“If you want to come downstairs, I’ve shut all the curtains. Nobody will see you.”
Zoe shook her head. “Not just yet, thanks. I’ll calm down a little first.”
“Then I’ll bring you some tea. Milky, no sugar, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” There was a glimmer of a smile on her lips. “Thanks, Simon.”
He went downstairs to the kitchen, switched on the kettle, and felt like the shit he was for comforting a woman who had almost certainly been shopped by a mole—listening in to bugs he’d placed—from his own organization. An organization that was meant not only to uphold the security of Great Britain, but also to protect those who needed it. He called in to the palace security office. “It’s Warburton. I’m at Welbeck Street and the place is besieged. What is the directive?”
“At present, none. Stay where you are.”
“Really? Understandably, Miss Harrison’s very distressed. Is there a more secure address being arranged for her?”
“Not that I know of.”
“It might be better if she was at the palace.”
“That’s not possible.”
“I see. What about her son? She’s obviously very concerned about the effect this will have on him. He’s at boarding school in Berkshire.”
“Then she’d better talk to the headmaster, see what he can arrange in terms of extra security. Is that all?”
Simon took a breath, trying to control his anger. “Yes, thanks.” He then made a call to Jamie’s school, and mounted the stairs with two mugs of tea and a plate of cookies.
“Did you speak to them?” she asked, her eyes hopeful.
“Yes.” Simon handed Zoe a mug, then knelt down next to her. “Shortbread?”
“Thanks. What did they say?”
“That we’re to hold tight here. They’re arranging something at the moment. Oh, and the prince sends his love,” he lied. “He’ll call you later.”
Zoe’s face lit up with relief. “And Jamie?”
“I’ve spoken to the headmaster and they’re aware of the situation. The media isn’t down there yet, but they’ll take extra precautions as necessary. The headmaster said Jamie’s fine. Apparently, they don’t have that ‘rag,’ as he put it, in the school anyway.”
“Thank goodness.” She took a tiny bite of the cookie. “What on earth am I going to say to him? How do I explain all this?”
“Give Jamie a little more credit, Zoe. He’s a bright boy and remember, he’s grown up in the spotlight, what with your grandfather and you. He’ll cope.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. Was it Joanna who leaked the story, do you think?” she asked slowly.
“No, I’m pretty sure she didn’t, though when I first saw the news, she happened to be at my apartment, and I . . . jumped to conclusions too fast.”
“It is a coincidence.”
“Yes, but I don’t believe it was her. And nor should you,” Simon said firmly. “I’ve known her forever, and she’s a loyal friend. Really, Zoe.”
“She was the only one that knew, Simon. Who else could it have been?”
“I have no idea,” Simon lied again. “Sadly, with this kind of thing, walls tend to have ears.” Literally, he thought.
“So we’re stuck here until they tell us what to do.”
“Looks like it, yes.”
She sipped her tea, then looked up at him and smiled. “Simon?”
“Yes, Zoe?”
“I’m awfully glad you’re here.”
24
As dusk fell on Welbeck Street, there was still no word for either of them from the prince or the palace. When Marcus finally called, Zoe had calmed down marginally. As he was at Haycroft House, sorting through the boxes in the attic, he hadn’t heard the news until he’d gone to the pub and been accosted by the locals wanting to know details.
“Nicely done, netting a royal, Zo,” he’d said, trying to cheer her up. “I’ll be on my way back to London later tonight, so if you need me, you know where I am. Stay cool, and ignore what the tossers in the media say, it’ll blow over. Love you, sis.”
“Thanks, Marcus.”
Zoe had hung up, feeling comforted by Marcus’s support. She decided to come out of hiding in the attic and went downstairs to the shrouded drawing room, still holding on to Jamie’s teddy.
Simon prowled around the house for want of anything better to do, methodically checking for cracks in the curtains and signs of chisels under sash windows. He also surreptitiously removed the bugs he’d placed and stuffed them in a tissue box in his bedroom. He didn’t want anyone at HQ getting off on Zoe’s distress. He simply wished that they’d hurry up and decide what they were going to do with Zoe, as the two of them were currently marooned in the house until they did. He crept down the hall, hearing the voices buzzing beyond the front door. Venturing into the drawing room, he saw Zoe was still sitting paralyzed on the sofa.
“Cup of tea? Coffee? Something stronger?” he suggested.
Zoe looked up and shook her head. “Thanks, but I’m feeling a bit queasy. What time is it?”
“Ten to five.”
“I must go and call Jamie. I always do at tea time on a Sunday.” She bit her lip. “What on earth do I say?”
“Speak to the headmaster first, take his advice. If Jamie knows nothing at the moment, then maybe it’s best it stays that way.”
“Yes, you’re right. Thanks, Simon.” She picked her mobile off the floor and dialed the school’s number.
Simon went to the kitchen to make himself his umpteenth cup of tea, pondering why the prince had still not rung Zoe. If he professed to love her, then surely a brief but reassuring chat would be uppermost in his mind? Surely it wasn’t possible that he and the palace would not come to Zoe’s rescue, simply leave her here to face the music alone?
“He sounds fine. He obviously knows nothing.” Zoe’s relieved voice broke into his thoughts.
Simon turned and smiled at her. “Good.”
“The headmaster said there are a couple of journalists hanging about outside the school gates, but he’s informed the local constabulary and they’re keeping an eye out. Jamie wanted to know what sort of a week I’d had and I said it had just been normal.” Zoe gave a weak laugh. “Of course, I’m not stupid enough to think it’ll be long before he does hear about it . . . You really think it best not to say anything?”
“For now, yes. Ignorance is bliss, especially when you’re ten. He’s safe there and maybe if there’s no further ammunition, the whole thing will blow over.”
Zoe sat down at the kitchen table and rested her head on her arms. “Ring, Art, please ring.”
Simon patted her shoulder gently. “He will, Zoe, you’ll see.”
At eight o’clock that evening, Simon set up the portable TV from Jamie’s room in Zoe’s bedroom. He’d tried to tempt her to eat something, but she’d refused. She sat, slumped on the bed, her face as pale as the moonlight shining through the bay window. He drew the curtains just in case someone below had a ladder.
“Look, why don’t you call Art? You have his mobile number, don’t you?”
“Don’t you think I already have?” Zoe rounded on him. “Like, a hundred times so far today? It goes straight to voicemail.”
“Okay, sorry.”
“So am I. None of this is your fault and I don’t want to take it out on you.”
“You’re not,” said Simon. “And if you did, it’s understandable.”
Zoe stood up and began to pace the room, while Simon plugged the aerial socket in, then switched the television on. The screen flickered into life, and sound blared out.
“. . . that Prince Arthur, Duke of York and third in line to the throne, has a new lady love. Zoe Harrison, actress and granddaughter of the late Sir James Harrison, was seen walking with the prince in the grounds of a friend’s stately home in Hampshire.”
Zoe and Simon looked on in silence as the ITV reporter spoke from in front of her Welbeck Street house. Behind him, they could
see a horde of photographers overflowing onto the pavement and all the way to the other side of the street. Police were ushering cars through the bottleneck and trying to control the crowd.
“Miss Harrison arrived at her house in London early this morning and has so far avoided speaking to the media camped on her doorstep. If Miss Harrison is romantically involved with the duke, it would cause a dilemma for the palace. Miss Harrison is an unmarried mother, with a young son of ten. She has never revealed who the father is. Whether the palace will give its blessing to such a controversial relationship remains to be seen. A spokesman for Buckingham Palace issued a short statement this morning, confirming the duke and Miss Harrison were together in Hampshire attending a house party, but that their relationship was no more than that of good friends.”
Simon scanned Zoe’s face for a reaction. There was none. Zoe’s eyes were glassy.
“Zoe, I . . .”
“I should have known how it would be,” she said faintly as she walked to the bedroom door. “I’ve been there before.”
* * *
The following morning, having still had no instructions, Simon called in yet again to the security office.
“Any directive?”
“None at present. Stay where you are.”
“Miss Harrison has to go out today, to a studio in London to do some post-syncing. How exactly do I extricate her without causing a riot in a central London street?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Use the years of training that the British government paid for. Goodbye, Warburton.”
“Damn you!” Simon swore into the receiver, knowing it was now patently obvious that the palace had no intention of supporting Zoe.
“Who was that?” Zoe stood at the kitchen door.
“My boss.”
“What did he say?”
Simon took a deep breath. It was pointless lying to her. “Nothing. We’re to stay where we are.”
“I see. So, we’re on our own?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“Fine.” She turned in the doorway. “I’m going to write a letter to Art.” Zoe walked into the study and pulled open one of the small drawers of her grandfather’s fine antique desk, searching for his beautiful ink pen. Finding it, she pulled off the top and scrawled on an old electricity bill to test it. The pen was empty. She rifled through the drawers looking for a cartridge, pulling bills out and dropping them onto the floor as she did so. After finally finding a cartridge, she knelt down to gather up the bills and stuff them back into the drawer. And then caught the name of the company on the top of one of them.
Regan Private Investigation Services Ltd.
Final Payment Due.
Total = £8,600
James had scrawled Paid across it, and the date 10/19/95 underneath it. Zoe chewed her lip, wondering why on earth her grandfather would have needed to hire the services of a private detective agency, especially so near to the end of his life. From the amount he’d paid, they’d done some kind of major investigating.
“You okay?”
She jumped at the sound of Simon’s voice. He stood in the doorway, concern on his face.
“Yes, fine.” She stuffed the bill back into the drawer and closed it.
“What time do you need to be at the studio?”
“Two o’clock.”
“Right. Then we should leave around one. I’m going to go out now. I want to move the car, position it better for a hasty getaway.”
“Am I going to have to face that barrage out there?”
“Not if you’re prepared to wear a silly hat and do some breaking and entering.” He grinned at her. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
Zoe returned her thoughts to her letter, trying to push aside her fear and anger.
Dearest Art, she wrote. Firstly, I just want to say that I understand the dreadful position this whole situation has put you in. I feel—
Zoe’s mobile rang, breaking her flow.
“Yes? Oh, hello, Michelle.” She listened while her agent spoke. “No, I don’t want to go on GMTV, or give an interview to the Mail, the Express, the Times, or the bloody Toytown Gazette! I’m sorry they’re hassling you . . . What can I say apart from the fact I have nothing to say? No comment . . . All right. I will. Bye.” Zoe ground her teeth. The mobile rang again. “What?!” she barked.
“It’s me.”
“Art!” She gave a small sob of relief. “Oh God, I thought you’d never call!”
“I’m sorry, darling. All hell’s let loose here, as you can imagine.”
“It’s not exactly comfortable at this end either.”
“No. I’m so sorry, Zoe. Look, we need to talk.”
“Where?”
“Where indeed. Is Warburton there with you?”
“Yes, I mean, not at this minute. He’s gone out to move the car. It’s like some kind of siege here. I feel like a caged animal.” She willed herself not to cry down the line to him.
“It must be ghastly for you, darling. Really, I completely understand. What about your grandfather’s house in Dorset? Could you slip out and get there by tonight?”
“Probably. Could you?”
“I can certainly do my best. I’ll try and be there around eight.”
“Please, please try.”
“Of course. And just try to remember I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“I have to go. I’ll see you later. Bye, darling.”
“Bye.”
Zoe felt all her tension and recent resolve to end the relationship flood away. Just hearing his voice had given her courage. She looked at the letter she had begun and tore it up. He still loved her . . . Maybe there was a way . . .
The front door opened and Zoe heard a barrage of voices hurling questions at Simon. The clamor receded as he slammed the door behind him, and she poked her head out into the hall.
“They’re like a pack of baying wolves. No doubt I’ll now end up on the front page of some rag, being suggested as Jamie’s father . . . ,” he said.
Zoe’s face darkened. “I hope not.”
“Sorry, Zoe, that was insensitive of me.”
“But accurate,” she said wryly.
“You look better,” said Simon as he studied her. “Get some things off your chest?”
“Art rang. He suggested I go down to my grandfather’s house in Dorset tonight. He’s going to try and join me there later. So we absolutely have to get out of this house with no one spotting us. I’m going to go upstairs and take a shower.”
“Fine. But travel light. And don’t worry, I’ve cased the joint and have a cunning plan.” Simon smiled and tapped his nose.
“Okay.” She gave a weak laugh and walked up the stairs. When Simon heard the bathroom door lock, he went into the study and opened the drawer he’d seen Zoe close earlier. He sifted through its contents as quickly as he could. Finding the invoice that Zoe had been so engrossed in, he folded it up and stuck it in his suit pocket. Sliding the drawer shut, Simon left the room and headed up the stairs.
They met in the tiny rear courtyard ten minutes later. Simon suppressed a smile at the outfit Zoe had chosen: black jeans, black turtleneck sweater, and a bucket hat pulled down low over her blond head.
“Okay. I’m going to give you a leg up over that wall,” he said. “There’s a ledge about four feet down on the other side that you can step onto. Then we go over the next wall, and then the next. The antique furniture shop four doors down has a back door. We break in if we have to, find our way onto the shop floor, and walk out the other side as if we’re customers.”
“Won’t the back door be alarmed?”
“Bound to be, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Right. Let’s go.”
Slowly, they made their way over the walls separating the back of each building along the street. Simon was glad that Zoe was young and fit, and with his help, they made short work of the six-foot walls. Finally, they stood in front of a grille
d rear door. A small red light was flashing above it.
“Damn.” Simon inspected the door. “It’s deadlocked from the inside.” He walked to the small window next to it, which also had a grille over it. Taking a pair of wire cutters from his pocket, Simon worked away until the bottom part of the grille broke free, revealing an old sash window. There was a gap of half an inch between the window and the frame.
“I don’t know whether this window is alarmed, so get ready to leg it back over the wall if I set it off,” he warned her.
Zoe stood in an agony of suspense as Simon turned red from exertion. Finally, the window gave a small groan of assent and slid up. The alarm did not go off.
Simon tutted and beckoned her over. “People really should be more careful. No wonder there are so many burglaries. Hop in.” He indicated Zoe should squeeze through the one-and-a-half-foot gap and open it wider from the inside to let him through. Sixty seconds later, both she and Simon were standing on the other side in a storeroom full of old, elegant chairs and mahogany tables.
“Sunglasses on,” he ordered.
Zoe pulled a pair of huge black sunglasses out of her pocket and put them on.
“How do I look?” she asked with a grin.
“Like an adorable ninja ant,” he whispered. “Now, follow me.”
He led her through the storeroom and quietly opened the door at the other end. Checking beyond it, he beckoned her to him and indicated a flight of stairs beyond the door.
“Okay, this must take us up into the showroom,” he whispered. “Nearly there now.”
Simon mounted the stairs with Zoe behind him. He turned the handle of the door at the top and peeped inside. He nodded to her, opened it further, and crept through it, signaling for Zoe to do the same. Once inside, Simon headed for a long, ornate chaise longue in the deserted showroom and Zoe followed him. Eventually, an aging man appeared from another door around the corner.
“My apologies, sir, I didn’t hear the front bell ring.”
“Not to worry. Er, my wife and I were interested in this. Can you tell me a little bit about it?”
Five minutes later, after promising to come back with their sitting-room measurements, Zoe and Simon stepped into the bright sunshine of an unusually springlike February day.
The Royal Secret Page 26