“Marrying my son? You surely don’t think that David is considering—preposterous. Quite out of the question. The nation would never stand for a divorced woman as our future queen! The church would not condone it. His family would certainly never stand for it.” She paused, as if considering. “So, Georgiana, there may be another little thing I’d like you to do for me while you’re there. . . .”

“You’d like me to keep an eye on Mrs. Simpson, would you, ma’am?”

She hesitated, then said firmly, “Yes, that’s it. Keep an eye on Mrs. Simpson. The king has always behaved impeccably, Georgiana. We can’t have the heir to the throne behaving like a common playboy and bringing disgrace to the royal family. So if you see him appearing in public with this woman, I’d like to know about it. You’ll write to me immediately to let me know whether she is actually staying on the yacht with him.”

“I will, ma’am.”

She stood up. I followed suit, as one doesn’t sit when royalty stands. “Well, that’s all settled then. This is most fortuitous, isn’t it? You go to the Riviera with the family and I achieve my objectives as well. Very satisfactory all around. I’ll instruct my secretary to make your travel arrangements.”

I was escorted from the room. As I walked through the palace I mulled over the last part of our interview. I could have sworn that she wanted to ask me to do something quite different from spying on Mrs. Simpson. She had hesitated and changed her mind at the last moment. I wondered if it was another piece of cat burglary that she had wanted me to carry out. I heaved a sigh of relief. Spying on Mrs. Simpson was something I knew I could do.

I left the palace feeling both excited and scared. But it was mostly excited. I was going to the Riviera after all. After that my first thought was that of every woman, when faced with a crisis—I had nothing suitable to wear on the French Riviera, especially if I was to be hobnobbing with one of the richest men in England. As soon as I got home, I opened my wardrobe door and stared in dismay at the few cotton dresses and skirts I owned. Nothing that could vaguely be called “smart,” and no way of obtaining anything better. Belinda had already departed, taking her gorgeous gowns with her. She’d be needing them herself and I didn’t think she’d be willing to lend me a few. I had nobody else I could beg, borrow or steal from. I pictured myself walking down the Promenade des Anglais in my crumpled cotton prints while silk- and linen-clad ladies stared at me with distaste. They’d think I was somebody’s companion or nursemaid!