Faces came into focus in the darkness.

“I say, Georgie, are you hurt?” I was mortified to see it was the Prince of Wales. He took my hand, helping me to right myself.

More flashbulbs popped and the smell of sulfur hung in the air.

“She is in shock, the little one,” said another male voice and again I was more than mortified to see it was the handsome Marquis de Ronchard, pushing past other people to be at my side. “A chair and some brandy. Quickly.”

“Lights. Lights!” someone else shouted and the big chandeliers thrust the room into brightness. I was led away from the catwalk, mumbling apologies to the fat dowager and the world in general.

“Whoever thought that kid could be a model needs their head examined,” I heard Mrs. Simpson’s voice say from close by. “She’s about as graceful as a drunken giraffe.” And she gave that brittle laugh.

“Pay no attention to that awful woman,” my mother said as she pushed past to reach me. “She’s just jealous because you’re young and nubile and she’s old and dried up.” She made sure that lovely voice projected so that Mrs. Simpson would hear. “Darling—are you all right?” Then she leaned closer to me. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I don’t know what happened,” I said as Chanel hurried over to us. “It was as if my foot caught on something. One moment I was going forward, the next I couldn’t move.”

“But the runway is smooth, you see.” Chanel turned back to examine it.

“Maybe she caught her trouser leg in her shoes,” Mummy suggested. “She did say she wasn’t used to wearing high heels.”

“Not possible,” Chanel said. “The trousers are not wide enough.”

“You don’t know Georgie,” my mother said. “Many things are possible for her. Here, darling. The kind gentleman has brought you a chair. Sit down.”

I sat. Someone thrust a glass of brandy into my hands.

I sipped, coughed and sipped again.

“Are you unhurt?” Coco asked.

“I think so. I may have scratched my cheek on that lady’s jewelry.” I put my hand up to my face then ran it down to my neck. “The necklace!” I cried. “It’s gone.”

Chapter 13

Chapter 13

The casino on the pier, Nice
January 25, 1933
Dying of embarrassment. Why did I agree to do this? I
knew it would go wrong.

“Shut the doors,” Vera’s voice rang out. “Nobody is to leave the room. A valuable necklace Lady Georgiana was wearing is missing.”

A horrified whisper went through the crowd, which was the biggest display of alarm one would expect from an aristocratic gathering.

“You’re not suggesting one of us might have stolen it,” a woman’s voice demanded from the back of the room.

“It must have come off when she fell,” someone else said. “Come on, chaps. Let’s get down and search the floor.”