“Including whoever stole it, because that is ghastly,” Bea said.
“I think it’s neat. All of it,” I said protectively, fishing out my phone and snapping some photos of the room for posterity. “I might not want to live in the middle of it forever, but Georgina clearly led an intriguing life.”
“For a time,” Cilla said. She peered down at a set of carved wood coasters with Georgina’s monogram in them. They were obviously handmade. “I don’t think she left the house much in the last, oh, twenty years she lived here.”
“Probably why everyone bought that bit about Emma being a recluse,” Gaz reasoned. “They already had one in the family.”
I clambered over a pile of reference books and opened a rolltop desk that was missing a plank. Inside was a jumble of framed photos that was relieved to be free, judging by how quickly it spilled out across the table. One was of Georgina and Eleanor as children, with their grandmother, Queen Victoria II. Eleanor had inherited her gimlet stare; Georgina, her curls and curves. There were other shots of the girls as they grew, and then a time jump to an older Georgina beaming widely on the prow of a motorboat next to a handsome blond man, Georgina blowing a kiss to the camera as she rode a camel, Georgina in what looked like France with a stylish dark-haired man, Georgina smoking coquettishly and nursing a scotch as three younger gents hovered. For the second time that day, I wondered who’d taken these shots—these intimate moments that did not seem to belong to a princess who locked herself in a redbrick tower.
“It occurs to me that Georgina is basically the Freddie of her family,” I said, carefully setting down the final photo on top of the pile.
“More or less,” Bea said. “Freddie at least grew up knowing his position. Georgina didn’t become the spare until her uncle died. She was a lot freer before that than Freddie has ever been.” She tapped her notebook. “And a world-class dilettante, for a spell, so they do have that in common.”
“I wonder if that ever occurred to him,” I said.
“You’d have to ask,” Bea replied.
“I would, but I think he’s avoiding us.”
Bea raised an eyebrow. “I can’t imagine why.”
“Oooh, a Royal Doulton cabinet!” Gaz said, clapping his hands and rushing to another corner. “Look at all these tiny ladies! Crikey, I think one of these is Georgina.”
“Bea,” I said, ignoring Gaz. “Are we okay?”
Bea came over and perused some of the photos with interest.
“I certainly wouldn’t have hared off into oblivion the way you did, but you know I try not to judge,” she said. I bit back a snort so strong that I had to turn it into a cough. “You and Nick may have been in some sexy life limbo, but we weren’t. The PPOs were going back and forth, making sure you two weren’t in mortal peril. Freddie took it from the press and from Eleanor. And Cilla…”
“Is doing fine,” Cilla called out firmly.
“Cilla got put on Decoy Duty,” Bea said. “She had to audition the fake Nick and Bex, and coach them, and arrange all their appearances. Total crap assignment.”
“Which I turned into a success,” Cilla said.
“I shall miss Fake Nick,” called out Gaz as he peered into a giant porcelain bowl. “Terrific bloke. Loved my marmalade muffins. Remind me to send him a basket of my pita bread once I crack that.”
“Gaz got hooked on Ready, Set, Bake, and now he fancies himself competitive,” Cilla explained. “I’ve never been happier. Or fatter.”
“Food is my love language,” Gaz said, coming up behind his wife and giving her a peck.
Cilla blushed. “Yes, well, I’m chock-full of adoration, then.”
I wrapped my arms around myself. The rapport between us seemed like it was slipping back into place. “I missed you loons.”
“All these feelings are exceedingly dull,” Bea cut in. “Move along. We’ve barely started.”
The apartment’s infamous twenty-six rooms were spread across three floors and a basement. We saw a multitude of guest chambers with chaste twin beds, all sporting once-trendy Laura Ashley floral wallpaper and thin cotton comforters in matching pastels. A few lesser reception rooms were empty, as if they’d already been scraped for everything valuable, or simply never used. The large formal dining room, its display cabinets teeming with silver that hadn’t been polished since Georgina died if not before, led into a kitchen too far away to feel particularly useful to the occupant—which, as Bea pointed out, had been immaterial until now because Georgina probably hadn’t made so much as a glass of ice water in her entire life. There were countless bathrooms, a small kitchenette on each floor, and even an elevator. The most tempting spots were an unused day nursery for the children Georgina never had, which boasted floor-to-ceiling windows and would make a great art studio; the first-floor library (complete with one of those sliding ladders, which Gaz rode while singing selections from Beauty and the Beast in a key best described as “nonmusical”); and a sprawling terrace, whose rotting white plastic loungers faced a magnificent view of London.
Despite not being in the employ of the royal family, Bea had filled her notebook with thoughts and announced I’d receive a report by the end of the week before stomping out to, in her words, “break a very stubborn mare.”
“She’s so cranky when Gemma is away,” I said.
“How can you tell the difference?” wondered Gaz.
Cilla’s laugh morphed into a groan when we peeked into a second-floor half bath. “Why is this carpeted?” She twisted the faucet for the hot water. The sink answered with a groan and a rust-colored trickle. “Please distract me. How’s Lacey getting on at Gemma’s place?”
There was a time I’d felt jealous of Gemma Sands, the ex with whom Nick had remained the closest. That was before I’d discovered her true love was actually Bea. Since then Gemma had been as loyal to me as to Nick, and when
