“There is no one in the palace we can trust with this,” James said. “William has kept his concerns and his suspicions to himself. Victoria and I speak only between ourselves. We need someone independent to analyze the situation and tell us if there is any reason to be concerned.”
“Your intelligence people can’t do the job?”
The prince shook his head. “Far too sensitive. William is close with your supervisor. She told us where to find you and said you might be able to help us out for a few days.”
“You know Stephanie Nelle?” he asked William.
“Goodness, yes. She and I have been acquainted for years. Quite a delightful woman, wouldn’t you say? She said you were her best agent. We need the best here, Mr. Malone.”
“And we need to move with speed and authority,” James said.
But there was still the matter of the terrorists’ trial, scheduled to start in less than a week. He was merely assisting, but he hated to leave his colleagues in the lurch.
One of three phones on the desk rang and William answered. After listening for a moment he hung up. “The BBC has a broadcast running that the front office says we should see.”
William stepped over to an ornate cabinet and swung open its double doors, revealing a television. He switched on the set and adjusted the volume. An older man was standing before a bevy of microphones.
“That’s Lord Bryce,” James said. “A stubborn blowhard. No friend of the Crown. Though I rarely agree with Richard, his choice of sexual companion this time is fitting punishment for that bloke.”
Malone was puzzled and William explained about today’s Globe story, which detailed Richard’s tryst from last weekend with Bryce’s daughter. Bryce was no monarchist, and the on-screen announcer was explaining how he intended to move aggressively toward the abolition of the monarchy. No one gave his effort much of a chance, but the attempt would definitely generate more negative discussion about an institution that, the announcer noted, “had begun to outlive its usefulness.” The voice went on to say, “Tourist dollars generated from the millions who travel to Britain each year to experience royal culture should not be justification for perpetuating a national embarrassment. Is it too much to ask for the privileged to behave themselves?”
The image suddenly shifted to another man. Mid-fifties, handsome, with thick salt-and-pepper hair. He approached the microphones and spoke in a deep, authoritative voice, expressing his loyalty to the Crown, but also his disagreement with the heir’s immoral actions.
“That is Nigel Yourstone,” James said.
He made the connection.
Yourstone’s son was married to Eleanor.
“I have to agree with my colleague,” Yourstone said. “Enough is enough. The time has come for some accountability from Buckingham Palace.”
The Duke of Edinburgh’s face hardened, and Malone spotted anger at the comments from the father-in-law of the third person in line for the throne.
But a tear tracked down Victoria’s cheek.
Her gaze caught his own.
And he suddenly felt the pain of a mother who’d quite possibly been betrayed.
CHAPTER TWO
Nigel Yourstone smiled at the cameras while reporters asked their questions. Lord Bryce’s tirade in the House of Lords had been a classic. The crusty old gentleman had spent nearly an hour berating the monarchy, particularly Richard, for what he considered a vicious assault on the pride and dignity of his family. The press seemed to salivate at Bryce’s promise that a bill would be introduced in the Commons calling for the monarchy’s abolition. Such measures were nothing new, but the number of ministers supporting the idea was growing. Bryce himself had made no secret of the fact that the head of state should not be chosen by genetics, echoing what every schoolchild was taught from an early age. At the very least, royals should be a mirror to our better selves. Unfortunately, as Bryce had made clear, Richard Saxe-Coburg was a married man who cavorted like a schoolboy at the public’s expense. And, as Bryce had so aptly said, the clear incompetence of this feeble-minded individual, who owes his station to an accident of birth, borders on the amazing.
Interestingly, Bryce’s daughter had yet to publicly comment, but Yourstone knew the young lady would do exactly as her father instructed. The senior Bryce controlled the family finances, and her two brothers could easily be given her one-third share. She was certainly an enticing woman, and he was betting she wasn’t stupid. A romp in the sack with royalty was not worth the millions of pounds sterling she might lose from her father’s continued disapproval. So Yourstone was sure that when the good Lady Bryce finally spoke her words would be dignified and distressing, compelling the palace to respond.
He readjusted his posture before the microphones, delivering his standard line that the monarchy was good for England, but that did not mean he agreed with everything the royals did. Though he respected and admired Victoria, and was delighted Eleanor was a member of his family, his fondest wish was for the Prince of Wales to mature. He was next in line for the throne, father of Albert, the second heir, both of which demanded that he conduct himself as a proper gentleman. He finished his remarks with a sincere hope that God would continue to bless the people of England with good health for Her Majesty, Victoria II.
He thanked the reporters and surrendered the microphones to another colleague. Ordinarily, he would not have taken the time to even comment, but it was important that his views be clear.
With what was about to happen, he needed no misunderstandings.
He quickly departed the Parliament building, crossing the street to St. Margaret’s Church. The white stone edifice, a patchwork of architectural styles, sat in the shadow of Westminster Abbey. It contained a collage of Tudor monuments that had survived two world wars, though the building had not been as fortunate, now replete with 20th-century repairs.
A middle-aged man sat in one of the long pews.
The daily parade of tourists had already begun, and the aisles were crowded. He walked over and calmly sat beside the man, keeping his eyes ahead, toward the altar.