Royal Blood - By Rhys Bowen Page 0,6

Mall, around Trafalgar Square and into the jumble of lanes behind Charing Cross Road.

“Where are we going?” I asked cautiously, as this part of the city seemed poorly lit and not too savory.

“My dear, I am taking you to my lair to have my way with you,” Darcy said in a mock villain voice. “Actually we’re going to Rules.”

“Rules?”

“Surely you must have eaten at Rules—oldest restaurant in London. Good solid British food.”

The taxi pulled up outside an unprepossessing leaded-glass window. We went inside and a delightful warmth met us. The walls were rich wooden paneling, the tablecloths starched and white, and the cutlery gleamed. A maitre d’ in tails met us at the door.

“Mr. O’Mara, sir. How delightful to see you again,” he said, whisking us through the restaurant to a table in a far corner. “And how is his lordship?”

“As well as can be expected, Banks,” Darcy said. “You heard that we had to sell the house and the racing stable to Americans and my father now lives in the lodge.”

“I did hear something of the kind, sir. These are hard times. Nothing makes sense anymore. Except Rules. Nothing changes here, sir. And I believe this must be the old Duke of Rannoch’s daughter. It’s an honor to have you here, my lady. Your late father was a frequent visitor. He is much missed.”

He pulled out a chair for me while Darcy slid onto a red leather bench.

“Everyone who is part of London history has eaten here.” Darcy indicated the walls, lined with caricatures, signatures, and theatrical programs. And indeed I could make out the names of Charles Dickens, Benjamin Disraeli, John Gals-worthy, even Nell Gwyn, I believe.

Darcy studied the menu while I was gazing around the walls, trying to see if my mother or father had made it into the array of signed photographs.

“I think tonight we start with a dozen Whitstable oysters each,” he said. “Then for soup it has to be the potato leek. You do it so well. Then some smoked haddock and of course the pheasant.”

“An admirable choice, sir,” the waiter said, “and may I suggest a very fine claret to go with the pheasant? And perhaps a bottle of champagne to accompany the oysters?”

“Why not?” Darcy said. “Sounds perfect to me.”

“Darcy,” I hissed as he went away, “this is going to cost a fortune.”

“I told you, I won fifty pounds on the gee-gees last week,” he said.

“But you shouldn’t spend it all at once.”

“Why not?” He laughed. “What else is money for?”

“You should keep some for when you’re hard up.”

“Nonsense. Something always turns up. Carpe diem, young Georgie.”

“I didn’t study Latin,” I said. “Only French and useless things like piano and etiquette.”

“It means seize the day. Don’t ever put off anything you want to do because you’re worried about tomorrow. It’s my motto. I live by it. You should too.”

“I wish I could,” I said. “You seem to fall on your feet, but it’s not that easy for a girl like me who has no sensible education. I’m already considered a hopeless case—twentytwo and on the shelf.”

I suppose I hoped he’d say something about marrying him someday, but instead he said, “Oh, I expect a likely princeling will show up in good time.”

“Darcy! I’ve already turned down Prince Siegfried, much to the annoyance of the family. They’re all equally bad. And they are being assassinated with remarkable frequency.”

“Well, wouldn’t you want to assassinate Siegfried?” he asked with a laugh. “I know I would. My fingers are itching for his throat each time I see him. But some of the Bulgarians are okay. I was at school with Nicholas and he’s the heir to the throne. He was a damned good scrum half on the rugby team.”

“And to a man, that makes him good husband material?”

“Of course.”

The champagne bottle opened with a satisfying pop and our glasses were filled. Darcy raised his to me. “Here’s to life,” he said. “May it be filled with fun and adventure.”

My glass clinked against his. “To life,” I whispered.

I am not a big drinker. After the third glass of champagne I was feeling decidedly carefree. The soup somehow came and went. So did the smoked haddock. A bottle of claret was opened to go with the pheasant, which appeared swimming in rich red-brown gravy with tiny pearl onions and mushrooms around it. I found myself deciding that I’d been stupid, trying to earn my own living. Life was for having fun and adventure. No more gloom and doom.

I