The Royal Secret

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  For Jeremy Trevathan

  Author’s Note

  I began writing The Royal Secret in 1998—exactly twenty years ago. After a number of successful published novels, I’d decided I wanted to write a thriller, within the setting of a fictional British royal family. At the time, the popularity of the monarchy was at an all-time low following the death of Diana, Princess of Wales. The year 2000 was also the Queen Mother’s centenary year, with the official nationwide celebration taking place just after the book was to be published. Looking back, perhaps I should have paid more attention when an early trade review suggested that St. James’s Palace wouldn’t like the subject matter. In the run-up to publication, in-store promotions, orders, and PR events were inexplicably canceled and subsequently, Seeing Double—as the book was called then—barely saw the light of day.

  My publisher then canceled the contract for my next book, and despite my knocking on numerous doors to find another, they were all closed in my face. At the time, it was devastating watching my career go up in smoke overnight. Luckily, I was newly married with a young family, so I concentrated on bringing up my children and wrote three books for my own pleasure. Looking back, the break was a blessing in disguise, but when my youngest started school, I knew I had to dig deep and find the courage to send my latest manuscript to an agent. I changed my surname to be on the safe side and, after my years in the wilderness, was ecstatic when a publisher bought it.

  A number of novels on, my publisher and I decided it was time Seeing Double, as it was known in 1998, was given a second chance. It is important to remember that The Royal Secret is, to some extent, a period piece. If I were to set it in today’s world, the plotline would be totally implausible due to the advent of technology, especially in terms of the high-tech gadgetry now used by our security services.

  Lastly, I wish to reiterate that The Royal Secret is a work of fiction, bearing no similarity to our beloved queen and her family’s life. I hope you enjoy the “alternative” version, if it does manage to reach your hands this time . . .

  Lucinda Riley

  February 2018

  KING’S GAMBIT

  Opening move wherein White offers a pawn to divert a Black pawn

  PROLOGUE

  London, November 20, 1995

  “James, darling, what are you doing?”

  He looked around him, disoriented, then staggered forward.

  She caught him just before he fell. “You’ve been sleepwalking, haven’t you? Come on, let’s take you back to bed.”

  The gentle voice of his granddaughter told him he was still on earth. He knew he’d been standing here for a reason, that there was something urgent he had to do that he’d been leaving right until the last moment . . .

  But now it was gone. Desolate, he let her half-carry him to his bed, loathing his wasted, fragile limbs, which rendered him as helpless as a baby, and his scattered mind, which had once again betrayed him.

  “There now,” she said as she made him comfortable. “How’s the pain? Would you like a little more morphine?”

  “No. Please, I . . .”

  It was the morphine that was turning his brain to jelly. Tomorrow, he’d have none, and then he’d remember what it was he had to do before he died.

  “Okay. You just relax and try to get some sleep,” she said, soothing him, her hand stroking his forehead. “The doctor will be here soon.”

  He knew he mustn’t go to sleep. He closed his eyes, desperately searching, searching . . . snatches of memories, faces . . .

  Then he saw her, as clear as the day he’d first met her. So beautiful, so gentle . . .

  “Remember? The letter, my darling,” she whispered to him. “You promised to return it . . .”

  Of course!

  He opened his eyes, trying to sit up, and saw the concerned face of his granddaughter hovering above him. And felt a painful prick in the inside of his elbow.

  “The doctor’s giving you something to calm you down, James, darling,” she said.

  No! No!

  The words refused to form on his lips, and as the needle slipped into his arm, he knew that he’d left it too late.

  “I’m so sorry, so very sorry,” he gasped.

  His granddaughter watched as his eyelids finally closed and the tension left his body. She pressed her smooth cheek against his and found it wet with tears.

  Besançon, France, November 24, 1995

  She walked slowly into the drawing room toward the fire. It was cold today, and her cough was worse. Edging her frail body into a chair, she picked up the fresh copy of the Times from the table to read the obituaries with her customary English breakfast tea. She clattered the china cup into its saucer as she saw the headline taking up a third of the front page.

  LIVING LEGEND IS DEAD

  Sir James Harrison, thought by many to be the greatest actor of his generation, died yesterday at his London home, surrounded by his family. He was ninety-five. A private funeral will take place next week, followed by a memorial service in London in January.

  Her heart clenched, and the newspaper shook so violently beneath her fingers she could hardly read the rest. Alongside the article was a picture of him with the queen, receiving his OBE. Her tears blurring his image, she traced the contours of his strong profile, his thick mane of graying hair . . .

  Could she . . . dared she return? Just one last time, to say goodbye . . . ?

  As her morning tea cooled, undrunk beside her, she turned over the front page to continue reading, savoring the details of his life and career. Then her attention was caught by another small headline beneath:

  RAVENS MISSING FROM TOWER

  It was announced last night that the famous Tower of London ravens have vanished. As legend has it, the birds have been in residence for more than five hundred years, keeping guard over the Tower and the royal family, as decreed by Charles II. The raven keeper was alerted to their disappearance yesterday evening and a nationwide search is currently taking place.

  “Heaven help us all,” she whispered, fear flooding through her old veins. Perhaps it was simply coincidence, but she knew the legend’s meaning all too well . . .

  1

  London, January 5, 1996

  Joanna Haslam ran full pelt through Covent Garden, her breathing heavy and her lungs rattling with the effort. Dodging past tourists and groups of schoolchildren, she narrowly missed knocking over a busker, her rucksack flying to one side behind her. She emerged onto Bedford Street just as a limousine drew up outside the wrought-iron gates that led to St. Paul’s Church. Photographers surrounded the car as a chauffeur stepped out to open the back door.

  Damn! Damn!

  With her last iota of strength, Joanna sprinted the final few yards to the gates, then into the paved courtyard beyond, the clock on the redbrick face of the church confirming she was late. As she neared the entrance, she cast her gaze over the huddle of paparazzi and saw that Steve, her photographer, was in prime position, perched on the steps. She waved at him and he gave her a thumbs-up sign as she squeezed through the crush of photographers who were crowding round the celebrity who had emerged from the limousine. Once inside the church itself, she could see the pews were packed, lit by the soft glow from the chandeliers. The organ was p
laying somber music in the background.

  After flashing her press card at the usher and digging for breath, she slipped into the back pew and sat down gratefully. Her shoulders rose and fell with each gasp as she fumbled in her rucksack for her notepad and pen.

  Although the church was frosty cold, Joanna could feel beads of sweat on her forehead; the roll-neck of the black lamb’s wool sweater she’d thrown on in her panic was now sticking uncomfortably to her skin. She took out a tissue and blew her streaming nose. Then, sweeping a hand through her tangled mass of long dark hair, she leaned back against the pew and closed her eyes to catch her breath.

  Just a few days into a new year that had begun with so much promise, Joanna felt as if she’d been not so much chucked but hurled off the top of the Empire State Building. At speed. Without warning.

  Matthew . . . the love of her life—or rather, as of yesterday, the ex-love of her life—was the cause.

  Joanna bit her bottom lip hard, willing herself not to start crying again, and craned her neck toward the pews at the front near the altar, noting with relief that the family members everyone was waiting for had not yet arrived. Glancing back through the main doors, she could see the paparazzi lighting up cigarettes and fiddling with their camera lenses outside. The mourners in front of her were beginning to shuffle on the uncomfortable wooden pews, whispering to their neighbors. She hastily scanned the crowd and picked out the most noteworthy celebrities to mention in her article, struggling to distinguish them by the backs of their heads, which were mostly gray or white. As she scribbled the names down in her notepad, images of yesterday invaded her mind again . . .

  Matthew had turned up unexpectedly on the doorstep of her Crouch End apartment in the afternoon. After the heavy shared revelry of Christmas and New Year, the two of them had agreed to adjourn to their separate apartments and have a quiet few days before work began again. Unfortunately, Joanna had spent that time nursing the nastiest cold she’d had in years. She’d opened the door to Matthew clutching her Winnie the Pooh hot-water bottle, clad in ancient thermal pajamas and a pair of stripy bed socks.

  She’d known immediately that there was something wrong as he’d hovered near the door, refusing to take his coat off, his eyes darting here and there, looking at anything but her . . .

  He had then informed her that he had been “thinking.” That he couldn’t see their relationship going anywhere. And perhaps it was time to call it a day.

  “We’ve been together for six years now, since the end of uni,” he’d said, fidgeting with the gloves she’d given him for Christmas. “I don’t know, I always thought that, with time, I’d want to marry you—you know, tie our lives together officially. But that moment hasn’t happened . . .” He’d shrugged limply at her. “And if I don’t feel that way now, I can’t see that I ever will.”

  Joanna’s hands had clenched around her hot-water bottle as she had regarded his guilty, guarded expression. Digging in her pajama pocket, she’d found a damp tissue and blown her nose hard. Then she’d looked him straight in the eye.

  “Who is she?”

  The blush had spread right across his face and neck. “I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he’d mumbled, “but it has and I can’t go on pretending any longer.”

  Joanna remembered the New Year’s Eve they’d shared four nights ago. And decided that he’d done a bloody good job of pretending.

  She was called Samantha, apparently. Worked at the same advertising agency as he did. An account director, no less. It had begun the night Joanna had been doorstepping a Tory MP on a sleaze story and hadn’t made it in time to Matthew’s agency’s Christmas party. The word “cliché” still whirled round her head. But then she checked herself; where did clichés originate, if not from the common denominators of human behavior?

  “I promise you, I’ve tried so hard to stop thinking about Sam,” Matthew had continued. “I really did try all throughout Christmas. It was so great to be with your family up in Yorkshire. But then I met her again last week, just for a quick drink, and . . .”

  Joanna was out. Samantha was in. It was as simple as that.

  She could only stare at him, her eyes burning with shock, anger, and fear, as he’d continued.

  “At first I thought it was just an infatuation. But it’s obvious that if I feel like this about another woman now, I simply can’t commit to you. So, I’m only doing what’s right.” He’d looked at her, almost beseeching her to thank him for being so noble.

  “What’s right . . . ,” she’d repeated, her voice hollow. Then she’d burst into floods of coldy, fever-induced tears. From somewhere far away, she could hear his voice mumbling more excuses. Forcing open her swollen, tear-drenched eyes, she’d regarded him as he’d sunk down, small and ashamed, into her worn leather armchair.

  “Get out,” she’d finally croaked. “You evil, low-down, lying, double-crossing bloody cheat! Get out! Just get out!”

  In retrospect, what had really mortified Joanna was that he’d taken no further persuading. He’d stood up, muttering stuff about various possessions that he’d left at her apartment and getting together for a chat once the dust had settled, then he’d virtually charged for the front door.

  Joanna had spent the rest of yesterday evening crying down the phone to her mother, to her best friend Simon’s voicemail, and into the increasingly soggy fur of her Winnie the Pooh hot-water bottle.

  Eventually, thanks to copious amounts of Night Nurse and brandy, she’d passed out, only grateful that she had the next couple of days off work due to the overtime she’d put in on the news desk before Christmas.

  Then her mobile had rung at nine this morning. Joanna had raised herself from her drug-induced slumber and reached for it, praying it might be a devastated, repentant Matthew, realizing the enormity of what he’d just done.

  “It’s me,” a harsh Glaswegian voice had barked.

  Joanna had sworn silently at the ceiling. “ ’Lo, Alec,” she’d snuffled. “What do you want? I’m off today.”

  “Sorry, but you’re not. Alice, Richie, and Bill have all called in sick. You’ll have to take your days in lieu another time.”

  “They can join the club.” Joanna had given a loud, exaggerated cough down the line. “Sorry, Alec, but I’m dying too.”

  “Look at it this way: work today, then when you’re fit you’ll be able to enjoy the time off owed to you.”

  “No, I really can’t. I’ve got a temperature. I can hardly stand.”

  “Then you’ll be fine. It’s a sitting-down job, at the Actors’ Church in Covent Garden. There’s a memorial service for Sir James Harrison at ten o’clock.”

  “You can’t do this to me, Alec, please. The last thing I need is to sit in a drafty church. I’ve already caught my death. You’ll end up at a memorial service for me.”

  “Sorry, Jo, no choice. I’ll pay for a cab there and back, though. You can go straight home afterward and email me the piece. Try and talk to Zoe Harrison, will you? I’ve sent Steve to do shots. Should make the front page if she’s all dolled up. Right, speak later.”

  “Damn!” Joanna had thrown her aching head back onto the pillow in despair. Then she’d rung a local taxi company, and staggered to her wardrobe to find a suitable black outfit.

  Most of the time she loved her job, lived for it, as Matthew had often remarked, but this morning she seriously wondered why. After stints on a couple of regional papers, she’d been taken on as a junior reporter a year ago by the Morning Mail, based in London, and one of the top-selling national dailies in the country. However, her hard-won but lowly spot at the bottom of the pile meant she was hardly in a position to refuse. As Alec, the news-desk editor, never ceased to remind her, there were a thousand hungry young journalists right behind her. Her six weeks at the news desk had been the hardest posting so far. The hours were unremitting and Alec—by turns a slave driver and a true dedicated professional—expected nothing less than he was prepared to give himself.

  �
�Give me the lifestyle pages any day,” she’d snuffled as she’d pulled on a not-terribly-clean black sweater, a thick pair of woolly tights, and a black skirt in deference to the somber occasion.

  The cab had arrived ten minutes late, then had got stuck in a monumental traffic jam on Charing Cross Road. “Sorry, love, nothing doing,” the driver had said. Joanna had looked at her watch, chucked a ten-pound note at him, and jumped out of the cab. As she’d hared through the streets toward Covent Garden, her chest laboring and her nose streaming, she’d wondered whether life could get any worse.

  Joanna was snapped out of her reverie as the congregation suddenly ceased their chatter. She opened her eyes and turned round as Sir James Harrison’s family members began to file into the church.

  Leading the party was Charles Harrison, Sir James’s only child, now well into his sixties. He lived in Los Angeles, and was an acclaimed director of big-budget action films filled with special effects. She vaguely remembered that he had won an Oscar some time ago, but his films weren’t the kind she usually went to see.

  By Charles Harrison’s side was Zoe Harrison, his daughter. As Alec had hoped, Zoe looked stunning in a fitted black suit with a short skirt that showed off her long legs, and her hair was pulled back in a sleek chignon that set off her classic English-rose beauty to perfection. She was an actress, whose film career was on the rise, and Matthew had been mad about her. He always said Zoe reminded him of Grace Kelly—his dream woman, apparently—leading Joanna to wonder why Matthew was going out with a dark-eyed, gangly brunette such as herself. She swallowed a lump in her throat, betting her Winnie the Pooh hot-water bottle that this “Samantha” was a petite blonde.

  Holding Zoe Harrison’s hand was a young boy of around nine or ten, looking uncomfortable in a black suit and tie: Zoe’s son, Jamie Harrison, named after his great-grandfather. Zoe had given birth to Jamie when she was only nineteen and still refused to name the father. Sir James had loyally defended his granddaughter and her decisions both to have the baby and to remain silent about Jamie’s paternity.