Bolt - By Dick Francis Page 0,30

looked like ounce-heavy nuggets, and a crocodile had passed on for her handbag. Beatrice, in short, enjoyed her cash.

She was clearly about to ask who Litsi and I were when the princess entered, having come downstairs, I reckoned, at record speed.

‘Beatrice,’ she said, advancing with both hands outstretched and a sugar-substitute smile, ‘what a delightful surprise.’ She grasped Beatrice’s arms and gave her two welcoming kisses, and I saw that her eyes were cold with dismay.

‘Surprise?’ Beatrice said, as they disengaged. ‘I called on Friday and spoke to your secretary. I told her to be sure to give you the message, and she said she would leave a note.’

‘Oh.’ A look of comprehension crossed the princess’s face. ‘Then I expect it’s down in the office, and I’ve missed it. We’ve been … rather busy.’

‘Casilia, about the bamboo room …’ Beatrice began purposefully, and the princess with dexterity interrupted her.

‘Do you know my nephew, Litsi?’ she said, making sociable introductions. ‘Litsi, this is Roland’s sister, Beatrice de Brescou Bunt. Did you leave Palm Beach last evening, Beatrice? Such a long flight from Miami.’

‘Casilia …’ Beatrice shook hands with Litsi. ‘The bam –’

‘And this is Danielle’s fiancé, Christmas Fielding.’ The princess went on, obliviously. ‘I don’t think you’ve met him either. And now, my dear Beatrice, some tomato juice and vodka?’

‘Casilia!’ Beatrice said, sticking her toes in. ‘I always have the bamboo room.’

I opened my mouth to say obligingly that I didn’t mind moving, and received a rapid look of pure steel from the princess. I shut my mouth, amazed and amused, and held my facial muscles in limbo.

‘Mrs Dawson is unpacking your things in the rose room, Beatrice,’ the princess said firmly. ‘You’ll be very comfortable there.’

Beatrice, furious but outmanoeuvred, allowed a genial Litsi to concoct her a bloody mary, she issuing sharp instructions about shaking the tomato juice, about how much Worcestershire sauce, how much lemon, how much ice. The princess watched with a wiped-clean expression of vague benevolence and Danielle was stifling her laughter.

‘And now,’ Beatrice said, the drink finally fixed to her satisfaction, ‘what’s all this rubbish about Roland refusing to expand the business?’

After a frosty second of immobility, the princess sat collectedly in an armchair, crossing her wrists and ankles in artificial composure.

Beatrice repeated her question insistently. She was never, I discovered, one to give up. Litsi busied himself with offering her a chair, smoothly settling her into it, discussing cushions and comfort and giving the princess time for mental re-mustering.

Litsi sat in a third armchair, leaning forward to Beatrice with smothering civility, and Danielle and I took places on a sofa, although with half an acre of flowered chintz between us.

‘Roland is being obstructionist and I’ve come to tell him I object. He must change his mind at once. It is ridiculous not to move with the times and it’s time to look for new markets.’

The princess looked at me, and I nodded. We had heard much the same thing, even some of the identical phrases, from Henri Nanterre on Friday evening.

‘How do you know of any business proposals?’ the princess asked.

‘That dynamic young son of Louis Nanterre told me, of course. He made a special journey to see me, and explained the whole thing. He asked me to persuade Roland to drag himself into the twentieth century, let alone the twenty-first, and I decided I would come over here myself and insist on it.’

‘You do know,’ I said, ‘that he’s proposing to make and export guns?’

‘Of course,’ she said, ‘but only plastic parts of guns. Roland is old fashioned. I’ve a good friend in Palm Beach whose husband’s corporation makes missiles for the Defense Department. Where’s the difference?’ She paused. ‘And what business is it of yours?’ Her gaze travelled to Danielle, and she remembered. ‘I suppose if you’re engaged to Danielle,’ she said grudgingly, ‘then it’s marginally your business. I didn’t know Danielle was engaged. Nobody tells me anything.’

Henri Nanterre, I thought, had told her a great deal too much.

‘Beatrice,’ the princess said, ‘I’m sure you’ll want to wash after your journey. Dawson is arranging a late lunch for us, although as we didn’t know there would be so many …’

‘I want to talk to Roland,’ Beatrice said obstinately.

‘Yes, later. He’s resting just now.’ The princess stood, and we also, waiting for Danielle’s aunt to be impelled upstairs by the sheer unanimity of our expectant good manners; and it was interesting, I thought, that she gave in, put down her unfinished drink and went,