Mrs. Bantry-Bynge looked decidedly flustered. “Oh, you’re still here. I hadn’t realized. I thought—you see, I came up by an earlier train,” she gushed. “And I see my—cousin—has arrived to drive me around in his motor. Isn’t that nice? How kind of you, Boy.”

I gave what I hoped would pass as a suitable bobbed curtsy. “I’m all finished, madam,” I muttered. “Just about to go.”

“Splendid. That’s wonderful. I do hope Boy has not been—getting in your way.” The look she gave implied that he had got in the way of a great many females.

“Oh, no, madam,” I said. “I have just been putting these flowers he brought you in water.”

She took the vase from me and buried her face in them. “Freesias. How divine. You know I adore freesias. You are so sweet to me.”

She peeped at him seductively over the top of the flowers. Then she remembered I was still there.

“Thank you. You may go now. I’ve told your employer that the money will be on the bedside table when you return to strip the bed and tidy up the room tomorrow.”

“Yes, madam. I’ll just get my coat and I’ll be off then.”

I was rather worried that she might notice the coat was cashmere, but then perhaps she’d think it was a hand-me-down from a very kind former employer. As it was, she and Boy only had eyes for each other as I tiptoed past them. When I returned in the morning, the rumpled state of the bed gave me to think that a visit to the dressmaker had not featured in the trip to London at all.

Chapter 11

Rannoch House
Thursday, April 28, 1932

My next assignment, which came in the afternoon post that day, was not going to be as simple as Mrs. Bantry-Bynge’s. It was from none other than Lady Featherstonehaugh (pronounced “Fanshaw,” to the uninitiated), the parent of one Roderick Featherstonehaugh, usually known as Whiffy, with whom I had danced at debutante balls and who had been best man at last week’s wedding. They were coming up to town for a few days, arriving on Sunday, bringing staff with them, but would like the place aired out and dusted first, fires laid ready to be lit and hot water bottles placed in Sir William and Lady Featherstonehaugh’s bedrooms. Their son, Roderick, might be joining them if he could get time off from his regiment, but this was unlikely. I was remarkably glad that it was unlikely. I had no wish to bump into Whiffy when I was in full cleaning mode. Bumping into Binky had been bad enough, but he was easy to fool. I couldn’t think how I’d explain myself away to someone stiff and correct like Whiffy Featherstonehaugh. Regent’s Park was one thing. I could pass there without being recognized, but I knew practically everyone who lived in Eaton Place.

Binky moped around the house, sunk in gloom, and I couldn’t think of anything to cheer him up. Because, frankly, the news was not reassuring. The document was deemed to be genuine and Binky started questioning whether it would be too-too awful to claim that Father had been off his rocker for years. “He did always have that rubber duck in his bathtub, didn’t he?” he demanded. “That’s not normal, is it? And remember when he took up Eastern meditation and stood on his head?”