Royally Matched (Royally #2)(31)

He turns to one of the men behind him. “Mick, bring it here.”

Mick—a big, truck-size bloke—brings him a brown paper bag. And James’s cold blue eyes turn back to me.

“After speaking with your former security team, I had an audience with Her Majesty the Queen last year when you were named heir. Given your history of slipping your detail, I asked her permission to ensure your safety by any means necessary, including this.”

He reaches into the bag and pulls out a children’s leash—the type you see on ankle-biters at amusement parks, with a deranged-looking monkey sticking its head out of a backpack, his mouth wide and gaping, like he’s about to eat whoever’s wearing it.

And James smiles. “Queen Lenora said yes.”

I suspected Granny didn’t like me anymore; now I’m certain of it.

“If I have to,” James warns, “I’ll connect this to you and the other end to old Mick here.”

Mick doesn’t look any happier about the fucking prospect than I am.

“I don’t want to do that, but . . .” He shrugs, no further explanation needed. “So the next time you feel like ditching? Remember the monkey, Your Grace.”

He puts the revolting thing back in its bag. And I wonder if fire would kill it.

“Are we good, Prince Henry?” James asks.

I respect a man willing to go balls-to-the-wall for his job. I don’t like the monkey . . . but I respect it.

I flash him the okay sign with my fingers.

“Golden.”





THE MATCHED CREW WAKES US up before dawn, banging on doors like drill sergeants, to the vocal disgruntlement of the contestants. If there’s one thing the female aristocracy values above all else, it’s beauty sleep. Staff have been fired—and in the past, killed—for less.

I think the producer intentionally wants them on edge, moody, and pissed off—ready to snap at each other.

Drama sells, almost as well as sex.

They tell us to pack an overnight bag quickly. Only one bag per person, which for this group is a challenge. They don’t tell us our destination, only to bring clothes appropriate for a pool party. Danish pastries and tea are laid out on the dining room table, but we have to grab and go, to the airport.

Once there, we’re ushered into a very large back waiting room, separate and shielded from the public. The rear wall is all windows, facing the tarmac where private planes sit. Henry gazes out the window, in a white button-down shirt and tan slacks, his broad back to the room of ladies, leaning one hand on the glass. He seems fixed on something, staring.

I come up beside him, peeking under his arm, to see what he sees.

And my heart drops.

Because it’s a military plane. Four uniformed soldiers have deplaned, and with practiced, almost beautiful precision, they carry a casket, draped in the gold-and-purple Wessco flag, and place it onto a silver-wheeled table.

I’m transfixed as they move, marching in time, one man at each of the corners—reverently escorting the remains toward the waiting hearse. Three of the soldiers stay behind, while one of them walks through the door at the far end of the waiting room we now occupy.

It’s only then that I turn my head and see a dark-haired, middle-aged woman in a wrinkled beige coat, holding the hand of the small boy beside her. He seems to be about ten years old. The soldier bends his head, speaking softly, handing the woman a manila envelope.

Henry watches for a moment, and then he’s walking toward them. I follow behind.

The soldier’s eyes flare when he sees him, immediately going stiff with a salute. Henry pauses a few feet away, snapping a salute in return. And then the soldier bows low and Henry nods. The soldier straightens up, gives some final words to the woman, and tells her they’ll wait for her at the car until she’s ready.

The woman watches him walk away, bringing a tissue to her nose. And it’s only then that she notices Henry—realizes who he is.

“Oh, Your Highness.” She bows, and the boy beside her mimics the motion. “Hello. I didn’t know you were here.”

“It’s an unannounced trip. Ms. . . .?”

“Campbell. Mrs. Margery Campbell.” She strokes the boy’s hair. “And this is Louis.”

“Mrs. Campbell. Hello, Louis.”

“Hello, Prince Henry,” the boy says without smiling.

“I want to offer my condolences for your loss.”

Mrs. Campbell dabs at her eyes with the tissue. “Thank you.” She gazes lovingly at the casket through the window. “That’s my oldest, Charlie.”

“Charlie Campbell,” Henry says, like he’s committing the name to memory.

“That’s right. Charlie’s captain told me that it was an ambush that took him, said he was very brave. He drew the fire on himself so the other boys could take cover.”

“A heroic act that I’m sure those boys will never forget,” Henry offers.

Mrs. Campbell nods. “He was always a good lad. Protective. And now he’s in heaven with his da, watching over us all.”

I lean down toward Louis. “I bet Charlie loved having you for a little brother.”

The boy sniffs and nods. “He taught me how to fly-fish. I’ve been practicing and I’m real good at it now.”

I nod, just barely able to hold back my tears. “And whenever you fish, you’ll think of him and so he’ll always be with you.”