by Geneva Lee
My feet carried me to them without thinking. I flipped on a worklamp and ducked carefully under the police tape. They’d photographed them and then laid them out in a neat orderly row. A bunch of bones that looked like femurs and ribs—but it was the skulls that stuck with me with their hairline cracks. Proof their deaths had been anything but natural. There were six of them in total, no longer piled in that gruesome pyramid I saw when I closed my eyes, but I knew exactly which one had been on top. It was the one I saw when I closed my eyes. You can’t erase the sight of a skull that small from your mind.
4
Belle
Harrods was already experiencing the holiday crush, even in October. The department store had wasted no time decorating for Christmas. A massive tree was erected outside the entrance, which meant tourists were clustered around it taking photographs. Strings of lights were hung along the building’s exterior, and I was greeted with a Happy Holidays by the doorman. I resisted the urge to remind them that we were still weeks away from Christmas, knowing my ill humor regarding the matter stemmed more from being ready to give birth than any impropriety on the part of the shop. With all the preparation at the house, I hadn’t even thought about getting presents. Now it occurred to me that my spontaneous shopping trip, meant to lure Edward into the open, might be the last chance I had to prepare for the upcoming holidays. I had no idea if I’d get a chance after the baby was here. Suddenly, I felt the familiar panic I’d begun to experience every time I thought about what the future held. Just as I was on the verge of hyperventilating, a man bumped his shoulder into me.
“Excuse…” the rebuke died on my lips when I turned to glare at the guilty party.
“You came!” I threw my arms around my best friend who accepted my embrace awkwardly. I pulled back to study Edward for a moment, wondering if I was overwhelming him but he simply gave me a sheepish smile.
“I don’t want to squish Mini-Belle.” He patted my stomach softly, looking as though he was afraid if he touched it too forcefully he might break me.
“Mini-Belle?” I repeated.
“Well, you two haven’t given her a name,” he explained. “Have you?”
“We have a few contenders.”
“How vague of you.” He spoke lightly but there was an edge coating his words, as though he didn’t approve.
Of course he didn’t. Edward’s family was built around secrets. Secrets that had recently cost him the person he loved most in the world. It must be hard to see any kept information as innocuous after something sinister takes someone that important to you.
“I promise you will know as soon as I do.”
“You could just be like us Royals and give her every name you come up with,” he said dryly.
“Ah, yes, the old Louisa Anne Elizabeth Mary Victoria Fanny scenario,” I said.
“Fanny?” he repeated. “Please tell me that’s not a contender.”
“Billie?”
“That might be worse.” Despite his rough edge, the corners of his lips tipped up and he nearly smiled.
“Dare I say that you look good?” I asked, as we wove arm and arm through the crowd in Harrods. He’d opted for a t-shirt and jeans, not his usual style, although judging by how they showed off his lean, well-toned physique I couldn’t see why. Usually, he was clean-shave with his curly hair carefully coiffed into perfect submission. Today, it was hidden under a cap and he was sporting the start of either a beard or a refusal to pick up his razer. Between his hat and the sunglasses he’d kept on, he stuck out and blended in at the same time. It was hard to tell it was him under there. Although, it certainly looked like it must be someone. A few people studied us for a moment. No doubt trying to figure out who the celebrity was before giving up. He looked more like a rock star than the Prince of England.
“I look like shit,” he said flatly.
“Nope.” I shook my head, pausing long enough to admire a pair of Jimmy Choos. “You’ve got this whole devil-may-care vibe going. It’s very hot.”
“So is hell,” he said with a shrug.
I bit my lower lip as I picked up the shoe, examining it a second longer than necessary while trying to come up with what to say. The truth was I wasn’t certain how to play this. Did I ask him about David? About how he was feeling? Maybe he needed to talk. I’d tried to get him to in the beginning, but he’d been shell-shocked—and for good reason. It wasn’t everyday that your husband died.
It wasn’t everyday that your brother killed him.
But weeks had passed and I was worried about him. Not because he was sad. I expected that. But rather because he seemed to be retreating into himself and away from the rest of us. He’d cut off his family. He barely spoke to me. I wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing with his time. Was that because I was so busy with my own domestic bliss I didn’t notice? Was he avoiding me? Was I ignoring him? How did I make him feel safe to open up without pushing him too fast? Why wasn’t there a how-to manual for this?
I put the shoe down with a heavy sigh.
“Too much?” Edward asked.
“When am I going to wear that in the middle of nowhere? Out to feed the chickens?”
“You have chickens?” The idea seemed to genuinely horrify him.
“And if I did?”
“You’ve never been much of an outdoor girl,” he said, holding up his free hand in surrender and sounding genuinely amused for the first time since he arrived.
“I grew up in the countryside,” I reminded him. “I can do all the important trappings of the wealthy country types: stalk deer and walk dogs and even feed chickens.”
“So, is that what you’re up to all the way out there?”
“Come visit and find out,” I said. I’d been trying to tempt him to come with us to Sussex since this whole mess happened.
“I was thinking about going away,” he said, shrugging a single shoulder like he couldn’t be bothered to do more than think.”
“To Sussex?” I pressed.
“Somewhere warmer.” He stopped in front of a display of winter scarves and gloves. “I don’t think I want to deal with winter in England this year.”
“But you’ll be here for Christmas?” I asked in a soft voice.
“I don’t know. I find I don’t really feel like celebrating this year.” He fingered the rough edge of a Burberry scarf. “It would be our anniversary, you know.”
“I know. I don’t think you should be alone.”
Edward licked his lower lip, and I found myself wishing I could see his eyes. The last thing he needed was to be alone on his first anniversary. But was spending it with me, my husband and our daughter going to be better? Or just a painful reminder of what he’d lost?
“I thought I’d find a beach somewhere with cold drinks and hot men. Who says I have to be alone for Christmas? I’m not the only single gay man in the world.” His lips quirked into a lopsided grin that was too forced to be believable.
As long as the wound was open, I might as well pour all the salt in with one go. “Clara wants to have lunch.”
“Tell her I said hello,” he murmured.
“She wants you to come.”
“I’m not going there. Wherever she is...he is.”
I didn’t have to ask what he meant. Alexander and Clara had a tendency to orbit one another since they met. That had only gotten worse given everything they went through. “I’m sure we can arrange it, so that he stays away. Don’t you want to see Wills?”
“Does it make me a bad person if I say no?” he asked in a hollow voice. “I don’t want to hate her, but I can’t seem to…”
Forgive her. “She didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I know.” He nodded his head before allowing it to hang forward. “But trying to reason with the heart is about as effective as arguing with a table. It can’t be done. I just need time.”
“Then that’s what I’ll tell her,” I said simply. It hurt to see him go through this. It hurt to watch Clara blame herself. Bu
t sometimes the only thing that healed wounds was time.
“Belle,” he said tentatively, lowering his sunglasses to stare at me from red-rimmed eyes, “don’t tell her that I hate her. I don’t really…”
“I won’t,” I promised him, wrapping him in another hug only to feel the baby kick hard.
Edward pulled back, his glasses still pushed low on his nose and his eyes wide. “Was that?”
“Yep,” I said with a laugh. “She’s growing quite demanding.”
“I warned you about squishing Mini-Belle,” he said with a laugh that lifted some of the weight from the air around us. “If you aren’t careful, she’ll be forced to come out here and tell you off.”
“Promise?” I groaned. My due date was only two days away and there was no end in sight.
“If she’s anything like her mother, she’ll show up when she damn well pleases,” Edward teased. We rounded a corner and nearly ran into a Christmas tree trimmed with artisan, blown glass ornaments. His good mood evaporated. Maybe shopping wasn’t such a good idea, after all. I could get presents later or place an order. Right now, he needed me more than anyone else in my life might need a gift weeks from now.
“Are you hungry?” I blurted out, steering him clear of the reminder of the impending holidays.
“I could eat, but only if it’s something full of carbs that will make me emotionally numb,” he demanded.
“I think we can make that happen.” It wasn’t much. Maybe it was all I could do: try to be there when he needed to fall apart. Maybe that’s all anyone can do when dealing with a broken heart.
5
Smith
The bar of the Westminster Royal was fairly quiet given the time of day. A few businessmen lingered over cocktails, discussing market prices and valuations. A couple, obviously mind-affair, were sipping champagne in the corner. I took a table in the middle of the room, where I’d be able to see every entrance and exit and waited for my guest to arrive. Out of habit, I checked my mobile, concerned that if Belle tried to reach me I might not have heard it in the bustle of London’t sidewalks. No new messages. I expected a call any moment—the call— and the longer I went without receiving it the more tightly wound I became. It was difficult to let Belle out of my sight when she might go into labor at any time.
Across from me a table of businessmen stopped talking and turned to stare at a woman entering the bar. I didn’t have to look to see who it was.
Georgia Kincaid always made an entrance, whether she was trying to or not.
Today she’d traded her usual motorcycle leather for a pair of tight black pants and a fitted blazer that dipped low enough to display the lace of her bra. Her glossy black hair swung loosely around her shoulders, contrasting sharply with her ruby red lips. She didn’t bother to smile when she spotted me. Instead, she strode straight toward me, ignoring the men’s stares, and took the seat next to me, the only other chair that afforded views of the exits. Some habits never died, and Georgia’s current line of work necessitated vigilance.
“Where’s your wife?” Georgia asked, peering around me like I might be hiding a nine-months pregnant Belle behind my back.
“Shopping with Edward,” I said in a clipped tone.
“I don’t think you have to worry about him.” Georgia’s lips twitched into a bemused smile.
“He’s not the one I’m worried about.”
“You can’t keep her under lock and key all the time,” she advised with a sigh.
I shot her a look. “Can’t I? Isn’t that what your boss does?”
It was something of a sore subject that Georgia had gone to work for Alexander. Particularly, because I’d planned to coax her into keeping an eye on Belle. Somehow, she’d been talked into working for the monarchy, which, given how we were raised, had more than surprised me. Georgia and I had spent our formative years being groomed by one of England’s most insidious crime lords to hate the Royal family and everything it stood for. I’d thought for years that no one hated them more than me, Georgia, and my surrogate father, Hammond. I’d been expected to work against them by Hammond until I realized I wanted nothing to do with him or his sins. I’d had to lose the thing I thought was most important to me in the world: my wife. Then, I’d had to discover my marriage had been a manipulation. That’s when I convinced Georgia to start working against Hammond with the help of the Royal family. But the deeper we dove, the uglier it got until Hammond delivered a game-changer to my door: Belle. I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with her. Alexander had been furious, concerned it would jeopardize his investigation into the assassination of his father. That’s when I realized my loyalty would only ever lie with Belle. But even that hadn’t been simple. It turned out that we were nothing but pawns in a much larger game. I’d won my freedom only to be dragged back into the fray when they kidnapped Belle’s best friend. I’d helped Alexander find his wife for Belle’s sake. Each time I got pulled back into that world, I wondered if I’d make it back out. This last time, my alliance with Alexander had felt dangerously like friendship.
It’s why I had to convince Belle to leave London. She was in danger as long as we remained near them. But keeping her from her closest friends was proving to be more than I could handle. It wasn’t that I wanted to isolate her. More than anything I wanted her to make new friends, settle into life in Sussex, and start over. Georgia could have helped with that, but I suspected that she’d actually fallen victim to caring about Alexander and Clara too much to walk away.
“Don’t drag Alexander into this,” Georgia advised. “This isn’t about him.”
“Everything’s about him,” I said gruffly. That’s how it felt in London.
“He’s the King, so it probably feels that way.”
“He convinced you to take a job working for the good guys,” I said, wondering how someone as chaotic as Georgia had found herself actively working for the Crown.
“The benefits are excellent,” she said with a shrug. “You should see my new ride.”
I raised an eyebrow. I’d much rather chat about cars than royalty.
“Porsche Panamera,” she said. “Black, naturally.”
“That seems a little fast and loose for Buckingham.” I had to admit I was impressed. The Porsche wasn’t just another armored vehicle. It had some style to it, as well as three millimeters of ballistic steel on its roof and floor board in addition to its bulletproof exterior. It was a good choice for someone who drove around the Queen, but not the safest on the market.
“He tried to get me in a Mulsanne, but I told him I wasn’t on my way to the Care Home yet, so he had to budge.”
“The Mulsanne is safer,” I said with a shrug. “It would have been my choice.”
Georgia whipped around to stare at me, her dark eyes, rimmed in coal-black liner, narrowed like she was dissecting me.
“What?” I shrugged.
“I’m trying to decide if you’ve been replaced by an imposter. The Smith Price I know would never choose that Bentley over a Porsche,” she said.
“I have different priorities now.”
“I guess we all have to grow up someday.” But she sounded less than enthused about my sudden maturity. “Did Belle take your balls as well as the keys to the Bugatti?”
“She wouldn’t let me sell the Bugatti. She’s rather attached to it.” I’d been willing to part with my former daily car, which would have nearly paid for our new home entirely, but my wife wouldn’t hear of it. Given the memories we’d made in it, I couldn’t exactly blame her. But that didn’t mean we’d be bringing our baby home in its boot. “We got a Range Rover. It made sense.”
“If you’re going to keep being so bloody rational, I’m going to need a drink, or at least a good whipping,” she said, but there was an edge of laughter in her voice.
Could it be that Georgia Kincaid found this funny? Maybe even charming?
She really had softened up during her time with Clara.
I raised my hand to call over the waiter
, who appeared with the promptness of a man who recognized when alcohol was necessary. I ordered two Macallans and he disappeared to the bar.
“So, what brings you to London?” Georgia asked, leaning back in her seat.
“I can’t visit?”
“I thought your entire plan was to get your wife as far away from this mess as possible before she shot out your progeny. Isn’t she due any minute?”
“The doctor said it’s likely she’ll go past dates since it's our first.” Until my wife had gotten pregnant, I thought I knew everything there was to know about her body, having made an extensive study of it. The past few months had proven me wrong.
“And you were dying to catch up with me?” Georgia enjoyed baiting the hook. If the situation called for it, she could be direct to the point of painfulness. But if you came to her, clearly wanting something, she was going to make you work for it. It was her way.
“I need a favor.” There was no point in continuing with the pleasantries. We were both busy people, and while she might be considered my oldest friend, we’d never exactly confided in one another.
“A favor? I’m shocked.” She smiled up at the waiter as he dropped off the Scotch, and the poor man nearly tripped over his own feet. I could never tell if the way men reacted to her was out of lust or survival instinct—or some primitive combination of the two.