“Sort of, although one could say my family’s been a hindrance, in fact.”
“Really? You surprise me.”
“Yes, it surprises most people,” Marcus agreed morosely. “At the moment I’m starting up a fund in memory of my grandfather, Sir James Harrison.”
“Really?” Ian said yet again. “Well now, what a coincidence, as that’s just what I wanted to talk to you about. Thank you.” The waiter put their drinks on the table.
Marcus eyed Ian suspiciously, and wondered if there’d ever be a time when someone was interested in meeting him for himself, rather than his family.
“Cheers.”
“Yes, cheers.” Marcus took a healthy slug of his beer, watching Ian as he drained his first whiskey, then picked up his second. “Now, what’s this about?”
“It’s all a bit hush-hush and you have to understand that we’re really taking you into our confidence by telling you. You see, the situation is this: apparently your granddad was a bit of a lad, had a ding-dong with a certain lady who was very much in the public eye. She wrote him some rather steamy letters. Your granddad returned all of them years ago, apart from one. We thought we’d retrieved it—he always promised to will the last and most, shall we say, compromising one to this lady’s family on his death.” Ian picked up his glass and sipped from it. “It seems the letter was the wrong one.”
The letter Joanna was sent by the old lady, deduced Marcus.
“Can’t say I remember anything of that nature being in the will,” murmured Marcus innocently.
“No. Subsequently, the . . . family concerned have contacted us to see if we can retrieve this last letter. It could all be very embarrassing if it fell into the wrong hands.”
“I see. Is there any point in asking who the family might be?”
“No, but I can tell you they’re rich enough to offer a substantial reward to anyone who might come across it. And I mean substantial.”
Marcus lit up a cigarette and studied Ian. “And how far have you got with your inquiries?”
“Not far enough. We hear tell that you’re friendly with a young journalist.”
“Joanna Haslam?”
“Yes. Have you any idea how much she knows?”
“Not really. We haven’t discussed it much, although I did know she’d been sent a letter, presumably the one that found its way to you.”
“Quite. Er, look, Marcus, to put it bluntly, you don’t by any chance think that Miss Haslam is encouraging your friendship because she thinks you might lead her to further information, do you?”
Marcus sighed. “I suppose it is a possibility, especially after what I’ve just heard.”
“Forewarned is forearmed, as they say. And obviously this conversation is completely between us. The British government is relying on your discretion in this matter.”
Marcus had had enough of Ian’s cloak-and-dagger behavior. “Listen, cut the crap, Ian, and tell me exactly what you want.”
“You have access to your grandfather’s houses, both in London and in Dorset. Perhaps what we need is in one of them.”
Maybe that’s what Joanna was looking for, Marcus thought with a jolt.
“It might be, yes. Certainly the attic at Haycroft House is chock-full of boxes containing my grandfather’s memorabilia.”
“Then perhaps it would be a good idea if you took another trip down there and looked through the boxes again?”
“Hold on, how do you know that I’ve already looked?” Marcus demanded. “Have you been spying on me and Joanna?!”
“Marcus, old chap, like I said, the British government is just trying to resolve the matter as quickly and quietly as possible. For everyone concerned.”
“Jesus!” Marcus wasn’t reassured by Ian’s tone. “Is this letter going to start World War Three or what?”
“Hardly.” Ian’s features softened into a smile. “Simply an . . . indiscretion on the part of a certain young lady way back when, which the family would prefer to keep quiet. Now, there may be other places we are unaware of, trusted friends of your grandfather who might have been given the letter for safekeeping. The situation is so delicate that we have to keep the net tight. What I’ve told you tonight is on a need-to-know basis only. So any pillow talk with Joanna will veto our agreement and put you both in a . . . vulnerable position. We’ve chosen you because we know you are a man of discretion, with perfect and innocent access to places and people we cannot touch without arousing suspicion. And as I stressed before, you’ll be well rewarded for your troubles.”
“Even if I don’t find it?”
Ian reached in his pocket and pulled out an envelope. He put it on the table. “There’s a small retainer to cover any expenses. Why not take the lovely Joanna off for a weekend away, wine her and dine her and find out how far she’s got in her search? Slowly, slowly, catchee monkey, as the saying goes.”
“Yes, I get your drift, Ian,” Marcus murmured, wanting to punch Ian on his patronizing and oft-broken nose.
“Good. And if you discover the golden ticket, what’s in that envelope will seem like small change. Now, I’ve got to head off, I’m afraid. My card’s in there too. Call me any time of the day or night if you have news.” He stood up and held out his hand. “Oh, and by the way, not wishing to be overdramatic, but I should warn you, the stakes are high. Any leaks down the wrong drain and you could find yourself next to it in the gutter. Good night.”
Marcus watched Ian leave the room. He sat down abruptly, somewhat shaken by Ian’s final riposte. He gave in and ordered a whiskey, feeling decidedly nervous, but as he took a large gulp, he comforted himself that at school Ian had always used fear tactics with the younger boys to subjugate them to his will. Yet, the teachers had seen him as a charming and caring individual. It was obvious that Ian hadn’t changed, but Marcus was now a grown man and would take his threats with a pinch of salt.
His fingers were itching to find out exactly how much was in the envelope. What if he could find that letter, then pass it into the right hands? From what Ian had hinted, he could virtually name his price. It might give him enough money to turn his film into reality, and actually make a difference to the world . . .
He then wondered whether, despite what Ian had said about “leaks down the wrong drain,” he should come clean with Joanna and tell her about the past half hour’s conversation. Then they could work together—no secrets from the start. But what if Ian found out? He didn’t want to put Joanna at risk . . . Perhaps he’d leave telling her for now, see how things developed, and then make a decision.
What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her, he decided as he drained his glass. It seemed Ian had already paid the bill, so he picked up the envelope and went downstairs to the gents’ toilet. Locking himself in a cubicle, he counted the thick wad of notes in the envelope, his pulse racing. Five thousand pounds in twenties and fifties.
Of course, the next step was to see Zoe and find out what she knew about this letter—no longer just to please Joanna, but for his film project too . . .
* * *
Arriving by taxi half an hour later at Joanna’s apartment, he could feel the envelope full of cash burning guiltily in his jacket pocket. He shrugged it off quickly and let her lead him into a cozy sitting room, where a gas fire had already been turned on and a large bowl of popcorn sat on the coffee table.
“I’ve missed you today,” Marcus said, then leaned down to give her a deep kiss.
“You only just saw me this morning,” Joanna said, as she reluctantly broke her lips away from his.
“May as well have been eons ago,” he murmured, dipping down for another kiss, but she ducked out of his reach.
“Marcus, the film!”
He pulled out the old VHS tape that he had dug out of a drawer in his apartment. “Let me say again, this is not a movie that sets the mood for romance.”
Joanna popped it into the VCR, then turned her TV on, and they settled down on the new sofa together, Joanna nestling her h
ead against the crook of his shoulder.
Marcus barely noticed the first half hour of the film, so intent was he on looking down at Joanna’s face, seeing her attention completely focused on what he had produced. He felt a knot of anxiety settle in his stomach. What if she thought it was rubbish? What if she thought he was rubbish? What if . . .
Finally, when the credits rolled up on the screen, Joanna turned to him, her eyes shining.
“Marcus, that was amazing,” she murmured.
“Did you . . . what did you think?” he asked.
“I thought it was brilliant,” she said. “It’s one of those films that really stays with you, you know? The cinematography was just gorgeous and so atmospheric, it really took you into the rain forest—”
Before she could say more, Marcus kissed her. Her mouth tasted salty-sweet from the popcorn as she kissed him back. The credits continued rolling on the TV screen, but the two paid no attention to them.
17
On Friday afternoon, Zoe arrived back at the hotel from the shoot and ran up to her room to collect her holdall. Heart banging against her chest, she delivered her keys to reception.
“Your driver’s waiting in the bar for you, Miss Harrison.”
“Thanks.” Zoe walked through to the main body of the pub full of locals. Before her eyes had time to scan the room, a man was by her side.
“Miss Harrison?”
“Yes.” She had to crane her neck upward to look at him. He was tall, well built, with sandy hair and very blue eyes. He looked completely out of place in his immaculate gray suit, shirt, and tie. “Hello.”
“Can I take your bag?” His face crinkled into a warm smile.
“Thank you.”
Zoe followed him outside to the car park, where a black Jaguar with dark tinted windows was waiting. He opened one of the back doors.
“There you are. Climb in.”
Zoe did so. He stowed her bag in the boot, then got in behind the wheel.
“Were you waiting long?” she asked.
“No, only about twenty minutes.” He started the engine and reversed out of the car park.
She settled back onto the soft fawn-colored leather as the Jaguar purred along the country roads.
“How far is it?”
“Half an hour or so, Miss Harrison,” the chauffeur replied.
Zoe felt suddenly uncomfortable, embarrassed in front of this polite, handsome man. He must have known he was driving her to an assignation with his employer. She couldn’t help but wonder how many times he’d done this kind of thing for Art before.
“Have you been working for, er, Prince Arthur for long?” she asked into the silence.
“No, this is a new duty for me. You’ll have to give me marks out of ten.” She caught his smile in the rearview mirror.
“Oh no, I couldn’t . . . I mean, this is my first time too . . . er . . . I mean, going to Sandringham.”
“Well then, we’re both beginners in the royal enclave.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not even sure whether I should be speaking to you. I suppose I’m lucky they let me keep my tongue and my nu— Yes, well, you know what I mean.”
Zoe giggled as the back of his neck turned slightly pink. “I won’t tell if you won’t,” she added, feeling much more comfortable.
Soon, her chauffeur picked up a mobile and dialed a number. “Arriving at York Cottage in five with HRH’s package.” He signaled left and drove through a pair of heavy wrought-iron gates. Zoe looked back as they closed silently behind the car.
“Almost there,” he said as he drove along a wide, smooth road. Swaths of late-afternoon mist covered the open parkland, making it impossible to see much. The car turned right and down a narrow lane lined with bushes on either side, then came to a stop.
“Here we are, Miss Harrison.” The chauffeur stepped out of the car and opened the door for her.
Zoe barely had time to take in the elegant Victorian building nestling among tall trees before Art emerged from the front door. “Zoe! How lovely to see you.” He kissed her warmly but slightly formally on both cheeks.
“Shall I take Miss Harrison’s luggage inside?” the chauffeur asked.
“No, I’ll take it, thank you,” said Art.
The chauffeur watched as the prince put a protective arm around Zoe Harrison’s shoulders and led her inside. He’d rather been expecting an arrogant, vain celebrity with delusions of grandeur. What he’d found instead was a very beautiful, sweet, and nervous young woman. He walked back to the car, climbed inside, then dialed a number.
“Package delivered to York Cottage.”
“Okay. He’s insisting on privacy, wants the area kept clear. We’ll cover from here. Report at twelve hundred hours tomorrow. Night, Warburton.”
“Night, sir.”
* * *
Forty-eight blissful hours later, they were standing in the entrance hall of York Cottage, with Zoe ready to leave for London.
“Zoe, it’s been wonderful.” Art kissed her gently on the lips. “It’s gone so quickly. When are you back in Norfolk?”
“I’ll be back on Tuesday. I’m in London until then.”
“I’ll call you, but I might be able to pop round to see you before then. I’m going back to town later tonight.”
“Okay. And thank you for a really lovely time.”
They walked out to the waiting Jaguar together. The chauffeur had already stowed her holdall in the boot, and he opened the door for her.
“Take care.” Art waved as the chauffeur started the engine. Zoe watched as he receded through the trees and the car eventually passed through the gates of the estate.
“I’m taking you to Welbeck Street. Is that correct, Miss Harrison?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Zoe stared unseeingly out of the window. The past forty-eight hours had left her emotionally and physically drained. The intensity of Art’s presence for so long had exhausted her. She closed her eyes and tried to doze. Thank God she had a couple of days off to recover, to think. Art had mentioned plots and plans he’d dreamed up to let them spend time together alone. He wanted to tell his family of their love, and then, perhaps, the country . . .
Zoe sighed heavily. Fine thoughts, but how could there ever be a future? The effect of the attention Jamie would have to deal with could be catastrophic.
What have I started?
“Are you too warm, Miss Harrison? Let me know and I’ll turn the heating down.”
“No, I’m fine, thank you,” she answered. “Did you have a nice weekend?”
“Yes, it was pleasant enough, thank you. Yourself?”
“Pleasant, yes.” She nodded in the gloom of the car.
The chauffeur remained silent for the rest of the journey. She was grateful that he’d sensed she was not in the mood for small talk.
They arrived in Welbeck Street at just after three o’clock. The chauffeur carried her holdall to the front door as she unlocked it.
“Thank you. What’s your name, by the way?”
“I’m Simon, Simon Warburton.”
“Night then, Simon, and thank you.”
“Night, Miss Harrison.”
Simon got back into the car and watched as Zoe shut the front door behind her. He radioed in that she had been delivered safely and headed back to the car pool to hand in the Jag and pick up his own car.
To say he had lied to Zoe when she’d asked him if he’d had a good weekend was an understatement. When he’d arrived back at his apartment from Norfolk on Friday afternoon, he’d spotted the letter from New Zealand immediately. As he’d read it, Simon had realized that somewhere deep inside he’d never really expected Sarah to come back to him. But the actuality of her telling him she wasn’t was no less devastating. She’d met someone else, she’d explained. She loved this new man—and New Zealand—was engaged to marry him and would stay there. She was sorry, of course, guilty . . . the usual platitudes, which read hollow to Simon’s devastated heart
.
Simon had cried very few times in his life. Friday night had been one of them. After waiting for her all this time, stalwartly resisting other offers, the bitterness he felt that she should leave it until just before she was due to return ate into him.
The one person he wanted to comfort him—his oldest friend—was either out or ignoring his calls. And to cap it all, he’d had to spend his Sunday chauffeuring a lovesick film star back to London.
What on earth was he doing anyway, being a bloody chauffeur, after all his years of special training? When they’d briefed him last week at Thames House for his “special assignment,” he had been told he was “helping out” as the Royalty Protection Branch were understaffed, but it really hadn’t washed with him. If he was minding one of the royals, that would have been different, but to draft him in just to chauffeur the mistress of the prince third in line to the throne seemed ridiculous. And the protocols on how to address the royals seemed endless, as if they weren’t simply human like everyone else, but an entirely different species.
Simon handed over the Jaguar, the driving of which had been the one pleasure of the past three days, and climbed back into his own car. He only hoped that he was now “relieved” of his special duty and could get back to the real meat of his job.
He drove up to North London, wishing fervently he was not arriving home to an empty apartment. On impulse, he hung a right at the crossing and drove past Joanna’s apartment. Seeing the lights were on, he parked his car outside, got out, and went to ring the bell.
He saw Joanna peer out of the window, and then open the front door.
“Hello,” she said.
He could sense she wasn’t pleased to see him. “Have I called at a bad time?”
“A bit, yes. I’m just writing up an article for tomorrow.” She hung about in the doorway, obviously reluctant to invite him in.
“Okay. I was only passing.”
“You look tired,” said Joanna, torn between asking him why he looked so miserable, and not wanting to let him in.
“I am. I’ve had a busy weekend.”
The Royal Secret Page 18