The Royal Secret

by Lucinda Riley

“No clue, mate, we’re just trying to find my girlf—” He broke off, a lump building in his throat. She was missing and here was he, sitting on his backside doing nothing . . . “Who is this Deasy woman? Where does she live?”

  “About half a mile down, opposite the big house in the estuary. A pink cottage that you can’t miss,” said Margaret.

  “Right.” Marcus drained his whiskey and made for the door.

  “You’re not going out there, are ye?” said the old man. “ ’Tis dangerous down there on nights like this.”

  Marcus ignored him and stepped out into the howling wind. He braced himself to walk against it, the rain soaking him through after only a few steps. The whiskey and anxiety burned inside him, and he broke into a run, his heart pounding. The streetlights reflected off the puddles in the uneven road, and to his left he saw the black water of the estuary rising up, the waves breaking against the seawall.

  A scream pierced the night, making him freeze. In the distance he saw a dark house standing alone in the estuary. The screaming seemed to be coming from there. As he drew closer, he stopped to catch his breath and listened. The wind had suddenly died, and there was silence. Running again, and approaching the house, he heard a loud splash and looked down into the water next to him. He could see two figures in the moonlight, and recognized Joanna’s dark hair, now wet like a seal’s coat. The second figure in the water was fast gaining on her.

  Terror gripped his whole body. “JOANNA!” Marcus ran round to the spot where he could jump in closest to them and launched himself into the sea. He swam toward them, barely feeling the freezing water, and watched as the second figure grabbed Joanna from behind and pushed her under. Marcus recognized Ian immediately. “Let her go!” he screamed as he reached him.

  Ian kept a firm grip on her body, which had stopped resisting. He began to laugh. “Thought I’d dealt with you in London, mate.”

  With a howl of anger, Marcus jumped onto him, both of them going under, a tangle of limbs as they fought. Marcus was half-blind, the salt water stinging his eyes as he tried to get a grip on Ian’s jacket and get in a kick, when he saw a flash of steel and reeled back. He heard two shots echo out over the water and felt excruciating pain reverberate in his abdomen.

  He tried to force his limbs to fight against it, but could no longer marshal the strength. He blinked and looked up at Ian’s triumphant face as he felt himself fall back into the water like a stone.

  * * *

  Simon swung the car to a halt, and, hearing the gunshots ring out in the now-silent night, followed the sound to the water’s edge. Shining his flashlight on the water, he saw two figures. Jumping in, Simon swam as fast as he could across to them.

  “Don’t come any nearer, Warburton. I’ve got a gun and I’ll blast you where you stand.”

  “Ian, for Christ’s sake! What are you doing? Who just got hurt?” Simon swept the flashlight beam around him and saw a body resting against the estuary steps, and another floating faceup in the water.

  “Your friend led me straight to it, just like I knew she would.”

  “Where is she?”

  Ian nodded to the steps. “Bloody awful swimmer,” he chuckled. “But I got it. Reckon I’ll have my old job back next week, don’t you? This’ll show them I can still cut it, won’t it?”

  “Course it will.” Simon nodded, wading forward and seeing the gun in Ian’s trembling hands aimed directly at him.

  “Sorry, Warburton, can’t have you stealing—”

  Simon raised his fist and punched Ian on his nose, hearing a satisfying crunch and sending him backward into the water, the gun flying out of his hand. Swiftly, Simon reached for it and two further gunshots rang out in the night air. A few seconds later, Ian disappeared beneath the waves for the last time.

  Simon waded over to Joanna and saw that the tide had carried her onto a set of semisubmerged steps, which were supporting her body. He carried her up to safety and checked her pulse. It was weak, but it was there.

  His training automatically kicked in and he pinched her nostrils closed with his fingers as he administered several breaths mouth-to-mouth, before commencing CPR.

  “Breathe, for God’s sake! Breathe!” he mumbled, as he pumped his flattened palms rhythmically against her chest.

  Eventually, a lungful of water spewed from Joanna’s mouth. She coughed and choked, and Simon thought he had never heard such a beautiful sound.

  “You’re going to be fine, sweetheart,” he said soothingly as she began to shiver uncontrollably.

  “Thanks,” she mouthed, and gave him a weak smile.

  “Stay there and rest. Someone else needs help,” he said as he stood up and waded back in to collect the other body.

  “Marcus—Jesus Christ!” Dragging him to the steps, Simon hauled him out. Marcus’s face was white in the moonlight, and a slick dark liquid was seeping out of his mouth. His pulse was weaker than Joanna’s, but he was still alive. Once again Simon began resuscitation, holding out little hope. Yet Marcus finally stirred and his eyes flickered open.

  “So this is what it’s like to get shot,” he whispered. “Joanna?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Simon looked up and saw Joanna had appeared beside them. She slumped down next to Marcus, the few steps she’d taken exhausting her.

  “I’m running to the car to call for help. Stay with him . . . keep talking to him . . .” Simon disappeared into the darkness.

  “Marcus, it’s all right,” she said softly.

  “Tried to save you . . .” Marcus coughed and groaned as more blood trickled from his lips.

  “I know. And you did. Thank you, Marcus, but try not to talk.”

  “So-sorry for everything. I . . . love you.”

  Marcus smiled up at her, before his eyes closed once more.

  “And I love you too,” she whispered. Then she wrapped her arms around him and sobbed into his shoulder.

  CHECK

  When the king is under threat of capture on the opponent’s next turn

  34

  North Yorkshire, April 1996

  Joanna sat stiffly on the coarse moorland grass. She looked up at the Yorkshire sky and knew she had, at best, half an hour before the blue above gave way to the gray clouds coming in from the west. She moved gingerly, trying to find a more comfortable position to sit in. It was still painful to breathe or move much—the X-rays had revealed she had cracked two ribs on her left-hand side in her fall down the stairs. At least the huge purple bruises that had covered her body had faded, and the doctor had assured her that as long as she rested for a while, she would make a full recovery. Joanna felt a sick lurch in her stomach at the thought. She couldn’t ever imagine recovering fully.

  Images of the night she had so very nearly lost her life assailed her day and night—memories that had come filtering back in no particular order and that haunted her dreams. It was only in the last couple of days she’d had the mental strength to begin to contemplate what had happened and try to put the facts together.

  The few hours after Simon had saved her life were still a blur. The paramedics had arrived and given her a large pain-dulling injection, which had knocked her out on the drive to the hospital. There were vague memories of X-ray machines, faces of strangers peering down at her, asking if this or that hurt, the prick of a needle as a drip was inserted into her arm. And then finally, when they had left her alone, a blissful sleep.

  And then, waking up disoriented the next morning, hardly able to believe she was still alive . . . And—despite the pain she was in—feeling euphoric that she was, until Simon appeared by her bedside, looking grave. And she’d known there was worse to come . . .

  “Hi, Jo, how are you?”

  “I’ve been better,” she’d quipped, studying his face for a glimmer of a smile in return.

  “Yes. Look, this whole thing . . . well, it’s not for now. We’ll discuss it when you’re stronger. I’m just so very sorry you ever got involved. And that I didn’t do en
ough to protect you.”

  Joanna had seen Simon’s hands clenching and unclenching. A sign of agitation she knew from years back, when he had bad news to break.

  “What is it, Simon?” she asked him. “Spit it out.”

  Simon cleared his throat and looked away. “Jo, I need to . . . I need to tell you something difficult.”

  Joanna remembered wondering if anything could be more “difficult” at this moment. “Go on then, shoot.”

  “I don’t know how much you remember from last night . . .”

  “I don’t know either. Just say it, Simon,” she’d urged him.

  “Okay, okay. Do you remember Marcus being there?”

  “I . . . vaguely,” Joanna had replied. And then a snapshot of him lying on the ground, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. “Oh God . . .” She’d looked up at Simon’s expression as he shook his head and put his hand over hers.

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Jo. He didn’t make it.”

  Simon had continued to tell her of the fatal internal injuries Marcus had sustained, that he’d been pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital, but she wasn’t listening.

  “I love you . . . ,” he’d said to her as he’d closed his eyes, perhaps for the final time. A small tear made its way from the corner of one of her eyes.

  JOANNA!

  “Oh my God,” she’d muttered, as she realized the voice she’d heard when she’d been wading across the estuary had been Marcus’s. He’d been there before Simon, she was sure of it. She hadn’t seen who it was who had pulled her attacker off her just before she’d lost consciousness . . . but suddenly it became clear.

  “He saved my life,” she’d whispered.

  “He did, yes.”

  Joanna had closed her eyes, thinking that perhaps, if she didn’t move at all, the whole nightmare would go away. But it never would, and nor would Marcus ever be back to irritate her, excite her, and love her because he was dead, gone . . . And now she could never thank him for what he’d done.

  The following morning, Joanna had been stretchered onto an RAF plane at Cork Airport and then taken to Guy’s Hospital in London. During the flight, Simon had apologized for having to prep her on their cover story of what had happened in Ireland, but she’d hardly heard him.

  Zoe had arrived beside her bed the following day, and put her small hand in Joanna’s. Joanna had looked up and met her blue eyes, so like Marcus’s, and glassy with grief.

  “I can’t believe he’s gone,” Zoe’d whispered. Then she’d reached for Joanna and the two women had held each other and wept.

  “Simon said you were on holiday when it happened,” Zoe had said as she composed herself.

  “Yes.” Simon had schooled her to say that it had been an accident—duck hunters in the estuary, but they hadn’t caught the shooter. She had been knocked into the water and almost drowned in the treacherous waves, and had eventually managed to call Simon, who had organized an RAF jet to bring them back to England. Joanna could still barely fathom how anyone would believe it, but then, who would believe the truth anyway?

  “He really loved you, Jo,” Zoe had said quietly. “He could be a selfish piece of work, as you know, but I really think that he was trying to change. And you helped him do it.”

  Joanna had sat silently, numb from shock and grief, not wanting to add anything further to the web of lies that seemed so tightly spun and inescapable. It felt like a physical pressure on her chest and she doubted it’d ever be loosened.

  Joanna had not attended Marcus’s funeral, which had taken place a few days later. Simon had told her it was best she kept a low profile. She’d been released from hospital and driven up to Yorkshire to stay with her parents. Her mother had fed her endless homemade soups, helped her wash and dress, and generally enjoyed nurturing her like she was a child once more.

  Zoe had called her at home to tell her the funeral had been a small affair, with just family and a few friends. He’d been buried in the family plot in Dorset, next to James, his grandfather.

  Over a month had now passed since that terrible night. But the horror of it was not abating in her memory. She sighed. Maybe tomorrow some of her questions would be answered. Simon had called her to say he was coming up to stay with his parents for a few days and would pop in to see her. He’d been away on leave, apparently, which was why he hadn’t been up to Yorkshire before.

  Joanna gazed at the hundreds of white dots on the hillside. It was lambing season and the hillside resembled an overcrowded, woolly crèche.

  “The circle of life,” Joanna murmured, swallowing the lump in her throat—just now she was prone to crying over the tiniest thing. “Marcus didn’t complete his because of me . . . ,” she muttered, gulping back the tears. She’d been unable to even begin to process his death, the fact he’d made the ultimate sacrifice for her haunting her day and night. And just how wrong she’d been when she’d called him a coward the last time she’d seen him. It had turned out he’d been anything but . . .

  “Jo! How are you?” A tanned and healthy-looking Simon walked into the farmhouse kitchen.

  “Okay.” She shrugged as Simon kissed her on both cheeks.

  “Good. And you, Mrs. Haslam?”

  “Same as always, Simon, love. Nothing much changes up here, as you know.” Laura, Joanna’s mother, smiled at him, kettle in hand. “Tea? Coffee? A slice of cake?”

  “Later maybe, thanks, Mrs. Haslam. How about we go out for a pub lunch, Jo?”

  “I’d prefer to stay home, if you don’t mind.”

  “Go on, love,” her mother encouraged her, shooting Simon an anxious glance. “You haven’t been out since you got here.”

  “Mum, I’ve been out for walks every afternoon.”

  “You know what I mean, Jo. Places with people, not sheep. Now go on with you and have a nice time.”

  “Means I can have a foaming pint of John Smith’s as well. It doesn’t taste the same in London,” Simon said as Joanna stood up and reluctantly went to get her jacket from the boot room. “How is she?” he asked Laura, lowering his voice.

  “Her body’s healing, but . . . I’ve never known her so quiet. This whole business with that poor young man of hers has really knocked the stuffing out of her.”

  “I’m sure. Well, I’ll do my best to cheer her up.”

  They drove across the moors to Haworth and opted for the Black Bull, an old haunt of theirs when they’d been teenagers.

  Simon put a pint and a glass of orange juice on the table.

  “Cheers, Jo,” he toasted her. “It’s good to see you.”

  “Cheers.” She clinked her glass half-heartedly against his.

  He put his hand over hers. “I’m so proud of you. You survived a terrible ordeal. You fought hard, and what happened to Marcus—”

  “He would never have been there if it hadn’t been for me, Simon. The whole night is so . . . confused in my mind, but I remember his face as he lay there. He said he loved me . . .” She fiercely brushed a tear from her eye. “I can’t bear that I’ve caused his death.”

  “Jo, none of this is your fault. If it’s anyone’s, it’s mine. I should have got to you sooner. I knew the danger you were in.” Simon had been haunted, too, by the moment he’d done a U-turn at Hammersmith to help Zoe find Jamie.

  “But if I’d never gone to see Ciara that night, just got on the plane, or not been so pigheaded about investigating this whole bloody mess to begin with, when you’d warned me off—a ‘vigilante Sherlock Holmes’ as you called me . . .”

  They both managed a weak smile at the memory.

  “I’m also sorry I lost it with you that day at my apartment after the story about the prince and Zoe was leaked. I should have trusted your integrity.”

  “Yes, you should have done,” Joanna replied firmly. “Not that it matters now. It’s nothing compared to Marcus being dead.”

  “No. Well, just try to remember, you were not the one who pulled the trigger.”

  �
�No, that was ‘Kurt,’ ” Joanna said grimly. “Tell me, Simon, please, it’s been driving me mad ever since I woke up in hospital. Who was he?”

  “A colleague of mine. His name was Ian Simpson.”

  Joanna paused. “Oh my God. The one who turned over my apartment originally?”

  “He was certainly there at the time, yes.” Simon sighed. “Look, Jo, I understand how you feel; obviously you want to know and understand everything, but sometimes, as you’ve found out, it’s better to leave it be.”

  “No!” Her eyes blazed. “I know he was working for your lot, trying to stop me from getting to the truth. And then, when I was almost there, he wanted me dead and he shot Marcus!”

  “Jo, Ian was not working for ‘our lot’ at that point anymore. He’d been placed on sick leave because of his associated mental problems, exacerbated by drink. He was a dangerous loose cannon who wanted to cover himself in glory and get his job back. He was also the one who fed the news about Zoe and the prince to the Morning Mail. The Welbeck Street house was bugged, so Ian knew everything. He’d apparently been taking ‘bungs’—as he called them—from journalists for years. We found over four hundred thousand pounds in his bank account, the most recent deposit for seventy thousand, which was placed the day after the story made the front page. Put simply, his moral compass had been blown to shreds.”

  “Oh, Simon!” Joanna put her hands to her burning cheeks. “I told Marcus I suspected him. I . . .”

  “I’m so sorry.” Simon took her hand as tears filled her eyes again. He could have easily wept for her too.

  “Where is that bastard now?” she asked.

  “He died, Jo.”

  The color drained from her face. “That night?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “He was shot.”

  “Who by?”

  “Me.”

  “Oh God.” She covered her face with her hands. “Is that what you do for a living?”

  “No, but these things happen in the course of duty, just like when you work for the police. Actually, it was the first time I’d ever had to do it, but better him than you. I’ll get us both another drink. G and T this time?”