The Royal Secret

by Lucinda Riley

  “Join the club. Everything okay?”

  He nodded, not quite meeting her eye. “Yes, everything’s fine. Give me a ring and come round to supper sometime. We’ve got things to catch up on.”

  “Yes.” Joanna regarded him, knowing something was wrong and feeling horribly guilty at her refusal to invite him in. But she just couldn’t trust him any longer. “I will.”

  “Bye then.” Simon stuffed his hands into his pockets and walked back down the path.

  * * *

  Zoe was just relaxing in a hot bath when she heard the doorbell ring.

  “Damn.” She lay there hoping the caller would go away. It couldn’t be Art—he was still traveling back from Sandringham—and she’d spoken to Jamie at school earlier.

  The doorbell rang again. Giving up, she grabbed a towel and dripped down the stairs.

  “Who is it?” she called through the door.

  “Your darling brother, sweetheart.”

  “Come in! I’m going to get my robe, then I’ll be down.” Opening the door, she flew back up the stairs, returning five minutes later to the sitting room. “You look well, Marcus. Plus, you haven’t made yourself a drink yet, and you’ve been here all of five minutes.”

  “The love of a good woman, that’s what it is.”

  “I see, who is she?”

  “Tell you in a bit. How’s filming going?” he asked.

  “Well. I’m enjoying it.”

  “You look radiant, Zo.”

  “Do I?”

  “The love of a good man, maybe?” Marcus fished.

  “Ha! You know me, wedded to my art and my child.” Zoe smiled at him innocently. “Tell me, who is this woman who has put you on the path to sobriety?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, but yes, I really think she might be the ‘one.’ How do you fancy meeting her over dinner tomorrow night at the bistro round the corner from me? My treat. Then you can take a look at her. You know I’ve always trusted your opinion.”

  “Have you?” She frowned. “I don’t think so, but yes, of course I’ll come and meet her.”

  The sound of a mobile emanated from somewhere in the room. Zoe stood up and began searching for her handbag. She located it by the doorway and pulled the phone out. “Hello?”

  Marcus watched her face soften into a smile.

  “Yes, I did, thanks. Did you? Me too. My brother’s here, speak later? Okay, bye.”

  “And who was that?” Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Father Christmas?”

  “Just a friend.”

  “Yeah, sure.” He studied her as she tried to tuck away her dreamy expression with her mobile phone. “Come on, Zo, you’ve met someone, haven’t you?”

  “No . . . yes . . . oh God! Sort of.”

  “Who is he? Do I know him? Do you want to bring him along to supper tomorrow night?”

  “I wish,” she muttered. “It’s all a bit complicated.”

  “Married, is he?”

  “Yes, I suppose you could say that. Look, Marcus, I really can’t say any more. I’ll see you tomorrow night, at about eight, if that’s okay.”

  “Sure.” Marcus stood up. “Her name’s Joanna by the way.” He walked to the front door. “Be nice to her, won’t you, sis?”

  “Of course I will.” She kissed him. “Night night.”

  * * *

  Marcus returned home that evening, having stopped off to buy some cleaning supplies, determined to tackle the last of the bachelor grime for when Joanna came round next. Whistling as he went up the stairs to his apartment, he stopped in surprise as he realized his door was open. Before he could confront the would-be burglar, a man dressed in builder’s dungarees poked his head out of the door.

  “Are you the tenant?”

  “Yes. Who on earth are you? And who let you in?”

  “Your landlord—he’s a mate of mine. Just here to check on that damp for him.”

  “What damp?” Confused, Marcus pushed past the builder and went into his apartment.

  “ ’Ere, guv.” The builder indicated a stretch of wall running just above the architrave, covered in fresh plaster. “Your neighbors reported it on their side. It’s in your walls, I’m afraid.”

  “It’s Sunday night! And my landlord didn’t say you were coming.”

  “Sorry ’bout that. ’E must have forgot. Anyway, all sorted now.”

  “Er, good. Thanks,” he said as he watched the builder pack his tools into a kit box.

  “I’ll be off then.”

  “Right. Thanks.”

  “Night, guv.”

  Marcus watched, bemused, as the man walked past him, then left the apartment.

  18

  On Monday night, wearing her favorite dark green blouse over jeans, having trimmed the loose threads off it hastily before leaving the apartment, Joanna sat fidgeting next to Marcus in the low-lit bistro. And feeling more than a little apprehensive about meeting Zoe Harrison.

  “For God’s sake, Jo, it’ll be fine! Just don’t ask who Jamie’s father is. She’s paranoid about it and when she hears you’re a journalist, she’ll be uneasy anyway.” Marcus ordered a bottle of wine and lit a cigarette.

  “She might calm down when I tell her I’m only interested in what type of begonias she plants in her garden,” said Joanna morosely. “Really, I don’t know how much longer I can stand it at work.”

  Marcus wrapped an arm around Joanna’s shoulders. “You’ll be back in pole position sooner than you know it, especially if you uncover the great mystery of Sir Jim.”

  “I doubt it. My editor wouldn’t print it anyway.”

  “Ah, but there’ll always be some scandal rag that will, darling.” He kissed her. “Here’s Zoe.”

  Joanna recognized the woman walking toward them, and was relieved that she, too, was dressed casually, in a pair of jeans and a cashmere sweater that matched her eyes. Her blond hair was coiled in a topknot and her face was devoid of makeup—far from the glamorous star Joanna had expected.

  “Joanna, I’m Zoe Harrison.” She smiled as Joanna stood up. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

  The two women shook hands. Joanna, always aware of her height, realized she towered over the dainty Zoe.

  “Red or white, Zo?” Marcus asked as the waiter opened the wine.

  “Whichever you’re both having.” Zoe sat down opposite them. “So, where did you meet my brother?”

  “Er . . . I . . .”

  “Joanna is a journalist for the Morning Mail. She interviewed me about the memorial fund. By the way, when is that piece going in, darling?”

  “Oh, any time in the next week or so.” Joanna was watching Zoe’s face. A flicker of anxiety had just passed across it.

  Marcus handed Zoe and Joanna a glass of white wine each.

  “Cheers. Here’s to having the two most beautiful ladies in London all to myself.”

  “You’re such a smoothie, brother dear.” Zoe raised an eyebrow at Joanna, then took a sip of her wine. “What kind of stuff do you write about, Joanna?”

  “I’m on Pets and Gardens at the moment.” She noted Zoe’s relief at this.

  “But not for long,” Marcus cut in. “I’m hoping this woman will become successful enough to keep me in my old age.”

  “She’ll need to,” drawled Zoe. “Not exactly a candidate for the governor of the Bank of England are we, Marcus?”

  “Don’t mind my sister,” he said to Joanna, shooting Zoe a warning glance. “We spend most of our lives bickering.”

  “We certainly do,” said Zoe. “But it’s best you see Marcus as he really is, Joanna. We don’t want any shocks or surprises along the way, do we now?”

  “No, sis, we certainly don’t. Now, why don’t you shut up and we can all choose our food?”

  Joanna saw Zoe grinning at her from across the table and knew she was enjoying teasing her brother. She smiled back.

  After the waiter had taken their order, Marcus excused himself to run to the shop next door for a packet of cigarettes
.

  “I hear you’re up in Norfolk shooting Tess?” said Joanna.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you enjoying it?”

  “Very much. It’s a wonderful role.” Zoe’s face lit up. “I just hope I can do it justice.”

  “I’m sure you will. It’s great to see an English actress in the role,” Joanna said. “I’ve always loved Hardy’s books, especially Far from the Madding Crowd. I studied it for O level and they made us watch the video of the film every time it was too wet to play netball. Don’t they say that every man is either a Gabriel Oak or a Sergeant Troy? I wanted to be Julie Christie desperately, so I could kiss Terence Stamp in his soldier’s uniform!”

  “So did I!” Zoe giggled. “There’s something about a man in uniform, isn’t there?”

  “Maybe it was all those shiny buttons.”

  “No, it was definitely the sideburns that nailed me,” said Zoe with a grin. “God, you think back to some of the people you fancied then and shudder. Simon Le Bon was another one I used to dream of at night.”

  “At least he was good-looking. No, mine was much worse.”

  “Who?” Zoe asked. “Go on.”

  “Boy George from Culture Club.” Joanna blushed and looked down.

  “But he’s—”

  “I know!”

  When Marcus came back in with his cigarettes, the two women were giggling together.

  “Was my sister telling you some hilarious tidbit from my infancy?”

  “Why is it that men immediately presume we are talking about them?” Zoe shot back.

  “Because they have an inflated sense of their own importance.”

  “Don’t they just?”

  Both women rolled their eyes and laughed.

  “Could you both control yourselves enough to begin the starter?” Marcus said sulkily as the waiter arrived at their table.

  Two bottles of wine later, Marcus was feeling like the odd one out. Although it pleased him to see that Zoe and Joanna had hit it off, he felt like he was gate-crashing a girls’ night out as they shared stories from their teenage pasts that he really didn’t think were that funny. Besides, it wasn’t getting them anywhere in terms of what he needed to know. Zoe was in full flight about a prank at boarding school, involving a hated teacher and a Durex full of water.

  “Thanks, Marcus,” Joanna said as he poured more wine into her glass.

  “That’s okay, ma’am. I aim to please,” he muttered.

  “Marcus, stop sulking!” Zoe tapped her nose as she leaned across the table to Joanna. “A tip from one who knows: if his lips pucker and he goes slightly cross-eyed, it’s a sign he’s throwing a moody.”

  Joanna winked. “Message received and understood.”

  “So, brother of mine, how’s the memorial fund going?” Zoe asked him.

  “Oh, you know, plodding along. I’m arranging the launch in the foyer of the National Theatre in a couple of weeks’ time and getting an audition panel together at the moment. I thought it should consist of one head of a drama school, one director, one well-known actor, and one actress. I was wondering if you wanted to be the actress, Zo, seeing as it’s Sir Jim’s fund.”

  “I’d definitely like that. Lots of gorgeous eighteen-year-old males who I’ll have to wine and dine to make sure they’re of the right caliber . . .”

  “Can I have the ones you don’t want?”

  “Joanna!” cried Marcus.

  “A sort of alternative Miss World,” added Zoe.

  “You should have them audition in their swimming trunks,” Joanna hooted.

  “While reciting a speech from Henry V . . .”

  Marcus shook his head in despair as the two women giggled hysterically.

  “Sorry, Marcus,” Zoe said as she wiped her eyes on her napkin. “Seriously, I’d be honored to be on the panel. Oh, speaking of actors, I had a fascinating conversation with William Fielding, who’s playing my father in Tess. Apparently he knew James way back when.”

  “Really?” Marcus replied casually, his ears pricking up.

  “Yes.” Zoe took a gulp of her wine. “He told me some outrageous yarn about James not being ‘James’ at all when he first met him. Apparently he was Irish, from Cork, and called Michael . . . O’Connell, I think the surname was. He was doing some music-hall show at the Hackney Empire and suddenly disappeared out of the blue. Oh, and William also mentioned something about letters that were written, some kind of tryst James was having with a woman.”

  Joanna listened in amazement. Here was absolute confirmation of her theory on the two men being one and the same. Excitement crackled up her spine.

  “How would he know about the letters?” asked Marcus as calmly as he could.

  “Because he was Michael O’Connell’s messenger. He had to stand in front of Swan and Edgar waiting for someone called Rose.” Zoe rolled her eyes. “I ask you, William’s a dear old boy, but it all sounds rather far-fetched to me.”

  Joanna’s heart was starting to thump against her chest but she kept silent, praying Marcus would ask the right questions.

  “It might be true, Zo.”

  “Some of it, maybe. William obviously did know him years ago, but I think the passage of time has clouded his memory and maybe he’s got James confused with someone else. Although, admittedly, he seemed very definite about the details.”

  “You’ve never heard anything from your grandfather about this?” said Joanna, unable to stop herself from asking.

  “Never.” Zoe shook her head. “And to be honest, if there was a story to tell, I’m sure James would have told me before he died. We kept few secrets from each other. Granted, toward the end when the morphine was addling his brain, he did mutter on about Ireland, something about a house in a place . . .” Zoe searched her memory. “I can’t remember the name exactly but I think it began with an ‘R.’ ”

  “I’ve read some of your grandfather’s biographies. I’m surprised nothing was mentioned in there,” Joanna remarked.

  “I know. That’s why I find it all so hard to believe. William said that James eventually told him it was better if they went their separate ways and broke off contact.”

  “Wow. Surely it would be worth investigating?” said Marcus.

  “Oh, I will, when I have time. That attic at Haycroft House needs sorting out anyway. When I’ve finished filming, I’ll go and spend a weekend there and see what I turn up.”

  “Unless you want me to do it, Zo.”

  “Marcus”—Zoe raised an eyebrow at him—“I can hardly see you trawling through boxes of dusty old letters and newspaper cuttings. You’d get fed up after the first one and dump the lot on a bonfire.”

  “You’re right there.” Joanna rolled her eyes. “He went to the pub and left me to it. I reckon you’d need a good week or more to go through everything. I managed a couple of boxes.”

  “You were looking through James’s stuff? What were you hoping to find, exactly?” Zoe asked with a worried frown.

  “Oh, just a couple of photos of Sir James as a young actor to go with the memorial fund article,” Joanna answered hastily, realizing in that moment that Zoe hadn’t given Marcus express permission for the recent treasure hunt.

  “Listen, girls, I had an idea the other day,” Marcus piped up, clearly wanting to move the conversation along.

  “What?” Zoe asked suspiciously.

  “Well, to be truthful, it was Joanna’s,” Marcus corrected himself. “When we were down there a couple of weeks ago, Joanna came up with the idea of either auctioning some of the stuff to raise funds for the memorial scholarship, or handing it over to the Theatre Museum. But that means the whole lot will have to be sifted through and cataloged.”

  Zoe hesitated. “I’m not sure whether I want to let it go.”

  “It’s all rotting away up there, Zoe, and if you don’t do something with it soon, there’ll be nothing worth holding on to anyway.”

  “I’ll think about it. So, you didn’t discover anything signifi
cant while you were looking through the stuff?”

  “Sadly, no. The most I did was expose the secrets of Dorset pond life,” Joanna muttered.

  “So, the actor you were talking about was William Fielding?” confirmed Marcus.

  “And the lady whom he met was definitely called Rose?” added Joanna quickly.

  “Yes and yes.” Zoe looked at her watch. “Sorry to spoil the party, chaps, but I need my beauty sleep. I’m back off to Norfolk tomorrow.” She stood up. “The food was fab, and the company even better.”

  “Do you fancy coming along with me to the National Theatre tomorrow?” Marcus asked her. “I’m meeting the events organizer to discuss the details of the launch at two thirty.”

  “I’d love to, but I’ll be in Norfolk filming by then. Sorry, Marcus,” Zoe replied, then turned to Joanna. “You and I must set a shopping date. I’ll take you to that little boutique I mentioned.”

  “I’d love it, thanks.”

  “Great.” Zoe picked up her jacket from the chair and put it on. “How about next Saturday? Oh, except Jamie’s home for an exeat weekend. I tell you what, why don’t you and Marcus come to my house on Saturday morning? Marcus can babysit while you and I go out.”

  “Hold on a minute . . . I—”

  “You owe me, Marcus.” Zoe kissed him on the cheek. “Night, Joanna.” She waved and disappeared out of the bistro.

  “Well, you certainly scored a hit with my sis. I’ve rarely seen her so relaxed,” Marcus said, taking Joanna’s hand. “Come on, let’s go back to my place. We can have a brandy and discuss what Zoe said.”

  They left the bistro and walked the five minutes back to Marcus’s apartment. He lit a posh candle he’d splurged on and ushered Joanna to sit on the sofa. She was still shell-shocked from what Zoe had said, and let Marcus pour her a brandy before he settled down next to her.

  “So, it seems you were right about Michael O’Connell and Sir Jim being the same person,” Marcus mused.

  “Yes.”

  “William Fielding knew James all those years ago, under a different name, leading a different life, and, up until his death, never said a word. That’s loyalty for you.”

  “It might also have been fear,” added Joanna. “If he was delivering and receiving letters for James, and those letters contained sensitive information, it was surely imperative he keep his mouth shut? He may well have been paid to keep quiet. Or blackmailed, maybe.”