, and Dora had a penchant for beards, as well as princes.
‘Now, Dora,’ he said casually, as the landau rattled over the cobbles into the Allées de la Liberté, which on this March morning was thronged with crowds come to see the heir to the British throne lay the foundation stone for their new jetty. ‘I’m meeting a fellow from Scotland Yard tomorrow afternoon after the match. I’ve got some information on who took your . . . ruby.’
There was an infinitesimal pause before the last word as he caught himself at the last moment. It did not go unnoticed, and the correct inference was made. A parasol snapped shut abruptly, as Dora thought through all the consequent ramifications. She would have preferred her husband knew nothing about the affair with dear Igor. Indeed, she hardly remembered it herself. It was as boring as her current amour. The time had come to tell the latter so too. It had upset all her plans to find he was coming to Cannes. After all, the other
he
would be here too. The last thing she wanted was an inquisition by her husband on the past, when the present was so much more on her mind. She could not speak to
him
today, but tomorrow at the match she . . .
Natalia Kallinkova danced a pirouette of pleasure in the small (by Cannes’ standards) Villa Lavendre on the route de Fréjus and glided sensuously into
The Awakening of Flora
. Enough of dull old practice for today. Now, regaled in sober gunmetal grey, albeit enlivened with bright pink trimmings, and pearls, and a pink hat with matching feathers that the Ladies Page of the
Illustrated London News
would undoubtedly classify as provocative, she was waiting for Auguste, to escort her to the opening ceremony. She was happy, oh how happy she was. It had been a good idea to give her ten-year benefit performance at the Hermitage Theatre and receive the usual hideous Imperial brooch from the Tsar as a reward. Now she could please herself, for her reputation was assured. She had danced in London, in Paris, now Monte Carlo, next Vienna, and then, perhaps, back to Russia. How pleased Igor would be to hear that. She laughed to herself.
Poor Igor. She was still fond of him, despite everything – she recalled the first time he had invited her along the
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