The Royal Secret

by Lucinda Riley

  “Of course, sir. Lead the way, then.”

  An hour later, after Joanna had been temporarily calmed by the brandy Simon had brought from his apartment, and had given as clear a statement to the police as her dazed brain would elicit, Simon suggested he take her to his place for what was left of the night.

  “Best to leave the clearing up till the morning, I reckon, love,” said the police officer.

  “He’s right, Jo. Come on, let’s get you out of here.” Simon put an arm round her shoulders and led her out of the front door, down the path, and into his car. She slumped into the front seat. Climbing into the driver’s seat, he turned on the engine. As he pulled out from the curb, his headlights caught the license plate of a car parked on the other side of the road. How very odd, he thought as he swung the car left, and glanced into the darkened interior of the vehicle. It was probably just coincidence, he told himself, as he drove up the hill toward his apartment.

  But he’d check it out tomorrow anyway.

  7

  The telephone rang just as Zoe had finished mopping the floor.

  “Damn!” She sprinted across the kitchen, her footprints appearing on the damp tiles, and reached the phone just before the answering machine clicked on.

  “I’m here,” she said breathlessly, hopefully.

  “It’s me.”

  “Oh, hi, Marcus.”

  “Don’t sound so pleased to hear from me, will you?”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’m only returning your call, anyway,” he pointed out.

  “Yes. Do you want to pop round this evening for a drink?”

  “Sure. Have you spoken to Dad?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “Tell you later,” she replied distractedly.

  “Okay. See you around seven.”

  Zoe slammed the receiver down and let out a howl of frustration. Time was running short. Next week she was off on location to Norfolk to begin shooting Tess. He only had the Welbeck Street landline number—neither of them had had mobile phones all those years ago—and if her grandfather had answered the phone, he’d called himself “Sid”; she couldn’t remember exactly why, but they’d both giggled about it.

  The fact that she wasn’t going to be in London to answer it, coupled with the fact that she’d be in a small Norfolk village where he’d be so horribly noticeable, meant he wouldn’t come to visit her anyway. And then it would drift and the moment would be gone. Zoe didn’t think she could stand it.

  “Please, please ring,” she begged the telephone.

  She glanced at her reflection in the corner of a mirror and sighed. She looked pale and drained. She’d done what she always did in times of high tension and crisis: she’d cleaned and scrubbed and polished and dusted manically, trying to wear herself out to keep herself from dwelling on the situation.

  And . . . she had begun to realize she was totally unused to being alone, which wasn’t helping either. Up until two months ago, there’d always been James to talk to. God, she missed him. And Jamie. She was only grateful that she had done as James had asked and accepted the part of Tess, especially as the call she so longed for looked more and more unlikely as each day passed.

  Marcus rang the doorbell at half past seven that evening and Zoe greeted him at the door.

  “ ’Lo, Zo.”

  She eyed him. “You been drinking?”

  “Only a couple, honest.”

  “A couple of bottles from the looks of you.” Zoe led Marcus into the sitting room. “Coffee to sober you up?”

  “Whiskey if you’ve got it.”

  “Fine.” Too weary to argue, Zoe went to the drinks cabinet, an ugly antique walnut thing, with heavy cabriole legs that she was always tripping over—and probably worth a fortune. She had to remember to call an assessor and update the inventory of the house contents for insurance, now that James was gone. Maybe she could sell some of the finer pieces to aid the house renovation. Finding the whiskey, she filled a tumbler a quarter full and handed it to her brother.

  “Come on, sis. That’s a bit of a stingy measure.”

  “Help yourself then,” Zoe said, handing him the whiskey bottle and pouring herself a gin and tonic. “I’ll just go and get some ice. Want some?”

  “No thanks.” He topped up the tumbler and waited for Zoe to return.

  “Making yourself at home, then?” He motioned to the different art pieces on the wall.

  “I just moved a couple of pictures down here from my bedroom to brighten the room up.”

  “Nice to have a legacy like this,” he muttered.

  “Not that again! Marcus, I hate to remind you, but Dad did give you enough money to rent your very nice apartment in Notting Hill a few years ago. On top of funding your many film projects.”

  “Fair point,” Marcus agreed. “So, tell me what you and he discussed the other night.”

  “Well”—Zoe curled up on the sofa—“even though you’ve been totally ungracious over the business of the will, I can understand how you’ve felt.”

  “That’s very perceptive of you, sister dear.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Marcus. I’m only trying to help.”

  “I would have said you’re the one doing the patronizing, sweetheart.”

  “Christ! You are so bloody impossible! Now, just shut up for five minutes, while I explain how I might be able to help.”

  “All right, all right. Go on, then.”

  “To be fair, I think the deal has always been that you were looked after financially by Dad, while Jamie and I were taken care of by James. And because I’m raising Jamie by myself, I think James wanted to make absolutely sure that whatever happened, we’d both be okay.”

  “Maybe,” Marcus grunted.

  “So”—Zoe took a sip of her gin—“given all the money’s in trust for Jamie, there’s only one area of the will from which I can legally and honestly extract some dosh for you.”

  “And that is?”

  Zoe sighed. “I don’t think you’re going to like this, but it really is the best I can do.”

  “Come on then, shoot.”

  “Do you remember at the reading of the will, the bit at the end about the memorial fund?”

  “Vaguely—although by then I was about to blow a gasket.”

  “Well, it’s basically an amount held in trust to provide fees for drama school each year for one talented male and one female actor.”

  “Oh. You’re going to suggest I use that and go back to college, are you?” Marcus quipped.

  Zoe ignored him. “What Dad and I are suggesting is that we put you in charge of the trust and pay you a good salary to organize and administer it.”

  Marcus stared at her. “Is that it?”

  “Yes. Oh, Marcus!” Zoe shook her head in frustration. “I knew you’d react like this! We’re offering you something that will only take up a couple of months a year, maximum, but will at least give you a regular income while you try to get your film going. Yes, you’ll need to do the initial promotion and get the media interested in it to help encourage applications. Then there’ll have to be a week or so of auditions in front of a panel of your choice—I’m happy to come—and some administration, but really, it’s money for old rope. You could do it standing on your head.”

  There was silence from Marcus, so Zoe decided to play her trump card. “It’ll also make those that have doubted you in the film business stand up and take notice, help your reputation and the young future of British theater. There’s no reason why you can’t use the media coverage to raise your own profile and that of your production company.”

  Marcus raised his head and looked at her. “How much?”

  “Dad and I thought thirty thousand a year. I know it’s not the amount you need,” she added hastily, “but it’s not bad for a few weeks’ work. And you can have the first year’s salary up front if you want.” Zoe pointed at the folder on the table. “All the details on the trust and the amount we have to inve
st in it are explained in there. Take it home and have a look at it. You don’t have to decide now.”

  He leaned forward and fingered the folder. “That’s awfully kind of you, Zoe. I thank you for your generosity.”

  “That’s okay.” Zoe didn’t know whether Marcus was being grateful or sarcastic. “I’ve really tried to sort something out for you. I know it’s not the hundred grand you wanted, but you know that will come eventually.”

  Marcus stood up, sudden rage pounding through him as he glared at his sister’s smooth, smug face. “Tell me, Zoe, where do you get off?”

  “What?”

  “You sit there and look down on me: the poor sinner who’s lost his way but can be rescued with a bit of time and patience. And yet, and yet”—Marcus threw up his hands in disbelief—“it’s you who’s messed up, you who got pregnant at eighteen! So unless it really was the bloody immaculate conception, I’d reckon you know more about sin than I do.”

  Zoe’s face drained of color. She stood up, shaking with anger.

  “How dare you insult me and Jamie like that! I know you’re angry, and desperate, and almost certainly depressed, too, but I really have tried to do everything I can to help. Well, this is where I get off. I’ve had it up to here with your pathetic self-pity. Now get lost!”

  “Don’t worry, I’m going.” He headed for the door. “And you can stick your sodding memorial fund where the sun don’t shine!”

  Zoe heard the door slam behind him, and burst into tears. She was crying so hard that she only just heard the sound of the telephone ringing. The answering machine took the call.

  “Er, hello, Zoe. It’s me. I . . .”

  She virtually vaulted off the sofa and sprinted into the kitchen to pick up the receiver. “I’m here, Art.” His nickname was out of her mouth before she could stop herself.

  “How are you?”

  Zoe looked at her tear-stained reflection in the glass kitchen cabinets and said, “I’m well, very well.”

  “Good, good. Er, I was wondering, would it be too rude to invite myself to your place for a drink? You know how it is with me and I’d love to see you, Zoe, I really would.”

  “Of course. When would you like to come?”

  “Friday evening, maybe?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Around eight?”

  “Suits me.”

  “Right then. I look forward to it. Good night, Zoe. Sleep well.”

  “Night.” She put down the receiver slowly, not sure whether to carry on crying or to whoop for joy.

  She chose the latter. Doing an Irish jig round the kitchen, she made mental plans to spend tomorrow beautifying herself. Hairdresser’s and clothes shops were most definitely on the agenda.

  Contemplating her complete and utter shit of a brother was not.

  8

  Marcus had fallen out of Zoe’s house in Welbeck Street and ended up in some seedy Oxford Street nightclub, where he’d met a girl who—he’d been convinced at the time—was the image of Claudia Schiffer. When he’d woken up the following morning and glanced at the face next to him, he’d realized just how out of his mind he’d been. The bright makeup had slid down her face, and the dark roots of her peroxide hair were prominent against the white pillow she lay on. She’d lisped something in a heavy accent about taking the day off from work to spend it with him.

  He’d gone to the bathroom and promptly been very ill indeed. He’d showered, trying to clear the cobwebs from his head, and groaned when he remembered just exactly what he had said to his sister last night. He was a first-class, low-down, rotten pig.

  Insisting the woman in his bed refrain from playing truant from her job, he’d bundled her out of the apartment, and drunk large amounts of black coffee that burned in his acidic, complaining stomach. Then he’d decided to take a walk in Holland Park.

  It was a crisp, frosty day, and the weathermen were predicting snow. Marcus walked briskly along the hedged footpaths, the ponds murky and still in the cold sunshine. Marcus pulled his jacket around him, glaring at anyone who made eye contact with him. Not so much as a squirrel dared approach him.

  He let the lump in his throat turn to tears. He really didn’t like himself anymore. Zoe had only been trying to help and he’d treated her appallingly. It had been the booze talking, yet again. And maybe she was right—perhaps he was depressed.

  In retrospect, was what Zoe had offered him really so awful? As she’d said, it was money for old rope. He had no idea how much was actually in the memorial fund, but he’d bet it was substantial. He then pictured himself in the role of generous benefactor, not only to students, but maybe to struggling theaters and young filmmakers. He would become known in the business as a man with sensitivity, insight, and money to spend. And his mother would have most definitely approved of the project.

  There was no doubt he could do with a regular income. Perhaps it would mean he could begin to take better control of his finances, live within a budget, then use his £100,000 legacy to put into his film company.

  All he had to do was grovel to Zoe. And he’d mean it too.

  After leaving his sister to simmer down for a couple of days, Marcus decided to call unannounced at Welbeck Street on Friday evening. Bunch of roses in hand—the last ones left at the corner shop—he rang the bell.

  Zoe answered it almost immediately. Her face fell when she saw him.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He stared at his sister’s subtly made-up face, her freshly washed blond hair shining like a halo. She was wearing a royal-blue velvet dress that matched her eyes and revealed rather a lot of leg.

  “Blimey, Zo, expecting company?”

  “Yes . . . no . . . I mean, I have to go out in ten minutes.”

  “Okay, this won’t take long, I promise. Can I come in?”

  She seemed agitated. “Sorry, but this really isn’t a good time.”

  “I understand. I’ll say what I need to here. I was a total pig to you the other night and I am truly, truly sorry. I’m not excusing myself, but I was very drunk. Over the past two days I’ve done some serious thinking. And realized that I’ve taken my anger and frustration at myself out on you. I promise I won’t do it again. I’m going to get my act together—stop drinking. I’ve got to, haven’t I?”

  “Yes, you have,” Zoe replied distractedly.

  “I’ve seen the error of my ways and I’d love to take over the memorial fund if you’ll still let me. It’s a great opportunity, and now that I’ve calmed down, I can see how generous it is of you and Dad to trust me with it. Here.” He thrust the flowers into her hands. “These are for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Marcus watched as her eyes darted up and down the street. “So, do you forgive me?”

  “Yes, yes, of course I do.”

  Marcus was staggered. He’d planned on a night of serious mea culpa–ing while Zoe extracted her rightful pound of flesh.

  “Thanks, Zoe. I swear I won’t let you down.”

  “Fine.” Zoe surreptitiously glanced down at her watch. “Look, can we discuss this another time?”

  “As long as you actually believe I’m going to change. Shall I come over next week to discuss it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Do you have that folder handy by any chance? I thought I could take it home and study it over the weekend, think up some ideas.”

  “Okay.” Zoe flew inside, took the folder out of James’s desk, and ran back to the front door. “There.”

  “Thanks, Zo. I won’t forget this. I’ll call you tomorrow to make a date.”

  “Yes. Night.”

  The door was shut hurriedly in his face. Marcus whistled in relief, amazed at how easy it had been. He walked off along the road humming, as the first few flakes of snow began to descend on the streets of London.

  * * *

  “Evening, Warburton. Do sit down.” Lawrence Jenkins, Simon’s boss, indicated a chair placed in front of his desk. He was slim and dapper, dresse
d in an immaculate Savile Row suit, and wore a different-colored paisley bow tie for every day of the week. Today it was bright red. He had a natural air of authority, indicating he had been in the job for a long time, and wasn’t someone to be easily crossed. His customary black coffee was steaming gently in front of him.

  “Now, it seems you might be able to help us with a little problem that’s come up.”

  “I’ll do my best, as always, sir,” Simon replied.

  “Good chap. I hear your girlfriend had a bit of bother the other night at her apartment? Apparently it was ransacked.”

  “Not my girlfriend, sir, but a very close friend.”

  “Ah. So you’re not . . . ?”

  “No.”

  “Good. That makes the situation a little easier.”

  Simon frowned. “What exactly do you mean?”

  “The thing is, we believe your friend may have been passed some—how shall I put it?—very delicate information, which, if it fell into the wrong hands, could cause us problems.” Jenkins’s hawklike eyes appraised Simon. “Have you any idea what this something might be?”

  “I . . . no, sir. I have no idea. Can you elucidate?”

  “We are pretty certain that your friend has received a letter that was posted to her by a person of interest to us. Our department has been instructed to retrieve that letter as soon as possible.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s very likely she doesn’t appreciate its significance.”

  “Which is what? If I may ask.”

  “Classified, I’m afraid, Warburton. Rest assured, if she does have it, it is absolutely imperative she returns it forthwith.”

  “To whom, sir?”

  “To us, Warburton.”

  “Are you saying you want me to ask her if she has it?”

  “I would try a less blatant tactic than that. She’s staying with you at the moment, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.” Simon looked at him in surprise.

  “We checked her apartment over a couple of days ago, and the letter wasn’t there.”