The Line of Succession

by Harry F Rey

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  The Line of Succession 2: Acts of Treason

  About Harry F. Rey

  Dear Reader

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  The Line of Succession

  Harry F. Rey

  Copyright © 2018 by Harry F. Rey

  Cover design copyright © 2018 by Story Perfect Dreamscape

  All characters are age 18 and over.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  Chapter One

  Fifteen years ago

  Prince Richard jogged down the steps of Marylebone House into the eye of the storm. Rain lashed at him from every angle and the high winds rocked the trees of the manor’s forest in the distance. The broad staircase that led to the waiting helicopter danced with water. It didn’t bother Richard, but Calista ran after him with her bag clutched high over her head, hoping it could be some defense against the storm.

  “Good evening, Your Royal Highness,” Peter said, standing by the waiting helicopter, as unflustered as ever, and hoisting an umbrella over Richard. “We’re ready for you, sir.”

  “Good show, old boy.” Richard grinned, then pulled off a leather glove with his teeth. He ran a hand through his wet blond locks, still as bright and thick as ever, even at forty-five.

  “Calista,” Richard called back as her high heels tap-danced through the rain, “we have to make an unscheduled stop.” She caught up to him. The rotating blades of the helicopter gave some light relief from the rain and she peeled strands of red hair from her freckled face.

  “Richard, no,” she said, clutching her bag under one arm while shaking back the sleeve of her overcoat to look at her watch. “They’re expecting us in Paris in three hours.” The Irish twang in her voice always came out stronger when she got flustered. It had made moving into London’s society life doubly hard. The English aristocracy were deathly afraid that anyone from over there might be an IRA bomber.

  “Darling, it’s his birthday. Plus, he rang me earlier and sounded rather upset.” The excuse wasn’t likely to fly with her. “Come on,” he said as he beat Peter to the door handle. “The boys love it when we land an RAF Chinook on the old Eton lawn. You still have the letter?”

  She nodded in resignation and patted her bag. “Are you sure you want to tell him this way?”

  “Excellent!” Richard exclaimed, ignoring her follow up question and ending any hint of a discussion. As the heir to the throne lunged inside the helicopter, Peter raised a hand to close the umbrella. Calista gave him a look that said don’t mess with a woman in wet heels and he stopped in his tracks, moving the umbrella to shield her, but with his nose as high in the air as he could manage.

  Why on earth a butler would think himself above the personal secretary to the next King of England befuddled Calista. Just as much of a mystery as where in her bag she’d put the mobile phone. She held the bag open with both hands and shook it. Her leather-bound day-planner jumped up and she spotted the phone. How something the size of a brick could get lost inside a handbag spelled another of the world’s great riddles.

  Calista pulled the antenna up with her teeth, flipped the keypad down, and the phone beeped as she punched in the number. She looked inside the Chinook; Richard had his headphones on already, happily chatting with the pilot. The prince had flown in the Falklands and relished every moment he got with military hardware.

  “Hi, it’s me,” Calista said, turning away from the helicopter, and from Peter.

  “Aren’t you on your way yet?” Richard’s personal butler, Charles, shrieked through the phone from the hotel suite in Paris.

  “Um, not quite… We’re making an unscheduled stop.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud! Where now?” She imagined Charles wrapped in one of the Chinese silk dressing gowns he liked to wear after hours so much, stretched out on a chaise lounge in Richard’s suite, nervously gulping down a gin and tonic.

  “Eton. Sorry, but what can I do?” She hoped the crackly line would properly convey her complete disregard for his attempt to stir up drama between Richard’s staff, a treasured pastime of Charles.

  “Well, don’t forget he’s meant to be opening a new wing of the Louvre tomorrow morning, and I know how you like to keep him up half the night…”

  “We’ll be there soon, Charles. Keep your wig on.”

  She snapped the phone shut and dropped it back into her bag. She exchanged a curt grimace with Peter and had barely climbed in before the door slammed shut, just missing the tails of her overcoat. Calista wiped the rain from her eyes and buckled in.

  Richard grabbed the meat of her leg, quite visible with how far the skirt rode up when she sat down. “Come on, he’ll be thrilled. Poor fellow’s been having a tough time. It’s not easy being fifteen.” Richard patted the pilot on the shoulder. “Take her up, old boy!”

  The helicopter pulled up into the rain and the wind and the darkness. Peter remained on the landing pad, watching, as it flew away from Marylebone House. It flew across the lawns, passing the crypt, the stream, and then over the forest that howled in the storm, before disappearing out of sight.

  After he could no longer hear the thump of the helicopter through the rain, Peter reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a phone. Carefully, he extended the antenna and tapped in a number from memory.

  “Ma’am, it’s done.”

  • • •

  Present day

  Even the walls of the club bathroom thumped with the beat of the music. James loved moments like this; suspended inside the pulse of nights seemingly without end. He ignored the shrieks and giggles of the girls behind him. He bent over the marble around the sink and rolled up a £20 note. Girl’s bathrooms were just so much cleaner for this sort of thing. He liked the image of his grandmother to go up his nose first. Something about the idea of Queen Victoria II doing the snorting herself always made him smile. He devoured the three lines laid out in quick succession, then stood bolt upright and stared into the mirror. The drug rushed through his system, and for a brief moment his father’s face looked back at him in the mirror. The blue eyes were his fathers, the blond hair also the same. Sometimes it felt like Prince Richard wasn’t far away … especially tonight.

  Soon, the reality of the ladies’ room of Club Nouveau Riche returned. Girls laughed in the stalls, or fixed their faces after a line or two, or three. James held one nostril, sniffed, then did the other. He gave his nose a tug and ran a hand through his hair.

  “Let’s go, ladies!” He whooped to their cheers. A plastic crown made it onto his head and they burst out of the sanctuary of the toilets into the bowels of the club. The dance floor lit up before them, the spotlights lighting up the bar to their back. Giant birthday balloons and velvet banners decorated the club. Ice buckets filled with bottles of Dom Pérignon littered the tables. The Prince’s party had taken over the entire club. This was, without a doubt, the
A-list party of the season. It was not just a who’s who of London, but the top flight of the world’s young and moneyed … the friends of Prince James.

  In a haze of lights, someone put a glass of champagne in James’ hand. Like a horde, they moved onto the dance floor. The DJ hit it hard and they jumped. Music and drugs pumped through James. He downed the glass and someone replaced it with a bottle. He took a swig from it. Music, drugs, sex … that’s all he needed in life. A line, a drink, a beat, and his friends…. Life is fantastic. Dancing is fantastic. Being rich and popular is fantastic.

  • • •

  All of this Andrew watched from a booth at the back of the club, like a mother falcon keeping an eye on her young, ready to swoop in any second. He sat surrounded by people talking and drinking, but had long lost interest in their mindless chatter. Andrew wondered how many lines they’d given him in the bathroom. Judging by how hard James danced, it must’ve been at least two. Andrew added it to his mental tally. That makes at least five, including the one at home.

  “Andrew, Andrew. Tell me I’m right,” Milly said, tugging on his arm and turning away from Louise. He’d forgotten about them for a moment, and the conversation he’d only partially been paying attention to.

  “Of course, you’re right, darling.” Andrew searched for his whisky on the table among the empty cocktail glasses.

  “You should’ve slapped him one, really. I’m not joking, Milly. Look at him.” Louise gestured over to the bar with her cocktail glass, pointing out Tim and Freddy, who were laughing over shots.

  “I am, like, so finished with Tim. Honestly. I can’t even be bothered anymore. That fucking bitch Lucy, trying to steal my man. This is what happens when someone goes behind my back; I just lose … my … shit,” Milly said, grabbing them both for support.

  Andrew gently nudged her off and nodded in polite agreement. He couldn’t care less who the two of them were fucking. But if she thinks it’s only Lucy Tim’s giving it to, she’ll be in for a surprise. He growled under his breath. Distracted while looking over at Tim and Freddy, he had lost James in the crowd.

  “I don’t like her, Milly, I’m just putting it out there.”

  “Oh my God, she better not think she’s coming with us next month,” Milly said, tugging on Andrew’s jacket again. “Are you coming to Barbs with us?”

  “What’s that?” Andrew said, trying to discreetly lift himself off the cushions to catch sight of James. Jesus! How hard is it to spot a six-foot-two blond prince? They’d better not be giving him any more coke. Andrew had promised himself to get James home after six lines, or three bottles of champagne, whichever came first. James couldn't afford too much of a hangover or a come-down on a royal birthday.

  “Barbados. Are you and James coming? Everyone’s going to be there.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know yet. You know what the schedule’s like. Just really busy, yeah. And why are you even going if Tim’s there?” Andrew said.

  Louise gave a snort and glared at Milly. “I have absolutely no idea why. But let’s just remember what the sun does to her hair.”

  Milly gave a dismissive hand swish and pulled on Andrew’s cheek.

  “I think you went overboard with the eyelash curlers there, darling.”

  “Hands to yourselves, ladies,” said Andrew, batting her away. “Anyway, if you really want to get back at Tim, just fuck his boss.” He took a deep drink and relief poured through him as he spotted James on the dance floor, necking champagne.

  “Oh yeah, fuck the prime minister? I wouldn’t be taking relationship advice from the likes of you. Who’s the last girl you kept for more than five minutes, eh, Andrew? Those poor bitches.”

  “Don’t hate what you ain’t, Louise.”

  “You really give James a bad reputation, you know that, right?” Milly piped in. “He’s fucking thirty years old now. He’s going to be the mother-fucking king. The two of you can’t keep hanging out with all those topless slags in bloody Jacuzzis, Andrew. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Now, now … I hope the lady doth not protest too much.”

  Milly and Louise cackled at the suggestion.

  “Eugh, get real,” Milly said, already losing interest in the telling off she’d given him a hundred times before. “Oh fuck, not her.”

  Andrew peeled his eyes away from James for a moment to see who Milly meant.

  “Ah, her hair. It makes my eyes hurt.” Milly pretended to hide behind Louise, but Andrew felt saved when he saw Lizzie approach the table. Her normally wild red hair had been stunningly pinned up, her short black dress simple and gorgeous. Fuck, she looks fabulous.

  “Sorry, girls, I prefer my ladies with a bit of class,” he said, shifting away from them along the curved couch of the booth.

  “Yeah, right,” Milly snorted.

  Andrew paid them no more attention. Finally, someone I can talk to. He put a hand on the small of Lizzie’s back and pulled her close for a kiss on the cheek.

  “Come on, let’s go get a drink. And by drink, I mean a bottle.”

  “Thank God,” Lizzie said.

  They found an empty table on a raised seating area across the other side of the club. It would normally have been roped off for C-listers, but tonight the entire club played host to VIPs. Still, Andrew enjoyed a quiet sense of superiority. Every guest was here because of him, and they knew who held the power of patronage.

  The two of them sipped from a fresh bottle of Dom Pérignon, Lizzie leaned into Andrew’s arm draped across the back of the couch. She talked, still. About something, work maybe. Probably his work, as everyone delighted in telling him how to do his job. But his eyes were locked on James. The future king held the empty champagne bottle he’d finished earlier as a pretend penis, using it to chase girls around the dance floor. Andrew estimated another half an hour before he had to get James into the car, then back home and into bed.

  • • •

  Fifteen years ago

  The boys had snuck into the Eton common room long after they should have been in bed. They had only turned on one lamp, but the noise they’d been making would surely give them away to anyone passing the corridor. Four fifteen-year-old boys working their way through a smuggled bottle of whisky wouldn’t stay unnoticed for long.

  “Time for one more toast, gentleman,” Freddy proclaimed, standing atop a leather armchair. Tim, sprawled on the carpeted floor, followed the command and grasped the whisky bottle, filling his own mug up to the brim before reaching over and passing it on to Andrew. “To the future king of England! An all right chap, really. Happy birthday!”

  “The king,” the others responded in unison, gulping down the whisky and moments later making sounds of disgust.

  “Eugh, I’ll never like whisky,” James said, his legs flapping over the side of an armchair.

  “Come on, it’s in your blood,” Freddy responded, sitting back down and refilling his mug.

  “Yeah, aren’t you actually Scottish?” Tim asked.

  “He’s not Scottish,” Andrew said, sitting on the floor with his back against James’ armchair, defending his prince.

  “I was born in London, thanks very much. What about you, Tim? Where you from, Timbuktu? Who knows what your mother is,” Freddy said with a smirk.

  “Boys, lets promise to stay together, eh? At least once a year, every royal birthday, we’ll get our future king rip-roaring drunk,” Freddy said, lifting his mug for another toast to cheers from the others.

  “Okay, boys, I think that’s enough,” a voice said from the doorway.

  “Oh, fuck off, Faisal. We’re just having a few drinks. Oh, wait, Muslims can’t drink, can they?” Tim said, waving his mug at Faisal, still buttoned up in his Eton prefect’s uniform.

  “I think that’s a night, fellas. I’m off to see granny in the morning anyway,” James said, making for the door. He kept his eyes down, avoiding Faisal’s gaze, and pushed passed him into the corridor.

  Tim stuffed the whisky bottle up his shirt and they rearr
anged the furniture in the common room as Faisal watched over from the doorway.

  “Night then, lads,” Faisal said with as much authority as a seventeen-year-old could muster over fifteen-year-olds.

  Freddy waited till they had left the common room and he was sure Faisal had disappeared. “He should just be glad he’s not back in Saudi. At least here he can drink.” Andrew and Tim sniggered. “Don’t forget, I’ll be skinning you at rugby tomorrow, right, Andy?” Freddy said.

  “Yeah, let’s see how you handle your balls with a hangover, mate,” Andrew said, waving them off and heading in the opposite direction. He only realized now how drunk he’d got. His fingers ran along either side of the wood paneled walls to keep himself steady, with only hints of moonlight from a window somewhere to guide him. He climbed up stairs and tiptoed past rooms of sleeping Eton students, following the route almost by heart.

  Finally, he reached the right door and gave it a soft tap with his fingertips. It opened almost immediately, and a block of soft lamplight spilled out into the corridor. James stood on the other side in his boxer shorts and greeted Andrew with the cheeky smile that had kept him sneaking around almost every night for three weeks. Nothing had yet gone beyond comparing sizes, but Andrew hoped tonight might be different. Andrew silently moved inside the bedroom and the door closed, cutting off the light again and plunging Faisal back into the shadows where he stood and watched.

  • • •

  Present day

  “Another one?” Andrew asked Lizzie, refilling his own champagne glass. Lizzie sighed and leaned back into the couch.

  “Why not?” She held out her glass and Andrew emptied the bottle into it. “He looks like he’s having a good time,” she said, gesturing over to James on the dance floor. “The empty champagne bottle as penis dance routine seems to have caught on.”