The Last in Line (The Royal Inheritance Series Book 1)

by Banks, Evie

  At first she had gloried in the aloneness; there was no schedule to keep and no one shadowing her steps. But the hours were starting to stretch and the quietude allowed her too much time to think and there were things she didn’t want to spend too much time thinking about. Not at this point.

  She picked up the crossword puzzle again, but couldn’t for the life of her think of who or what Gidget could be. Is this the type of stuff people wasted their time on? She felt immediately chastened. She’d had every advantage and she wanted to be normal. That’s why she was here sitting in this caravan, wasn’t it?

  The drumming on the roof slowed and then stopped. She pulled the tatty curtain back from the window and saw sunshine peeking through leaves. Surely there would be no harm in taking a walk out doors. She needed fresh air and to see another human being even if no words were spoken between them. From her attic hideaway she’d at least been able to look out on the street and see activity and feel a distant part of it. She ran her hand over her hair, shorter than it had ever been and dyed a different color. There would be no danger of being recognized. Yes, she decided, there would be no harm at all in strolling to the village for a newspaper and a bite to eat. She was thoroughly sick of stale mayonnaise sandwiches.

  The caravan was set back in a field far from a road. Her rubber boots sank into the fresh mud as she trudged along the faintest of trails. At last she came to a road. She didn’t know which way to go, but felt that to the right was as good a bet as any. Thirty minutes later she was walking down the main street of a small village. She didn’t know the name of it or where it was located, but instinctively knew where to find the shop that sold newspapers, candy, orange juice and some bread and cheese. It was so good to hear the normal sounds of life: the cars puttering by, the two older women complaining about the price of petrol and even the whirr of the electric heater, that she couldn’t help smiling at the shopkeeper as he filled her shopping bag until she remembered that she shouldn’t be so visible. This was a small town after all, and the presence of a grinning stranger might be noted. Across the street at the pub, she ordered herself a Cornish pastie. She tucked in, enjoying the first hot food she’d had since she’d been deposited at the caravan and once the first hunger pains were calmed, she spread out the newspaper, eager for gossip and news of the world.

  Her eyes scanned the pages. Not much had changed since she had gone into hiding. Economic crises and political negotiations were ongoing. In a way that was comforting—everything could change and yet nothing ever really changed. It made her decision easier to know that the world hadn’t come to an end. She read each article carefully, taking in each detail and formulating her own response. She had always been praised for her erudition. She shook her head. That was in the past now. What she needed to do was blend in, keep her mouth closed and look common. She had just resolved to do this when she was arrested by a split photograph. On one side of the photograph was a pretty woman in an evening gown standing, incongruously, in front of what looked like a take away restaurant in a low class part of town, while the other photograph showed an attractive man with an unusual facial scar, sharing a drink with a well-known film star. The headline read, A Tale of Two Heirs: One Charms the Stars While the Other Takes the Limo to Dinner.

  Surely not!

  She read the article twice and then flipped through the paper and found a few more items mentioning the two people in the photographs and the jockeying surrounding the future of the throne. Both of them were interlopers, as far as she was concerned and not worthy of a second thought, but what really concerned her was that the idea of the monarchy was still being discussed as a fact. Its continuance wasn’t even in question. After all they had done and the deals she had made with herself, it was still continuing. She suddenly wasn’t so hungry. She paid quickly, gathered up her belongings and then walked back up the road. The biting wind was a reminder that the saturated ground would soon be hard with frost. She paused on the side of the road, her short hair whipping around her face, and dug out the mobile phone from her coat pocket. She wasn’t supposed to call this number except in an emergency. She held her breath as the phone rang and exhaled when she heard the voice she longed to hear in person ask her why the hell she was calling.

  “It’s Tina. We have to talk.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ROBERTS RETURNED THE next day, looking pale and drawn. Cassandra threw herself into his arms and buried her face in his shoulder. He patted her on the back and murmured, “It’s all right, child.”

  Renee, who had become adept at making tea, brought him a cup and they sat at a table to talk.

  “What’s going on?” asked Renee. “Why are they still questioning you?”

  Roberts poured some milk into his teacup. “I think they don’t even know themselves. They are chasing every lead and since my position gave me unique access to the lives of the royals and the grounds, I can understand why they might look at me.”

  “So they don’t believe it was an accident?”

  He shook his head.

  “But nobody has come forward to claim it. After a terror attack, don’t the groups involved usually brag about it?” said Renee.

  Roberts shrugged. “I suppose that is what is so worrying about this case. There hasn’t been a peep from anyone. Oh, there’s been the normal loonie-tunes coming out of the woodwork claiming they did it, but they also claimed to be Joan of Arc or to have invented a new type of nuclear fission in their basements, so those leads aren’t being seriously pursued. All the usual suspects—Middle Eastern terrorists…Russian mobsters…Greenpeace…—all swear up and down they had nothing to do with it.”

  “So the person who did this could still be out there?” said Renee.

  Roberts nodded. “Yes.”

  “So they could theoretically come after us, too.”

  “Mr. Chase has security well in hand,” said Roberts, but looked troubled. “Anyway, you have other things to think about. Mr. Britchford thinks it would be excellent exposure for you to be a judge at the Annual Midlands Cake and Cookie competition put on by the Ladies Auxiliary Club this afternoon.”

  Renee arched an eyebrow. “Bretton parties with movie stars and I’m sent to taste cookies?”

  “It’s about the type of image we want to present, you see,” said Roberts, not too convincingly. “We want to present you as genteel”—Renee snorted—“and polished and a natural successor to the late Queen. It was not above the late Majesty’s honor to greet her subjects at events such as this. It creates good will across a wider segment of the population than just having your picture appear in the newspaper like an average celebrity.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. There’s something to be said about this celebrity business,” said Renee.

  Indeed, snippets about Bretton appeared daily in the gossip news shows. Just yesterday, a photo of him canoodling with the glamorous daughter of a prominent banker had been discussed breathlessly on every channel. “Put me up against him in a rifle competition or a Harley riding competition and I’ll smoke him in minutes, but I’m going to lose the glamor competition to him every time.”

  “Maybe putting on a bit of lipstick and mascara would be a good start,” snapped Roberts, sounding just like her mother.

  Renee was going to retort that if this cookie-tasting business didn’t work out, he could find himself a new line of work as a beauty consultant, but Cassandra, who was bouncing in her seat, said, “Can I be a judge too, please, please, PLEASE? I love cookies.”

  “We’ll see if we can’t make you an assistant judge,” said Roberts.

  Renee sighed resignedly. If judging cookies and pies would get her the adult-diapers-and-fiber-milkshakes vote, then she supposed she had to do it. Besides, how hard could tasting cookies be? At least she wouldn’t embarrass herself.

  * * *

  A few hours later Renee was in the Oxfordshire Pavilion, moving from table to table sampling the goods and writing notes on a scorecard. Judging pastries was harde
r than she thought. Though she only took one bite of each item, the vast number of entries had added up to be a considerable number of bites and she was trying very hard to appear delighted with each new cookie or slice of cake, when, in fact, she thought she just might toss her own cookies if she sampled a single thing more. The sturdy women of the Midlands Ladies Auxiliary smiled and awkwardly half-bobbed as she approached, but Renee could see the suspicion in their eyes; they hadn’t yet accepted her.

  Roberts trailed a few steps behind with a security guard, but Cassandra bounded ahead and never seemed to get full. Whereas, the eyes of the women hardened when they fell upon Renee, they softened and warmed at Cassandra’s enthusiasm. Renee did her best to utter “Delicious!” or “Oh my, that is good,” or ask if they used a family recipe, and she received short, polite replies in return. The other judges, an elderly gentleman who was the mayor of a town Renee hadn’t heard of, and an imposing middle-aged woman with an enormous hat, kept their distance. Only one contestant, a youngish woman named Audrey, was willing to talk freely. She had a row of studs up the side of her ear and flaming orange hair that matched her carrot cake cupcakes which were so good, Renee managed to take a second bite.

  “These are incredible,” said Renee.

  “Thanks. I bake in my spare time. It’s a stress-reliever, you know. My grandmother got me into it. She’s the reason I’m here.” A silver-haired woman beamed proudly next to her. “I don’t live here; I live in London, but baking is considered too domestic among my circle of friends so I joined the Ladies Auxiliary that my grandmother belongs to. It’s a little sleepy, but after the stress of my job, sleepy is good.”

  “I know how you feel,” said Renee, remembering her days of being run off her feet as a waitress. “What do you do in London?”

  “Publicist.”

  Renee laughed. Audrey was the opposite of what she thought a publicist would look like. “Maybe I should hire you.”

  “Maybe you should,” said Audrey, suddenly serious. “You’re doing a cracking job, but the other guy’s got something that you don’t: mystery. Never undervalue the allure of a little mystery. Like, where did that scar come from? When anybody asks, he never says, just gives that dead sexy half-smile and lets you imagine what you will.”

  Renee wanted to talk more—she liked Audrey who was so open—but it was impossible to have a conversation with so many people listening in and Roberts was making signs that she should move on to the next table, which was piled high with green colored cookies.

  “It was wonderful to meet you, Audrey, and that’s good advice. Good luck in the competition.” Renee began to move on, but Audrey produced a business card and pressed it into her hand.

  “My services are yours if you need them,” said Audrey.

  Renee smiled and pocketed the card. She went to sample a green-tea ginger cookie that nearly caused her to gag. “Very tasty,” she managed to say to the doughy matron behind the table who seemed pleased with the comment. She wondered how the former queen had managed to stay slim considering the amount of sugar that could be consumed at just a single food judging event. Her stomach churned uncomfortably. A reporter from the local paper asked if he could tag along. Renee agreed, much to Roberts’s consternation.

  “How do you like it here?” asked the reporter, producing a handheld digital recorder.

  “Everyone I’ve met has been so kind and wonderful. I’m really glad to be here,” said Renee and she heard Roberts sigh in relief.

  “What do you think of the food?”

  The mention of food made her ill, but she attempted to praise it though she didn’t understand what was wrong with the Yorkshire Pudding. It was awful; it was more like a biscuit in need of gravy than a dessert.

  The judges all converged on a table decorated in blue ribbons and the reporter thanked Renee for her time. She didn’t understand why Roberts looked so serious, but then again, he always looked serious. She turned her attention back to the table. The cake on sample was a multilayered coconut, custard, and orange jello creation that oozed down the sides. It didn’t look appetizing. “It’s won three years in a row,” said the concoction’s creator, proudly. “It’s renowned throughout the surrounding counties.”

  “I hear she has blackmail on one of the judges,” whispered Roberts into Renee’s ear. The woman sliced thick pieces for all three judges. Cassandra, in her capacity as assistant judge, was already tucking in to her sliver. She made a face.

  Renee loved coconut, but the sight of the jiggling jello and soupy custard made her feel nauseous. She couldn’t do it, no way. It’s just one bite, she told herself, you can do it! She closed her eyes and took a bite. There was something wrong with the custard. It tasted like she was biting into raw egg yolks. It swished around in her mouth and suddenly Renee knew what was about to happen, but there was nowhere she could run to in time. She bent over a potted plant and everything she had eaten until then came back up. She hadn’t realized that the cake’s baker was directly behind her holding the offending cake and when Renee straightened up again she stepped backwards into the woman, causing her to stumble and smash the cake into the gentleman judge’s chest. There he stood with custard dripping down his suit and bits of orange jello clinging to his buttons and lapels.

  Renee was horrified. She looked up and realized that she was surrounded by spectators. For a long moment there was silence and those that didn’t look disgusted, began to cackle with laughter. The people were faceless to her and her eyes were still blurry from the bout of sickness, but Renee caught sight of the Audrey’s flame orange hair among the crowd. While everyone else held their sides, Audrey shook her head solemnly.

  She had never been so humiliated. Within minutes, the images of Renee bent over a potted plant, along with her slur on Yorkshire Pudding, the national food, had been seen by a significant portion of the country and within hours, it had been seen by nearly everyone. Robert’s phone pinged every minute or so with notifications and requests for interviews or comments. He replied to the former with “Not at this time” and to the latter with “It was an unfortunate case of food poisoning,” and hang up before anything else could be asked.

  Renee couldn’t meet his eyes. The day had been a failure in every way. There was silence in the car the whole way back to London and it was a blessed relief to dodge the paparazzi and run into the sanctuary of the hotel. She immediately switched on the television and already the talking heads were deep in discussion regarding Renee’s missteps.

  “It is highly unfortunate that the heiress presumptive would consider our cherished culinary traditions as disappointing and not worth learning about. What does it say about her attitudes and knowledge in general? A monarch must be more than an attractive figurehead who waves her hand and cuts ribbons. A monarch is the repository of the national character—the best of the national character, of course—and what we’ve witnessed is the folly of believing that a link to a name on a piece of parchment is enough basis on which to select our nation’s figurehead. This latest incident should put to rest the doubts we’ve all harbored since Georgina Krebs’s announcement. In addition to her unusual background and the marital troubles which she would be bringing into the position with her, she is also lacking in discretion. It is fortunate, then, that there are alternatives….”

  She changed the channels and each station aired commentary similar to the first. Renee switched the television off in agitation when Bretton’s face flashed across the screen. She’d heard enough.

  She buried her face in her hands. “I’m so sorry. I’ve ruined everything.”

  Roberts tried to sound chipper. “It’s part of life. There’s bound to be a controversy from time to time.”

  “Not like this,” said Renee.

  Roberts didn’t respond and Renee took that as a sign that he agreed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  IT WAS WITH EAGERNESS bordering on desperation that she looked forward to her trip to Erastus Hughes’s estate and the ball t
hat would be thrown in her honor by the League of Royal Bastards. Roberts attempted to talk her out of it saying it would look bad for her to visit an eccentric like Hughes and to attend an event thrown by a group that was causing quite a bit of controversy in its own right, for they had just announced that they would seek the vacated titles of nobility for their members.

  But Renee insisted. The morning of the trip arrived and Renee could feel the excitement building. She dressed elegantly, but casually as Hughes had promised to take her about the grounds, and packed the silver gown with the crystal bust line for the ball, the one she had tried on in New York.

  It was visceral, the feeling of stress and trouble falling away, as the car drove out of London. The cramped neighborhoods and industrial areas were left behind to reveal farmland and charming villages. She had brought Leanne with them because she figured it was safer to have her where an eye could be kept on her, rather than leave her alone to create havoc in London.

  Renee rolled down the window to let the breeze cool her face. The English countryside was so different from her dry, scrubby area of Texas, which seemed permanently thirsty for water. Here, the scenery was lush and color spilled everywhere and Renee thought to herself that she had never seen anything more beautiful than an English Autumn.

  The Hughes estate consisted of a rambling brick manor with ivy curling around windows and above the door. Carved jack-o-lanterns lined the steps. There were still enough roses in bloom to give the whole place a wild, cheerful air. In the doorway was Erastus Hughes himself, waving as the Range Rover crunched over the long gravel driveway. He was wearing a tweed coat over a sweater and tie.

  He reached for her hand as she got out of the vehicle. “Lady Montshire, welcome to Highlowe House. It’s my pleasure to have you here.”

  “No, thank you for inviting us. Really,” she said as she brushed back her windswept hair. “It’s been a hard couple of weeks.”