The Royal Secret Read online

  “Did you ever see him again?”

  “Only from the stalls, m’dear. I wrote to him a couple of times but the letters were never answered. Got an envelope sent to me every birthday, mind you, with a wad of cash inside it. No note, but I knew it was from him. So, there you are. The strange tale of your beloved grandfather in his early years, never before repeated by these lips. Now that he’s no longer with us, I hardly think it matters anymore. And you may well be able to investigate further, if it pleases you to do so.” William scratched his ear. “I’m trying to remember the name of the young lady I met all those times in front of Swan and Edgar. She told me once. Daisy . . . ? No. Violet . . . I’m sure it was a flower . . .”

  “Lily? Rose?” suggested Zoe.

  A smile crossed his face. “By golly, you’re right! It was Rose!”

  “And you have absolutely no idea who she was?”

  “Can’t betray all his secrets, y’know.” William tapped his nose. “I had an idea all right, but perhaps it’s best that remains in the grave with him.”

  “I’m going to have to go up to the attic in his house in Dorset where he kept all his memorabilia, and sift through it. See if I can find anything relating to what you’ve told me.”

  “I doubt you will, m’dear. If it’s been covered up for this long, strikes me we’ll never know the truth. Still, makes for an interesting story over supper.” He smiled at her.

  “Yes.” Zoe stifled a yawn and looked at her watch. “William, I think I must go to bed. I’ve an early call tomorrow. Thank you so much for telling me all this. I’ll let you know if I turn anything up.”

  “You do that, Zoe.” William watched her as she stood. He caught her hand and squeezed it. “You’re so like him when he was young, m’dear. I was watching you this afternoon and you have the same gift. You’re going to be very famous one day, and make your grandfather proud.”

  Tears came to Zoe’s eyes. “Thanks, William,” she murmured, and walked out of the bar.

  16

  Joanna had spent a miserable three days on Pets and Gardens, and an uncomfortable two nights sleeping in a makeshift pile of blankets and cushions on the floor of her bedroom, because the delivery of the new bed had not yet materialized. Tonight, she was meeting Marcus for dinner, and just the thought of having a soft, comfortable bed beneath her might actually have been enough to tempt her into staying with him for the night. She pulled on her well-worn and only LBD and teamed it with a fitted cardigan and slip-on shoes. Then she added some mascara to her lashes, a little blusher, and some lipstick. And, with her long hair still damp from the shower, set off for the bus stop.

  As she walked, she tried to keep her gait natural, and resisted the urge to constantly look behind her. She kept her bundle of keys in her fist, the sharp edges poking out from between her knuckles, just in case of an attack.

  As the bus trundled along Shaftesbury Avenue toward Soho, Joanna mused on the evening ahead. And hated herself for being so excited at the prospect of seeing Marcus again. She’d also spent the last few days pondering whether she should take Marcus into her confidence and tell him what she had discovered about his grandfather. She’d had to make the painful decision not to trust Simon, and had done her best to assign him to the “enemy camp”—even though she didn’t know who this “enemy” actually was. Given her demotion, she’d had to take Alec out of the equation too. As the bus pulled to a stop near Lexington Street, Joanna alighted, deciding she could really do with an ally. Marcus was waiting for her in Andrew Edmunds—a rustic but charming candlelit restaurant.

  “How are you?” He kissed her warmly on the lips.

  “Fine, I’m fine.” She slid into the chair opposite him.

  “You look fabulous, Jo. Love the dress.” Marcus’s eyes traveled up and down her body. “Glass of champagne?”

  “Go on then, you’ve forced me into it. Is it a special occasion?”

  “Of course. We’re having dinner together. That’s special enough for me. Good week?”

  “Terrible, actually. Apart from the fact I’ve been demoted at work, my new bed still hasn’t arrived.”

  “Poor you. I thought you were staying with a friend until it did.”

  “I was, but it got a bit . . . crowded. Simon came back and the apartment’s too small for both of us.”

  “Try and jump you, did he?”

  “God, no!” Joanna pushed down a smidgen of guilt. “He’s my oldest friend. We’ve known each other for years. Anyway”—she took a deep breath—“it’s a long story, vaguely connected with your family, actually. I’ll tell you over supper.”

  Once they had ordered food and wine, Marcus looked at her quizzically across the table.

  “Go on then.”

  “Go on what?”

  “Tell me all about it.”

  Joanna looked at him, suddenly uncertain. “I don’t know whether I should.”

  “That big a deal?”

  “That’s the thing, I don’t know. It may be something or nothing.”

  He reached across the table and took hold of her hand. “Joanna, I swear it won’t go further than me. Strikes me that you need to talk to someone about it.”

  “You’re right. I do. But I’m warning you, it’s bizarre and complicated. Okay.” She took a slurp of the very good red wine to give her confidence. “It all started when I turned up at your grandfather’s memorial service . . .”

  It took the starter, the main course, and most of the dessert before Joanna had brought Marcus up to date on “Little Old Lady–Gate,” as she had nicknamed the situation. She decided not to tell him about the anonymous men on her trail, somehow afraid to voice the full reality of what she thought was happening.

  At the end of her story, he lit a cigarette and slowly blew out the smoke, gazing at her steadily. “So that whole piece about me and the memorial fund was a cover-up so you could procure information about my grandfather and his dodgy past?”

  “Originally, yes,” Joanna admitted. “Sorry, Marcus. Although of course the article is going to be printed in the paper.”

  “I admit to feeling just a little used, Jo. Tell me honestly, are you having dinner with me tonight to see what else you can extract, or did you actually want to see me?”

  “I wanted to see you, promise.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “So, apart from the other thing, you do like me?” he probed.

  “Yes, Marcus, of course I do.”

  “Okay.” His expression cleared with what even Joanna believed was genuine relief. “Let’s go over the facts again: strange old lady at Sir Jim’s funeral, letter, program, your apartment gets trashed, you give said letter to so-called friend to have it analyzed, who then tells you it’s disintegrated in the process—”

  “And you know what?” Joanna butted in. “I can’t believe it did. I mean, think of letters from hundreds of years ago that are still in existence, but would have been chemically processed to determine their age.” She shook her head in frustration. “The question is, why did Simon lie to me? He really is my best friend.”

  “Sorry, Jo, but I think you’re right to be suspicious of him. So,” Marcus continued, “then you mention it to your boss, who tells you to follow it up, but does a quick U-turn a few days later and has you moved to a useless section of the paper where you can cause no harm.” Marcus rubbed his chin. “Whatever it is you’re onto, it’s something. The question is, what do you do now?”

  Joanna rifled through her rucksack for the envelope. “This is the photo I borrowed from the house in Dorset to dress up the article. And this is the theater program the little old lady gave me.” She laid them side by side. “See? It’s him, isn’t it?”

  Marcus studied both pictures. “It certainly looks like him, yes. If anyone would know more about this, it’s my sister, Zoe. Except she’s filming in Norfolk at the moment.”

  “I’d love to speak to Zoe, although I have to be very careful from now on, look as
though I’ve dropped the whole thing. Could you arrange it?”

  “Maybe, but it’ll cost you.”

  “What?”

  He grinned. “A brandy back at my place.”

  * * *

  Joanna sat in Marcus’s living room watching the flames leap in the gas fire. She felt calm, a little drowsy, and comforted that she had shared her secret with someone else.

  “There you are.” Marcus handed her a brandy glass and sat down next to her. “So, Miss Haslam, where do we go from here?”

  “Well, you try and arrange for me to see Zoe and—”

  He put a finger to her lips. “No, I wasn’t talking about that. I was talking about us.” He ran his finger up her cheek and caught a lock of her hair. “You see, I really don’t want to just play Watson to your Holmes.” He took the glass away from her before she had even taken a sip, then leaned toward her. “Let me kiss you, Joanna, please. You can tell me to stop at any time if you want to, and I promise I will.”

  Her stomach coiled in anticipation as Marcus put his lips to hers. She closed her eyes as she felt his tender kiss become more passionate, his tongue gently caressing hers. His arms closed around her shoulders and she relaxed into him as sense and right and wrong vanished in a haze of longing. Then he abruptly pulled away.

  “What?” she murmured.

  “Just making sure you don’t want me to stop.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Thank God for that,” he whispered, and pulled her back toward him. “Oh, Joanna, God, you’re gorgeous . . .”

  An hour later, she saw his face next to hers, his expression full of wonder. And gave him a contented smile.

  “Joanna, I think I love you . . .”

  His arms wrapped around her shoulders and she drank in the smell of his fresh, clean hair and the faint musky aftershave on his neck.

  “You okay?” he whispered.

  “Yes.”

  He rolled away from her and propped himself up on his elbow.

  “I meant what I said, you know. I think I’m falling in love with you.”

  “Bet you say that to all the girls,” Joanna replied briskly.

  “Before maybe, but never afterward.” He sat up and reached for his trousers to dig in his pocket for his cigarettes. “Want one?”

  “Go on then.”

  Marcus lit up two cigarettes and they sat on the floor cross-legged, smoking.

  “That was really enjoyable.” Joanna smiled at him.

  “The sex?”

  “No, the ciggie.” Joanna stubbed hers out in an ashtray.

  “You old romantic, you. Come here.” Marcus reached for her again and kissed her. “You know, ever since that first lunch I’ve thought about you constantly. I mean, could we put this on a more permanent basis?”

  “Are you asking me out?” she teased him.

  “I suppose I am, though after the past hour, I’m quite happy to stay in as much as possible.”

  “Oh, Marcus, I don’t know,” Joanna sighed. “I told you before I had a long-term relationship with an awful ending. I’m still very vulnerable. Besides, your reputation goes before you, and—”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come off it. Everyone I know in London has told me what a player you’ve been.”

  “Okay, okay, I admit I’ve been out with a few women, but I swear I’ve never felt like this before.” Marcus stroked her hair. “I promise I’d never do anything to hurt you. Please give me a chance, Jo. We can take it as slowly as you like.”

  “Marcus, that was not very slow.”

  “Why are you so flippant every time I try and talk to you seriously?”

  “Because”—Joanna rubbed her eyes, weary now—“I’m really scared.”

  “All I want is to be a part of your life. Give me a chance and I swear I won’t let you down.”

  “Okay, I’ll think about it.” Joanna yawned. “I’m exhausted.”

  “You can stay tonight, seeing as you haven’t a bed of your own to go to.” He smiled at her.

  “I’ve been perfectly okay on the floor for the past few days.”

  “Joanna, don’t be so defensive. I was joking. There is nothing I would like more than to wake up next to you in the morning.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  He stood and offered her his hand to pull her to standing. He led her out of the sitting room and into the bedroom, then threw back the duvet.

  “Ahh, a bed. Heaven.” Joanna climbed in and snuggled down contentedly as Marcus slid in beside her and turned off the light.

  “Jo?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do we really have to go to sleep straightaway?”

  * * *

  The following morning, Joanna was awoken by Marcus nuzzling her neck. Still half asleep, she came to as Marcus gently caressed her, then slowly made love to her again.

  “Oh my God! Look at the time. It’s twenty past nine! I’m going to be horrifically late!” Joanna sprang from the bed, and ran into the sitting room to search for her clothes. Marcus followed her.

  “Don’t go, Jo. Stay here with me. We could spend the day in bed.”

  “I wish. I’m holding on to my job by a whisker as it is,” she said as she hopped around the room trying to put her tights on.

  “Come back tonight, then?”

  “No, they have absolutely promised delivery of my new bed and I have to go straight home to meet them at five thirty.” Joanna threw her dress over her head.

  “I could come and help you make up the bed,” he said hopefully.

  “Tell you what, I’ll give you a ring from work.” Joanna put on her jacket and picked up her rucksack. She kissed him. “Thanks for last night.”

  “And this morning,” he reminded her, as he opened the front door.

  “Yes. By the way, would you call Zoe for me?”

  He kissed her on the nose. “Leave it with me, ma’am.”

  Marcus watched her leave, then stretched, his muscles feeling deliciously sore from last night. Crawling back into bed, he fell asleep again within minutes.

  The telephone woke him at one o’clock. He ran for it, hoping it was Joanna.

  “Marcus Harrison?” a male voice inquired.

  “Yes?”

  “You may not remember me, but I was five years above you at Wellington College. My name’s Ian, Ian Simpson.”

  “Yeah . . . actually, I think I do remember you—you were head boy, weren’t you? How’re you doing?”

  “Fine, just fine. Listen, how do you fancy getting together for a drink? Discuss old times, you know.”

  “Er . . . When were you thinking of?”

  “Tonight actually. Why don’t you meet me at St. James’s Club?”

  “Can’t, I’m afraid. I’m already booked.” Marcus wondered why on earth Ian Simpson would want an urgent drink with him out of the blue. He couldn’t remember a single conversation they had ever conducted—at school, Marcus had always steered clear of him and his renowned sadistic tendencies toward the younger boys.

  “Could you cancel, by any chance? There’s something we should talk about, which might be to your financial benefit.”

  “Really? Well, I suppose I could make it around seven.”

  “Perfect, as long as you don’t mind me shooting off. Look forward to it.”

  “Yeah, bye.” Marcus put the telephone down and shrugged in puzzlement. Later on, just before he was leaving, he dialed Joanna.

  “Hello, sweetheart, did your bed arrive?”

  “Yes, thank God. The woman upstairs only just caught them as they were about to leave. I told the delivery people to ring the upstairs bell if I wasn’t at home. Oh well, at least it’s here now.”

  “Want me to help test out the new bed later on? I’m highly qualified, I can assure you,” he said with a smirk to himself.

  “I’m sure you are,” Joanna drawled sarcastically. “How about we take it slow and w
atch a film instead? I’ve got the new telly all set up,” she added. “You could bring No Way Out.”

  “Really, Jo? Didn’t I mention how depressing that film is? And I should know, I produced it,” Marcus said.

  “Really.” She gave an inward smile at his embarrassment. “I want to see what you helped create. I’ll get the popcorn. Deal?”

  “Deal, but I get to say ‘I told you so’ when you end up hating it.”

  “We’ll see. Bye, Marcus.”

  “Bye, darling.”

  * * *

  As he walked into the bar at St. James’s Club, Marcus recognized Ian Simpson instantly, although his round face and angular chin had already begun to soften into fleshy pouches. A drinker, Marcus thought as Ian walked toward him, his burly frame reminding him that Ian had been the captain of the first XV rugby team. He’d led the team to victory, and had taken no prisoners while doing so.

  “Marcus, good to see you, old chap.” Ian shook his hand brusquely. “Do sit down. Drink?”

  “A beer would be great, thanks.” Marcus eyed the whiskey that sat in front of Ian, but remembered his promise to himself and resisted.

  “Super.” Ian signaled for a waiter and ordered a pint and another whiskey. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together. “So, how’ve you been?”

  “Er, since leaving school? Fine. Been a while, hasn’t it? I left over seventeen years ago.”

  “And what line of work are you in?” Ian said, ignoring his remark.

  “I have my own film production company.”

  “How glamorous. I’m a poor old civil-service bod, earning just enough to bake my daily bread. But then, I suppose with your background, there was a natural progression.”