Princess: A Private Novel (Private #14)(16)

Morgan quickly changed the subject. “What are the rules of engagement for SAS operatives? Can they take out British citizens, on British soil?”

Cook shrugged. “They can. That’s what Northern Ireland was, wasn’t it? But their operations are better hidden now than ever before. There are hundreds of would-be terrorists in the country, but only a few attacks a year.”

“Taking out terrorists is one thing, but would they kill to silence a scandal? Would they kill for the Princess?”

Cook shook her head. “I really don’t think so. The armed forces are furiously loyal to the Crown, but that would be flat-out murder. Soldiers are used to seeing politicians throw them to the wolves at the first hint of a rule being bent, even in combat, so I doubt volunteers would be lining up to commit such a high-profile crime, even for her.”

Morgan wasn’t so sure. “Maybe not when they’re serving, but you and I saw what Aaron Shaw and Alex Waldron did for money,” he told her, referring to the two former servicemen who had kidnapped Abbie Winchester two years earlier. “Shaw’s record was exemplary while he was in the service.”

“People can lose their way when they leave the forces,” Cook acknowledged. “I’m sure there are more former soldiers like Shaw and Waldron out there—hired guns with no moral compass.”

Jack Morgan had experienced enough of them in his time to know that such men were not in short supply.

“There’s more to the Princess’s relationship with Sophie than she’ll admit. She’s keeping secrets.”

Cook’s bright eyes narrowed. “You’re thinking she’d hire someone to protect them?”

“No. She’s lying about something, but not that.” He shook his head. “You could see it in her eyes, Jane. She cares for Sophie, and she’s worried. Very worried.”

Cook placed a hand on Morgan’s arm—the touch of it sent a thrill through his body, though her words sent worry to his stomach.

Because they were a warning.

“She’s a royal, Jack. She’s been trained her whole life how to act, and how to lie. Out of all the people involved in this, she’s the one we can trust the least.”





Chapter 26


THE SKY ABOVE London was thick with cloud, the air muggy. On the roof of Private London’s headquarters, Peter Knight looked at the city skyline, deep in thought.

The case of Sir Tony Lightwood troubled him. Now that there seemed to be an irrefutable link between Sir Tony and Sophie Edwards, Knight was trying to decide if there could be a reasonable explanation for why both people kept appearing within thirty minutes of each other at the same hotel. If not, were both of Private London’s major cases actually one?

He shook his head, thinking it over from the beginning. Sir Tony was wealthy; Sir Tony stayed at the Mistral hotel on seven Wednesday nights; Sir Tony was blackmailed; Sir Tony killed himself.

Then there was Sophie. She graduated from LSE before becoming something of a party girl. She had arrived within thirty minutes of Sir Tony during each of his visits. She had been missing for days, but it was impossible to know exactly for how long—Private’s canvassing of friends, family and social media could only make a vague estimate, which put it around the same time as Sir Tony’s suicide.

If Sophie Edwards was Sir Tony’s blackmailer, he could have killed her before taking his own life in remorse. That was possible, but why then the attempt on Morgan’s life? Who could have arranged the hit on Sir Tony’s behalf?

Then there was the question of why Sophie had turned to prostitution and blackmail, if indeed that was the case. At least Knight had been able to make some headway there: despite graduating as a promising student, Sophie had never stuck at any of the high-paying positions she had landed, her lifestyle getting in the way of doing the job. The salaries she’d been offered by companies had gradually diminished as she bounced from one hedge fund or financial institution to the next. As she’d become more and more embedded in London’s high-society party scene, it was very likely that Sophie’s expenditure had been outstripping her income. She wouldn’t be the first smart girl to turn escort in the Big Smoke. She wouldn’t be the first to get greedy, either, and find ways to exploit the men who paid thousands for a night with her—and would pay anything to keep that secret.

The humanist in Knight wished it wasn’t that way, but the evidence was stacking up against the young girl. The CCTV footage had revealed Sophie leaving the Mistral hotel at eight every time she stayed. Sir Tony always left thirty minutes later. With some old-fashioned investigative backhanders to the hotel staff, Knight had discovered that there was nothing organized in the Mistral that would account for these regular timings—no backroom parties, poker games or secret clubs.

Knight rubbed at his face. He was tired. Tired physically, and tired of seeing good people turn bad. He was the rare kind of person with a clean soul, and the dishonesty that he witnessed on a daily basis weighed on him heavily. The only thing that could possibly weigh on him more would be doing nothing about it.

He would crack this case.

“You’re not gonna jump, are you?” The familiar voice came from behind him.

“Depends on what you’re here to tell me,” Knight replied. Hooligan walked over to him from the rooftop’s fire escape. “Did you finish the search of Sir Tony’s emails?” Knight had ordered the tech expert to comb through the data once Eliza Lightwood had given her permission.