Though Edward scowled, Xavier was the one who grumbled, “Not sure I appreciate being compared to a bunch of recalcitrant toddlers.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of horny teenagers, actually.”
Edward rolled his eyes but remained silent, checking out the footage on the USB drive. That Drake ‘knew’ didn’t entirely come as a surprise—back in his heyday, he hadn’t exactly been discreet, and it was the job of the head of security to know of and to fend off potential threats before they started. His proclivities, Edward felt sure, had been considered a potential threat at some point.
Still, he didn’t like it. Knew Perry would be mortified, so decided this was the last time any of them would mention it. Drake’s loyalty was above question; it wasn’t his fault he’d been slow on the uptake during these past few months. Grief did that to a man, Edward knew.
And if Drake had loved Marianne like Edward did Perry, then…
Well, he didn’t even want to think about how he’d deal with losing her.
“Where did this come from?” he demanded, changing the subject as he saw, from the snapshots, just how close to the meeting these had been taken. The angles indicated an intimacy that came as a shock.
“Raoul Da Silva,” Drake said simply.
“Raoul Da Silva?” Xavier blurted out. “What about him?”
“I believe Da Silva wasn’t happy about what happened to your mother. He was her guard for a long time, after all, and I highly doubt Marianne didn’t work her usual wiles on him.”
“You think they were having an affair?”
Drake’s lips twitched. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that had happened at some point. Your parents weren’t exactly happy together. But I don’t know for certain. What I do know is that Marianne might have come across as chilly to some people, but she made a lot of people, from all walks of life, fall for her. I think that happened with Raoul.”
“Explain,” Edward demanded grimly.
“One of the guards, Da Silva’s friend, handed me an envelope this morning. It was a letter from Da Silva’s sister. He had apparently told her that if anything happened to him, she was to find a way to get the USB drive to me.”
“He knew he was in danger?”
“It would seem so.”
“Why? What changed?” Edward peered at the photos once more. “Da Silva was obviously close to the UnReal’s leadership if he was privy to conversations between Prichard and L’Argeneau.”
“I would imagine so. His was probably the worst case of treason we’ve seen in many a year, and the bastard had a full military funeral with honors.” Drake sounded outraged that a traitor could get the royal treatment—hadn’t the King and Queen attended the bastard’s funeral? Even if it was only to maintain a front, the rest of the world didn’t know that, did they?
Xavier peered at the screen from Edward’s side. “Traitor, he might have been, but he’s also given us exactly what we need to cage L’Argeneau.” His cousin whistled under his breath. “And Jesus, do we have him.”
Edward couldn’t deny that he was thrilled about the photos before him, for it was enough to ruin Ferdinand; it wasn’t, however, enough to make the man turn against the UnReals.
Ferdinand L’Argeneau had made a name for himself in the seedy underworld of societies around this continent and countless others. One didn’t reach such lofty heights among a certain class of people by ratting out one’s partners in crime… not unless those compatriots were shown for the two-faced bastards they were.
Xavier carried on scrolling through the photos as Edward reached for his cell phone. Quickly seeking Markov’s number, he connected the call and waited for his friend and new spymaster to answer.
“Edward?”
Markov’s voice was always thick with his accent, even though he was fluent in English.
“Da, I have news,” he replied in Russian, knowing Xavier didn’t speak it, and that if Drake did, it was a secret he’d kept for years.
“What kind of news?” Markov replied, his tone cheerful. In the background, Edward heard the tapping of keys on a laptop, as well as the flickering of a fire—part of his generous compensation package was a luxury chalet high on the Ansian mountain range.
Xavier had donated it—the family’s old hunting lodge—to the cause of enticing the man to Veronia.
It had worked.
The man was now living like a Pasha among the ski slopes.
“News that lets us bring Ferdinand L’Argeneau in for questioning. Hell, more than that,” Edward conceded. “We’ve got him. There’s no way he can try to worm out of this. But it’s not enough to bring down the UnReals. He’s the moneyman, sure, but if he protects the rebels, then we’re wasting a good lead.”
“I understand.”
“What news on the murders of the doctors who cared for Arabella before her death?”
“There are ties to the UnReals,” Markov murmured slowly.
Edward scowled. “Why the hell wasn’t I informed of that? I didn’t hire you to keep me out of the loop, Dima!”
“No, I know, but I’ve been checking into the situation. I have ties, Edward. Ties. Not unbreakable bonds.”
“Explain,” he said, knowing his tone was grouchy, and not caring. The base where Ferdinand was being held was close, and he wanted leverage before the questioning begun.
“Jacob Prichard is a control freak like you,” Markov murmured, but his tone was partially teasing. “He likes to keep close tabs on all jobs that are undertaken on the rebels’ behalf.”
“Please tell me you’ve found evidence?”
“Da. The information is trickling in. I have nothing concrete on three of the murders, but one of them? Da,” Dima repeated. “Without a doubt, there’s proof of Prichard’s involvement.”
“How?”
“Three bank transfers. Each to the same man who handled the autopsy of one of the victims and his wife.”
Edward’s throat closed. “I didn’t realize there were other victims.”
“Sadly, there were. One of the EMTs that responded to the emergency call at the palace was in a vehicle with his family when he went off the road.” There was the sound of scratching, and Edward knew Markov would be scraping his beard with his hunting dagger—an atrocious habit, and one, Edward had always warned his friend, that endangered him more than his job did.
All it would take was a sneeze for him to slice through his damn carotid.
“That’s a fucking shame,” Edward growled.
“Yes. Children, too. Anyway, there’s a bittersweet irony to it all. The bank account I found, it ties to the pathologist who handled the autopsies of the victims. The paperwork claimed there was a high level of alcohol in the driver’s blood. That was used to explain why the car went off the road when there were no signs of foul play on the vehicle.”
He frowned. “How is that possible?”
Markov laughed. “You’re like me, my friend. Suspicious to the quick. I looked at the crash site, and agree: there was no foul play. But I looked at the blood test myself. There was something in the driver’s blood, but it wasn’t alcohol. Some kind of drug that made the man fall asleep at the wheel? Sadly, it was in a heavily wooded area and the car slammed into a tree. They all died instantly.”
“So the murder was covered up.”
“Quite well. The bank account used to pay the pathologist has Prichard’s dirty little fingers all over it.”
“How? Surely it’s not in his own name?”
“No, it’s in his niece’s.”
For a second, Edward’s mouth dropped open. “The man can’t be such a fool?”
“I don’t know him so I can’t say. The UnReals weren’t wealthy at the time. Only after the ‘accidents’ did they gain funding from L’Argeneau after all. They wouldn’t have had the ability to create ghost accounts through shell corporations. Until recently, they were a very basic, very crude operation.”
Edward pursed his lips. “That’s a damn sham
e about the EMT’s family,” he said softly, hating and hurting for the loss. “I want you to find a way to haul the pathologist behind the false autopsy into Veronia for questioning, Dima. Do you hear me? I want proof that we can take back to the victims’ families so we can clear the driver’s name.”
“Already working on it. I know you too well, old friend. You are very sentimental when it comes to these matters.”
Rolling his eyes, he grumbled, “Give me a name I can use to taunt L’Argeneau.”
“The niece’s name is Danica.”
“I need more. That’s not enough to make L’Argeneau realize he’s been played.”
Markov let out a cheerful laugh. “You mistake me, my friend. I’ve saved the best for last.”
Edward scowled. “How?”
“L’Argeneau also has a mistress.”
“He does? Not too unusual. You know what the top families are like here.”
“Yes. But he’s pissed in his own backyard...”
“It’s not the niece.”
“Yes. It is.” Markov laughed again. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Only a sick mind could find anything about this situation beautiful, so Edward must have been sick—there truly was a twisted kind of beauty in this fucked-up mess.
“Da, it is,” he replied, satisfaction filling him as he realized L’Argeneau was nailed, and the Prichards were about to be crucified, too.
Drake hadn’t been wrong. For a present for Epiphany, which was tomorrow—the sixth—he couldn’t have asked for a better gift.
“This Dark Web website Drake told you about,” Markov said, when Edward thought their conversation was over.
“Yes? What about it?”
“I’ve found no evidence of such a place.”
“The internet’s big,” Edward countered. “Maybe you haven’t found it.”
“I’ve been building a trap. You know my traps are foolproof. I tell you true, there is no UnReal online presence on the Dark Web. Prichard is too old school, anyway. He’s in his fifties and, at best, he’s a midlevel accountant, hardly capable of plotting the downfall of a nation on his own.”
Cutting Xavier a look, he saw his cousin was focused entirely on the screen. Carefully, he shot the head of a security a triumphant grin after he flashed a look at the images before him. When Giles smiled back, Edward reflected how difficult it was to maintain an air of normalcy. Markov was overloading him with information he really didn’t need to be hearing when the man whose competence was in question was nearby.
“What are you talking about, old friend?”
Silence fell on the other end of the line. “He’s with you?”
“Intuitive as ever,” Edward said, managing to speak wryly when all he wanted to do was demand answers.
“I don’t trust him, Edward. There’s no proof of this gossip.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means he started something with the intention of pushing you on the hunt for it.”
Scowling, Edward demanded, “But why the hell would he do that?”
“I don’t know. But I don’t trust him,” Markov repeated. “What if it’s true? What if Arabella was murdered? And this is some elaborate attempt at misdirection?”
“What gain would the family have for killing her?”
“Not the family, but Drake.”
“He loved my mother; he’d do nothing to hurt her.”
“Your mother loved many men, my friend,” came the softly-worded response. “And some men can handle that, while others can’t.”
“What are you implying?”
“I’m not sure. Not yet. But don’t trust him, and be wary of any information he feeds you. He’s proven once that he’s willing to lie to a king to give himself a reason for instigating an investigation; take that for the warning it is.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Speak slowly, Father. Rushing it won’t help.”
Perry winced at George’s impatient tone. She felt for both father and son, as neither of them were particularly known for their tolerance on certain topics, and their health and recuperation seemed to be two such matters.
“Let him rest, George,” she chided, settling deeper into Philippe’s side.
Three days ago, the hospital cot had been taken away and Philippe had been moved back to the far more regal mattress that befit a man of his station.
She much preferred to see him there, amid the grand four posts and swathes of regal maroon fabric than on the tight, narrow cot.
He was slowly coming into himself, but the bed had had to be converted for his needs—needs that still icked her out but were a part of his recovery. There were bags containing things she had no desire to know about.
Shuddering at the grossness of the human body, she watched as Philippe sucked in a deep breath. Somewhere along the way, his speech had been affected. It was gradually coming back, but there was a definite slur and a stutter. Why? She had no idea. Even Dr. Schertz was perplexed and had brought in a slew of new consultants to tend to the old king.
Speech therapy, as well as being chivvied along by his son, seemed to be having some effect, though it left Philippe exhausted and needing to nap every few hours. Dr. Schertz seemed to be as eager to overexert her father-in-law as much as his sons and nephew were. Only Perry was the one who saw the advantage in taking a damn chill pill.
“He’s coming on better than we could have hoped, George,” she commented gently when Philippe nodded off, somehow managing not to hear his son’s expletive response.
“I know. I just have questions.”
“I think we both know for a fact that he wants to give you the answers. Why do you think he’s pushing himself so hard?”
“Think he can write yet?” George asked, his tone insistent.
She sighed. “Maybe after he’s rested. And not for long.”
George grumbled a little but began to pace around the bedroom. He looked ill-at-ease, and Perry couldn’t blame him. The festive period was coming to an end: tomorrow was King’s Day, the most important part of Yule according to the Veronian tradition, and it meant a return to their responsibilities.
She wouldn’t lie; she’d loved these past few days. Her men had all made a distinct effort to spend the larger chunk of their time with her, putting off important duties to be with her.
This would be a Christmas she would cherish forever, and would miss once the holiday season was over.
“What’s really going on, George?” she asked softly.
“I’m just… I want to know if he knew.”
Though she frowned in confusion, it took less than a few seconds for the synapses in her brain to spark into life. “You want to know if he knew Laurence Prichard was behind your kidnapping?”
He started to gnaw at his bottom lip; a gesture that was surprisingly youthful on him.
“And if he did?”
“I don’t know. I just.. I’d like to know what’s what. For my own sanity.”
“I understand that,” she told him gently. “Nothing wrong with that, either. But, pushing him won’t get you anywhere.”
He fell silent, but carried on his pacing. After a while, she hefted herself off the side of the bed and into the waiting armchair at the foot of the epic-sized mattress. She reached for her cell phone and caught up with a few things in her calendar as George went to stand by the window that overlooked Saren way up ahead.
She’d always thought the city was Madela, but had recently learned that the two sides of the castle had a perfect vantage point, thanks to the way they were positioned, to see the two major cities in the distance.
“Tired.”
The word had her jolting a little, and she saw Philippe’s eyes were open again. The lids were drooping though, and she couldn’t blame him. George had really been pushing. Asking hard questions and expecting Philippe to answer with one word “yeses” and “nos.”
“I know, Philippe,” she said gently, getting to her feet again
and moving to his side.
At her back, George stayed in place, and she was grateful for that. Father and son needed a break from one another.
As she settled amid the covers once more, she jerked when Philippe’s hand, heavy and with no dexterity, tapped her belly. “Child?”
She nodded. “Yes. I’m five months pregnant.”
His eyes widened, the eyes that were so like gemstones, so like his son’s, glinting in the low light in the room. “Soon, grandchild.”
“Yes.”
His arm was sluggish as he patted her arm. “Hurt?”
“Does the baby hurt me?” she asked, surprised by the question.
But he shook his head. “Hurt. Head?”
“Oh.” She licked her lips. “No. It’s just a cut. There was a little accident two weeks ago. Before Yule.”
“Accident?”
“There was a bombing, father,” George said grimly, not having moved from the window.
Philippe’s eyes flared wide in response—it was amazing how much information they could convey when a person’s words were momentarily lost. “Why?”
“The UnReals. They’ve grown worse in the past few months,” she said softly, wishing there was an easier way to drop this kind of news, but knowing there wasn’t.
“Baby okay?”
“Yes. Xavier, Edward, George and I were lucky. We think the UnReals just planted the bombs wherever they could, because there was no real pattern to the placement—and we were away from the epicenter of the blast.” Her words were pretty much verbatim what her husband had told her, all in the effort of trying to share more.
Even when he wanted nothing more than to protect her.
“We lost a lot of good men that day,” George intoned starkly.
“No,” Philippe whispered, tears forming and falling down his cheeks.
“Yes,” she confirmed sadly.
A hoarse breath escaped her father-in-law. “Raoul.”
She jerked to attention. “Raoul Da Silva. The guard? He’s dead. We found out he was an UnReal too.”
Philippe swallowed thickly. “Know.”
“No?” Perry frowned, confused by the similar intonation on the words. “He isn’t?”
Long Live Queen Perry: Contemporary Reverse Harem (Kingdom of Veronia Book 3) Page 33