Chandelier (Tarnished Crowns Trilogy Book 1)

by Annie Dyer

  “I’m beginning to think you’re trying to get out of a date with me.” He laughs, lifts his glass which is his third and now drained.

  I laugh back, sip my water. Pray for patience and tact. Ask myself what my mother would do.

  She was never in this situation. She met a man and fell in love when she was nineteen. What he was was irrelevant. Who he was, key. The mans she fell in love with then is still the man she loves now and I know her heart is wilting each day we come closer to losing him. It’s a pain I don’t want to bear but I have to, only when I think of it, I want to cry and for my father to hold me and tell me it’s all going to be okay. That can’t happen. But I can be the person he needs me to. Him, not Lennox.

  “I don’t really date.” This isn’t a lie.

  He glances to the floor and then looks at me with big eyes. William is a player. I know from the little research I could be bothered to do, that he likes his women to be blonde and young, and he rarely keeps the same one for more than a few months. I also know that it’s wise for a politician to have a steady partner. To be married. A family man.

  “You’re beautiful and interesting. You must have men lining up to take you out.”

  I sip my water. “I wouldn’t know. I keep my private life as private as possible. Like you do, I imagine.”

  He doesn’t get chance to respond as Lennox heads over, laughing and talking about a boxing match that was being shown later. William is swept away by my brother and I’m left with Isaac.

  “I’m going out on a limb here and suggesting you don’t want to go on a date with Mr Goldsmith?” Isaac takes a step closer to me, his voice low.

  “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  He laughs, shakes his head. “I just want you to know that this wasn’t my idea.”

  I feel the fire blaze through me. “What isn’t your idea?”

  He nods towards William. “Him.”

  “Aren’t you his advisor?”

  “Apparently. Though he’s difficult to advise.”

  “You have a nickname of the ‘kingmaker’.” I adjust my dress. Right now, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s a form of torture designed by some grumpy country. “You were instrumental in Goldsmith being chosen to lead the party. I assume it’s your job to keep him there?”

  Isaac smiles, nods. He’s still tanned from his few days in Antigua. “It is. But I can only have so much influence.”

  “You’re looking for a wife for him?”

  “He’s looking for a wife for himself. Yes, being in a committed relationship will help his image. We have a general election in a year’s time – how he presents himself will be key to how the party performs.”

  “He doesn’t strike me as the type to settle down.” We’re both watching the Prime Minister as he talks to Lennox, the two of them laughing at something. Friends, or so it seems.

  “He isn’t, but he knows he’ll have to be.”

  Those eyes.

  “Have you ever been to Seattle?” I’m done talking about William. I know what the plan is, they’re hoping we’ll have a mutually convenient relationship, even if it’s just the show of one.

  “Yes.” Isaac’s eyes burn. He rubs the dark stubble on his chin. “Twice.”

  I bring my finger to my mouth and suck on the end.

  His eyes are now on fire.

  It was him I saw. In Seattle. In a club furnished with benches and whips and depravity that tames the beast that lives within us all.

  I was on my knees in front of another man, his cock in my mouth, his hand in my hair, careful not to move my mask. Isaac was concealed in darkness, his face hidden with a mask of his own. Another of his identities.

  As the man whose cock I sucked pulled out and came over my breasts, it was Isaac’s eyes I was watching, seeing the approval in them. The want.

  He knows.

  He knows it was me.

  “It’s a good city. Good coffee. We’re you there for business or pleasure?”

  “Both.”

  Midnight crawls in unnoticed by most. A pianist is lost in her music. The bartenders are mainly pouring Scotch by now, all pretence of cocktails evaporated. Two men talk with two blondes at a card table, one has his hand on her leg and I suspect that a deal has been struck and the night will end with all parties satisfied. A pretty blonde is a prop every single politician seems to require.

  I answer politely the questions posed by the wives of two of William’s guests, conversations I could have in my sleep, and I move away from the library to seek the guest area where I’m staying, my room next to Ben’s, Lennox’s nearby. The Scottish quarters. Tomorrow it’ll be decontaminated by some of William’s household.

  The central hallway is quiet, the time that vortex between evening and sleep, where people find their ways back to their secrets and the things they do behind closed doors. I find the corridor I remember running down as a child with Claire, our bare feet skidding over the tiles now replaced with thick carpet.

  My shoes are in my hand and the zip to my dress is undone part way down my back, enabling me to actually breathe for the first time this evening. I want a shower and my bed, and tomorrow I want to leave early, which isn’t going to happen as William is keen to show me around the gardens.

  Voices travel down the corridor, moths moving through the still night air. I stop, somehow aware that this isn’t for my ears.

  A world of secrets and deception shouldn’t be one in which a child grows up, but Lennox and I had no choice so we learned to listen and decide who were the liars and who were the thieves. We learned to keep that knowledge to ourselves, to be used like a joker when it suited us most.

  It’s Ben’s voice I recognise first, but I can’t comprehend his words. His tone is serious, low, his words are coming fast.

  And then I hear Isaac, his soft English accent that reminds me of the south coast and cream teas, legends of Arthur and Guinevere. Cornish. He isn’t hiding it now.

  Silence. No footsteps. The air around us thickens, its density oppressive. I itch to look round the corner and see them, to glean more information from how their bodies are talking and learn why they’re now silent but I daren’t. Or do I?

  I carry on walking, turning the corner. Isaac and Ben are at the end of the corridor, Isaac’s back is against the wall, Ben’s arm boxing him in.

  I’m still. My feet won’t work. They’re still talking but I can’t hear them and they have no idea I’m here, a voyeur.

  Isaac’s head turns, as if he’s felt the molecules in the air shift. He says my name.

  Ben stands up, puts his hands by his sides.

  I don’t move.

  I’ve interrupted a private moment. Not one for my ears or my eyes. Like the castle, this building is a museum of secrets.

  They watch me slip into my room, the divide between us made up of their knowledge and my ignorance.

  An hour later, Ben slips between my sheets, under them, ‘til his head is between my legs and he tongue fucks me to an apology of an orgasm. I look at the door as I come and wonder if Isaac is awake and whether he’s listening as I shout Ben’s name.

  Chapter Thirteen

  My words are rehearsed and memorized, my accent careful, just Scottish enough to keep the independents happy, but understandable enough for the reunification votes to smile. There shouldn’t be politics at events like this. This isn’t about who should lead and how, or who has the most supporters, this is about the increased ability to care for dementia patients at a hospital in Edinburgh and it isn’t a publicity call.

  I unveil the plaque and applaud, stepping back into the line that I share with two doctors and a psychiatrist whose brain child this new unit is.

  “Thank you.” Craig Stern is the psychiatrist, a man I could see Elise fawn over, given his Clark Kent looks and build. “We appreciate how you’ve done this.”

  Because we’ve done it discreetly. The guests are the relatives of some of the patients who’ll be treated here and there’s j
ust one camera, organized by the hospital’s media team.

  “You’re welcome. I don’t think it makes any difference who pulls the material off the plaque though. The point is, you’re officially open.”

  He nods. “Finally.”

  I put my hand on his arm. “Hard work, but you’re there. Hopefully more donations will come through when this is rolled out tonight on television.”

  “Hopefully. Do you want a coffee?”

  I do, but I can’t. My schedule is packed for the next two days with a benefactors’ dinner at one of Edinburgh’s old and stately hotels and two visits tomorrow. Also, it isn’t on my itinerary, which has recently become a lot tighter. Security has been amplified, a few threatening letters sent have driven Ben into a quiet, military-style planning mode where I’m forever supervised if I’m out of the castle.

  “Thank you, but I’m on a tight timetable.” Six months ago I’d have tried to change that timetable, as the doctor is someone I’d have been keen to know better, but things are different.

  “Too tight to grab lunch? I’ve cleared it with your team.”

  I swing round at the sound of Isaac’s voice and see him standing there in beige chinos and a short-sleeved white linen shirt. His dark hair looks curlier than it did a week ago at Chequers and he’s even more tanned.

  “I’ll let you go.” The doctor smiles and I don’t know if I feel regret or relief, or a mixture of the two.

  “Thank you. I’ll see you at the dinner tonight.”

  He grins, nods at Isaac, and leaves, white coat twisting as he turns, someone already calling his name. It’s a normality I’ve never known. Instead I have yet another dinner, another function, another place to look pretty.

  Isaac’s eyes are dark. He’s mustard today, his yellowy gold tempered with something darker and he sets me on edge. “Franklyn created a forty-five-minute slot so you had time to grab some lunch before your next shindig.”

  I didn’t know anyone else who would call visiting a residential care home for children a ‘shindig’.

  “Where are we going?” I can see Bertie, one of my security guards on his phone. I catch his eye and he gives me the thumbs up. We’re on. I’m allowed off the tight leash of my agenda.

  “The Signet Library. It was easy for your team and they had a room free. I believe you’ve been before. And it’s a favourite.”

  It was, on all counts. “My mother used to take me there for afternoon tea when my father was away and Lennox was doing boy things. And yes, I like it very much there.”

  “Good. I know your team will get you straight there and I can take myself, so I’ll see you shortly.” His smile is calm, unrushed.

  I know there’s an underlying reason as to why he’s here, why he’s taken the trouble to find out my schedule and ingratiate himself into it, but it doesn’t matter right now.

  I have a forty-five minutes to myself with a man who I find interesting. A man who sets something within me to smolder without speaking a word.

  I’m ushered into a private room; one I’ve had before with my mother when security deemed the shared areas too risky for us to use. The room is Georgian, ornate and light, and I could’ve stepped into the last century. Starched white table cloths, silver cutlery, crockery I know is older than my parents and only hand washed.

  Isaac is there already, looking through a book and sipping a glass of wine. He could be anyone, with the way he’s dressed, but he carries himself in a way that induces people to look twice and then not tear their eyes away.

  He stands as I approach and I remember how he looked at me when I walked out of the sea on the island, and again, how he watched Ben and I that night.

  “Thank you for joining me.” He bends down and kisses my cheek, his hands grazing my arms.

  “Thank you for arranging this.”

  He laughs quietly. “It was no trouble.”

  And I know he’s right. He’s a fixer. For him there are no problems, only paths to be ploughed and ways forward to be created.

  “I don’t suppose anything’s much trouble for a kingmaker.”

  He holds out my chair for me to sit down. A three-tier stand filled with tiny sandwiches, all crust less; little delicate cakes and macaroons, plus the scones with jam and clotted cream. There’s Champagne and wine, and a pot of tea.

  And silence.

  “It has its advantages. Tuck in.” He picks up a sandwich and looks at me as he bites in.

  I giggle.

  I haven’t giggled since I was about thirteen, but that sound was definitely a giggle.

  I tuck in.

  He doesn’t ask me any questions. Between the sandwiches and the scones, we talk about stuff, mindless chatter that’s inconsequential and isn’t Isaac trying to find out about Lennox or my father or some political point.

  “When does parliament re-open.” I sit back in my chair and eye the cakes.

  “End of the month.” There’s a sigh. “It feels like it’s time to go back to school. You know, those last few days when the weather’s warm and there are thunderstorms and that dread begins.”

  I remember them well. The latter years of school were bittersweet at this time, because it wasn’t just home I was leaving. It was Ben too.

  “Those evenings came with a sense of dread.”

  “They did. They still do. Like a week of Sunday evenings. Every day brings you closer to the end.” His eyes glint.

  “You’ve reminded me of a pirate since I first met you.”

  His laugh is loud and free. “Really? Do I have a parrot following me?”

  “I mean with your colouring. Where are you from? Originally, I mean.”

  “Cornwall. Hence the accent. My grandmother was Romany, hence the dark skin. That gene dominated my DNA.”

  “Did she tell fortunes?”

  He laughs, quieter this time. “She read palms and people. She was a wise old witch.”

  “I get the feeling you mean that literally.”

  He shrugs. “Pretty much. How are your parents?”

  He knows my father is ill. The few days he spent with us on the island will have told him as much. “Quiet. Dad’s much the same.”

  “It’s hard seeing a parent being ill.”

  “Worse to see a child, I imagine.”

  He nods slowly, picks up a scone. “Do you eat yours the Cornish way or the Devon way?”

  I laugh, thankful for the change of conversation. “Jam or cream on top? Always cream.”

  “The right way then.”

  “If you’re Cornish.”

  We return to our silence as we eat the scones, cream smearing over my hands. I noticing him watching when I lick my fingers, even though I’m not trying to be provocative.

  “It’s impossible to eat these in a lady-like manner!”

  Isaac shrugs. “It’s impossible not to think bad things watching you clean the cream from your fingers. I’ll excuse you from not being a lady, if you forgive me for not being a gentleman.”

  “Are you a gentleman?”

  He picks up one of the tiny macaroons, a pink one, and studies it. Taking his time, he stretches across the table and holds it to my lips, his eyes holding mine.

  I part my lips, softening my tongue and he feeds me the sweet. As he retracts his fingers I catch them with my lips, holding them briefly.

  I burn.

  “Am I as tasty as the macaroon?”

  “About the same.”

  “I’ll add that to my resume.” He smiles. He doesn’t wipe his fingers.

  “How did you end up working for William Goldsmith?”

  His face shadows. “Fate. Maybe more than that. We have a family connection and as you know, in politics, family is everything.”

  “More so in some cases. That’s how I’m doing my job.”

  He laughs, but there’s no heart to it. “Be careful of William, Blair.”

  The words are stones.

  “What do you mean?”

  Isaac looks at his plate, n
ot at me. “He comes across as a bumbling fool who wears the wrong suit and says the wrong things. I know he treats you as an accessory, but he’s more than that. Be wary.”

  “Is that why you’re here today? To tell me that?”

  He shakes his head. “No. I shouldn’t have told you that.”

  “Then why are you here? Why have you told me?”

  He looks up. His eyes are dark; deep pits that I can’t see the bottom of.

  “Because I like you. I’m not allowed to, but I do.”

  I take the glass of white wine and sip at it, aware that Franklyn has entered the room and it’s time to leave.

  There can be no more questions. For now there will be no more lies.

  The expectations are that the princess will wear a dress. When I was a little girl, the newspapers and media would comment on what I was wearing. Fashion companies and designers used me as a billboard and at nine years old, I was an influencer, even though I had no idea what that word meant.

  A benefactors’ dinner in an exclusive hotel required me to wear a dress, but instead I’m in trousers and a shirt that’s slashed to my waist at the front. My hair is long and straight, hanging past my breasts and I when I sit down I can spread my legs as wide as I want.

  “You’re happy with your choice of clothing?” Franklyn says.

  Translated: you should be wearing the black dress as per decorum.

  “Very. I can actually eat in this, sit down and move.”

  “Very well, Blair.” He picks up the dress from the chaise and hangs it up, smoothing the material. “Ben asked me to brief you on the plan in case of emergency tonight. Your exit point is through the swimming pool which will lead you to a staff car park where we have security stationed. It’s a twenty-five second walk from the function room, if you ditch the shoes.” He glares at the black heels I’m wearing.

  “I can use them as a weapon.”

  “I have no doubt you could.” He frowns. “There’s a lot of security here tonight. Have you spoken to Ben about why?”

  “I haven’t seen Ben for three days. And he hasn’t called.” I don’t allow myself to dwell on it. Ben has made me no promises. I won’t let my heart bleed for him.