“One absolutely could,” agreed Joanna. “And besides, you must have already worked out why the palace was so dead set against Zoe and the duke’s relationship? I mean, they were actually related through James. They were cousins, which means that Jamie is—”
“Just don’t go there, Jo.” Simon shuddered. “All I can say is that it’s not unusual among the aristocracy to marry blood relatives. Most members of European royalty are related to one another.”
“What a mess,” sighed Joanna.
“Yes. Anyway, changing the subject, have you decided yet where you go from here?”
“No, apart from the fact that I’m certainly going to go by the name of ‘Maggie’—I’ve always hated ‘Margaret.’ ” Joanna gave him a wan smile. “At least now that I’m a bona fide American citizen, I can start thinking about it. You’ll laugh, I’m sure, but I’ve always had a fancy to write a spy novel.”
“Jo . . .”
“Simon, I’m serious. I mean, let’s face it, no one would believe the story anyway, so why not? I’d change the names, of course.”
“I’m warning you, don’t.”
“We’ll see. Anyway, how about you?” she asked him.
“Zoe and I have decided to stay in LA for the foreseeable future. We thought it was wise to make a fresh start, and it looks like Zoe will be inundated with work offers when Blithe Spirit is released. We went to see a school for Jamie a couple of days ago. He was so unhappy at his last place, but there, everybody’s mums and dads are celebrities and he’s just normal.”
“What about your job?”
Simon shrugged. “I haven’t decided yet. The service has offered me a transfer over here, but Zoe has this mad idea of me opening a restaurant. She wants to back me.”
Joanna giggled. “Well, we always did talk about it. But could you leave your old way of life behind, do you think?”
“The truth is, I’m not a killer. The fact that I took lives during all this will haunt me forever.” Simon shook his head. “God help me if Zoe ever found out what I’ve done, or Jamie.”
Joanna laid her hand on his. “You saved my life, Simon, that’s what you did.”
“Yes.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “Joanna, you know that for your own sake, I can’t see you again.”
“I know,” she said with a sad shrug.
“By the way, I have something else for you.” From his shorts pocket, he drew out an envelope and handed it to her.
“What’s in it?”
“Twenty thousand pounds in dollars—the bonus I was paid for finding the letter. It’s yours by rights and it might help get you started.”
Tears filled Joanna’s eyes. “Simon, I can’t take this.”
“Of course you can. Zoe’s earning a fortune and my boss insisted on paying for all my expenses while I was in the States investigating Monica’s disappearance.”
“Thank you, Simon. I promise I’ll make good use of it.”
“I’m sure you will.” He watched Joanna fold the envelope up and put it in her rucksack.
“There’s something else in there too, something I thought you should at least have the satisfaction of reading,” he added. “So . . .” He pulled her to standing. “I’m afraid this is goodbye.” He hugged her tightly to him.
“Oh God.” She wept on his shoulder. “I can’t bear the thought of never seeing you again.”
“I know.” He wiped her tears gently away with his finger. “So long, Butch.”
“Take it easy, Sundance,” she whispered.
With a small wave, he turned away from her. Only when he’d left the beach did she pick up her rucksack and walk down to the water’s edge.
Kneeling on the sand, she found a tissue to blow her streaming nose. Then she reached inside the envelope he’d given her, took out the sheet of paper, and unfolded it.
York Cottage
Sandringham
10th May 1926
My darling Siam,
Understand that it is only my love for you that compels me to write this, the fear that others might wish to hurt you overriding care for myself or common sense. With God’s grace, let it be delivered to you without incident in the secure hands that bear it.
I must tell you the joyful news of the arrival of our baby girl. She has your eyes already, and perhaps your nose. Even if the blood that runs through her veins is not royal, your child is a true princess. How I wish her real father could see her, hold his child in his arms, but of course that is an impossibility, a dreadful sadness I must live with for the rest of my days.
My darling, I implore you to keep this letter safe. The threat of its existence to the few who know the truth should be enough to see you safely through life. I trust you will dispose of it when the time comes for you to leave this earth, for the sake of our daughter, and so that history may never record it.
I cannot write again, my love.
I am yours forever,
The letter was signed with the famous flourish, the photocopy not diminishing the magnitude of what Joanna had just read.
A baby princess, born into royalty, sired in the most extraordinary circumstances by a commoner. A baby that at the time was third in line to the throne, the chances of her succession small. But then, through a twist of fate, which saw others putting love before duty, too, the baby princess had become a queen.
Joanna stood up with the letter in her hand, the temptation to exact revenge for her own and other lives destroyed holding her tightly in its grasp. The anger left her, as quickly as it had come.
“It’s finally over,” she whispered to the ghosts who might have been listening.
Joanna went to the water’s edge, tore the paper up, and watched the pieces as they fluttered in the wind. Then she turned round and walked back to the Cabana Café to drown her sorrows in tequila.
Nursing her drink at the bar, Joanna knew that her new life began today. Somehow, she had to find the strength to embrace it—move on and put the past behind her.
Normally one would do that with the support of friends and family. She was totally alone.
“How can I do this?” she muttered as she ordered a second cocktail and realized that she’d been using Simon’s imminent visit as a lifeline. Now that he was gone, the thread to all she had ever known was broken forever.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, as the full enormity of the situation hit her.
“Hi there, got a light?”
“I don’t smoke, sorry.” Joanna ignored the male voice, with its strong American accent. Here in Mexico, men hovered around her like bees drawn to honey.
“Okay, I’ll take a light and an orange juice, please,” she heard the voice say to the bartender as, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man climb onto the bar stool next to hers.
“Want a top-up?”
“I . . .”
The quintessentially English phrase made her turn to her neighbor. He was tanned to a deep nut-brown, wearing a pair of brightly colored shorts, a T-shirt, and a straw hat pulled down over his long dark hair. It was only when she saw his eyes—the deep tan highlighting their blueness—that she recognized him.
“Don’t I know you?” He grinned at her. “Aren’t you Maggie Cunningham? Think we spent a year at NYU together way back when.”
“I . . .” Joanna stuttered, her heart banging against her chest. Was this some kind of weird hallucination brought on by the tequila? Or a test from Simon to see if she’d blow it? Yet, he had called her “Maggie” . . .
Joanna knew she was staring at him openmouthed, wanting to drink in everything her eyes were telling her she saw, but . . .
“I’ll get you one anyway.” He signaled to the bartender to fill her glass up. “Then how about we go and catch up on old times?”
As she followed him out of the café, she decided it was best to keep her mouth shut, because this just could not . . . it could not be real.
As he led her to a quiet table on the rickety wooden terrace, she noticed he wal
ked with a pronounced limp. She sat down abruptly.
“Who are you?” she muttered darkly.
“You know who I am, Maggie,” he said, in his familiar clipped English. “Cheers.” He lifted his glass to hers.
“I . . . How did you get here?”
“Same way you did, I reckon. My name’s Casper by the way—your very own friendly ghost.” He looked at her and grinned. “And I’m not kidding.”
“Oh my God,” she breathed, as one of her hands unconsciously reached out to touch him, needing to confirm he was real.
“And my surname’s ‘James.’ Thought it was fitting. I’m lucky—I got to choose my name myself, unlike you.”
“How? Where? Why . . . ? Marcus, I thought you were—”
“Dead, yes. And please, call me Casper,” he muttered. “As you know, walls tend to have ears. To be fair, they thought I was going to cop it—I had multiple organ failure and I was in a coma for a time after the surgery. And then, when I actually regained consciousness, they’d already announced my death to the family and the media.”
“Why did they do that?”
“I’ve worked out since, it was probably because they didn’t know how much I knew, so they carted me off to some private hospital and put me under twenty-four-hour surveillance. They couldn’t take the risk of me waking up and spilling the beans to a doctor or nurse who happened to be lurking nearby at the time. Given they obviously wanted it to look like a straightforward shooting accident—no questions asked—and that they were convinced I was going to die anyway, they preempted my demise. So when I actually woke up and my body began functioning again, they had a bit of a problem.”
“I’m amazed they didn’t kill you off once and for all,” Joanna murmured. “That’s what they usually do.”
“I think your mate Simon—or should I say, my long-lost distant cousin”—Marcus raised an eyebrow—“had quite a bit to do with it. He told me later that he’d mentioned to his superiors that I’d grabbed the letter from Ian Simpson and hidden it somewhere before we fell into the water. Which was why the bastard shot me. So they had to keep me alive for a bit when I did wake up to find out if I had. See?”
“Simon covered for you . . .”
“He did. And then he gave me the letter—or what was left of it—to return to them. And told me to say that I knew nothing—that Ian Simpson had simply given me some money to find it. Next thing I know, Simon’s telling me I’m officially dead and asking me what I’d like to be called in my new life.”
“Did you refuse?”
“Maggie,” Marcus sighed, “you’ll probably call me a coward again, but those people . . . wow, they’ll stop at nothing. I’d just come back from the dead and I wasn’t particularly keen on returning any time soon.”
“You’re not a coward, Marcus . . . I mean, Casper.” She reached out a tentative hand and put it on his. “You saved my life that night.”
“And I’m sure Simon saved mine. He’s a seriously good guy, though I’ve still no idea what the hell was going on. Maybe one day you’ll enlighten me.” Marcus lit up a cigarette and Joanna saw that his left hand shook continuously.
“Maybe I will.”
“So,” he said, smiling, “here I am.”
“Where have you been living?”
“In a rehabilitation center in Miami. Apparently the bullets I took in the abdomen grazed my spine, and I woke up with my lower body paralyzed. I’m better now, although it took a long time to learn how to walk again. And no more whiskies for me anymore, unfortunately.” He gestured to the juice in front of him. “Bloody nice place Simon set me up in, though, all expenses paid . . .” He grinned.
“Good.”
They sat in silence for a while, simply staring at each other.
“This is surreal,” Marcus said eventually.
“You’re telling me,” Joanna replied.
“I thought Simon was having me on when he called to say he was bringing me down to Mexico to meet someone I knew. I just . . . I just can’t believe you’re here.” Marcus shook his head in wonder.
“No . . . especially as we’re both ‘dead.’ ”
“Maybe this is the afterlife . . . If it is”—he swept his hand toward the beach—“I quite like it. And you know I’ve always had a thing for blondes . . .”
“Mar—Casper, behave, please!”
“Well, some things never change.” He smiled at her, taking her hand and squeezing it. “I’ve missed you, Jo,” he whispered. “Terribly.”
“I’ve missed you too.”
“So, where do we go from here?” he asked her.
“Anywhere we want, I suppose. The world—apart from England, of course—is our oyster.”
“How about Brazil?” he suggested. “I know of a great film project.”
Joanna chuckled. “Well, even MI5 might struggle to find us in the Amazon. I’m up for it.”
“Good, come on,” he said as he stood up. “Before we plan out the rest of our future together, why don’t you help what’s left of me down to the beach? I have a violent urge to lie on the sand and kiss every part of you. Even without the chocolate sauce.”
“Okay.” Joanna smiled and stood up too.
* * *
From his vantage point above the beach, Simon watched the young couple, their arms wound tightly around each other, walk slowly across the sand and into their new life.
EPILOGUE
Los Angeles, September 2017
Simon found Zoe out on a sun lounger by the pool. He looked at her still-taut body and lightly tanned skin, which didn’t seem to have aged at all in twenty years and with two pregnancies since they’d met.
He kissed her on the top of her head. “Where are the kids?”
“Joanna has gone off to a friend’s eighteenth party—in the shortest miniskirt I’ve ever seen, I might add—and Tom is at a baseball game. You’re home early. Was the restaurant quieter today?”
“No, it was packed, but I came back to do some paperwork. I can’t concentrate there, even in my office—everyone keeps interrupting me. What’s that you’re reading?” he asked as he peered over her shoulder.
“Oh, it’s a new thriller that came out last week and everyone here is talking about it. It involves hidden secrets about the British royal family, so I thought I’d give it a go,” she said with a smile.
His heart pounding in the way it hadn’t since he’d left his old job, Simon glanced down at the cover.
The Royal Secret
BY
M. Cunningham
Joanna, no!
“Right,” Simon said.
“It’s gripping, actually, though utterly unbelievable, of course. I mean, this stuff just doesn’t happen, does it? Does it, Simon?” she prompted him.
“No, of course it doesn’t. Right, I’m going inside to get a cool drink. Want anything?”
“Some iced tea would be great.”
Simon walked up to the house, sweating profusely. He went into his office and dumped the files containing the restaurant accounts on his desk, then checked his emails on his iPhone.
[email protected]
Subject: Urgent
* * *
Call me. Something’s come up.
More from the Author
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Keep reading for a preview of
The Seven Sisters
by
Lucinda Riley
1
I will always remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when I heard that my father had died.
I was sitting in the pretty garden of my old school friend’s townhouse in London, a copy of The Penelopiad open but unread in my lap, enjoying the June sun while Jenny collected her little boy from kindergarten.
I felt calm and I appreciated what a good i
dea it had been to get away. When my cell phone rang and I glanced at the screen and saw it was Marina, I was studying the burgeoning clematis unfolding its fragile pink buds, giving birth to a riot of color, encouraged by its sunny midwife.
“Hello, Ma, how are you?” I said, hoping she could hear the sun’s warmth in my voice.
“Maia, I . . .”
Marina paused, and in that instant I knew something was dreadfully wrong. “What is it?”
“Maia, there’s no other way to tell you this, but your father had a heart attack here at home yesterday afternoon, and in the early hours of this morning, he . . . passed away.”
I remained silent as a million different and ridiculous thoughts passed through my mind. The first one being that Marina, for some unknown reason, had decided to play some form of a tasteless joke on me.
“You’re the first of the sisters I’ve told, Maia, as you’re the eldest. And I wanted to ask you whether you would prefer to tell the rest of your sisters yourself, or leave it to me.”
“I . . .”
Still no words would form coherently on my lips, as I began to realize that Marina, dear, beloved Marina, the woman who had been the closest thing to a mother I’d ever known, would never tell me this if it weren’t true. So it had to be. And at that moment, my entire world shifted on its axis.
“Maia, please, tell me you’re all right. This really is the most dreadful phone call I’ve ever had to make, but what else could I do? God only knows how the other girls are going to take it.”
It was then that I heard the suffering in her voice and understood she’d needed to tell me as much for her own sake as mine. So I switched into my normal comfort zone, which was to comfort others.
“Of course I’ll tell my sisters if you’d prefer, Ma, although I’m not positive where they all are. Isn’t Ally away training for a regatta?”
And, as we continued to discuss where each of my younger sisters was, as though we needed to get them together for a birthday party rather than to mourn the death of our father, the entire conversation took on a sense of the surreal.
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