The Prince's Secret (The Royal Biography Cozy Mystery Series Book 2) Read online

  The Prince’s Secret

  By Julie Sarff

  Version A

  Copyright 2015 Rose Moon Press and Julie Sarff

  Books in the Royal Biographer Mystery Series

  1. The Prince and I

  2. The Prince’s Secret

  3. The King of Scotland (Coming Fall 2015)

  Also by Julie Sarff, Sweet Delicious Madness Cozy Series:

  1. The Hope Diamond

  2. The Heir to Villa Buschi

  3. The Treasure of Croesus

  4. The Knotty Bride (coming August 2015)

  ~This book is dedicated to Kent, Aedin and Wyatt. Thanks for putting up with all the writing. It’s also dedicated to Mary, Queen of Scots who put up with so many greedy men. How ever did you do it?~

  License Agreement

  This book is a work of fiction, all characters and places in the book are an invention of the author’s imagination.

  DEAR EBOOK READER, we sincerely hope you enjoy this book. This book is licensed for your enjoyment only. This ebook may not be sold or given to other people unless lending is allowed by the specific retailer from whom you purchased this book. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not buy it, please return it to the online distributor from whom it was originally purchased. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Recipes

  The Hope Diamond

  Magda Pendragon: Heir to Arthur

  Murder at Mudswell Manor

  About the author:

  Author’s Note

  Newsletter Signup

  London, sometime in the not-so-distant future

  Chapter 1

  How many secrets have been covered up in the name of the crown? The Prince’s tale has been hard to hear. I argued with him as he told me his story, telling him that there was no way his version of events could be correct.

  The prince is many things --handsome, kind, generous, but he is not now, nor ever has been, a killer.

  I breathe in and out, taking deep breaths. The cold of the stone bench underneath me seeps through my white, lacy gown. Just acquiring the gown was a minor miracle, as apparently I am too large for London’s posh fashion houses. Finally, a true fairy godmother stepped in, now look at me, I am Cinderella, sitting in a private garden at Kensington, all alone after the ball. I stare down at shoes that glitter on my feet. They’re pink confections with a low heel and a diamond pattern that covers the toes. Like my makeup and my up-do, they have cost a small fortune, allowing me to play the part of the well-heeled.

  Reluctantly I stand up and head for the black iron gate that opens onto a busy London street. A few minutes later, I am on the platform at the tube station where people sneak uneasy glances at me in my ball gown. After a short subway ride, I emerge from the Underground and walk three blocks to my hotel. The Sheraton Park Lane is my home away from home in London. It’s a stately madam, rising five stories high and is quite impressive in its own right, standing proud and tall across from Green Park. I stare up at the building, but I don’t really take it in. I am lost in thought, daydreaming about how it was only a month ago that the Prince and I were sitting in the living room of my cottage in the Cotswolds, eating dinner and laughing over a game of cricket on the TV.

  As I pull open the hotel door, a drop of rain hits me on the nose. At least one thing has worked in my favor tonight; Mother Nature held back the deluge until I returned to the hotel. I stand in the lobby for a few minutes watching as the drops begin to descend en masse. Then, feeling like some new weight is pressing down on me, I head to bed and sleep fitfully.

  The next morning, I check out of the hotel early. By half past eight, I’m already heading back to my cottage in Bourton-on-the-Water. I want to be alone. I wish I could return to a time before I knew the Prince’s secret, but that would be impossible.

  What I need is some rest and relaxation in my garden. It’s June and the rose bushes are in full bloom. I need to prune back one particularly aggressive bush that has scrambled across the front of my house, dotting the façade here and there with pink petals as it heads for my roof. Perhaps after some time in the garden with a good pair of pruning shears, my head will clear and I’ll be able to answer the question the Prince asked me; namely, will I help him to discover the truth about his brother’s death?

  A driver behind me honks politely; the light overhead has turned green. I press down on the accelerator and drive forward turning onto the motorway in the direction of Oxford.

  *****

  Two weeks before I learn the Prince’s secret, I find myself on the narrow lane that leads through the Cotswold to Bourton, with all my possessions packed into my large BMW rental car. I’ve spent the last two weeks in New York cleaning out my apartment. If I can help it, I don’t intend to call New York my home ever again.

  While in Manhattan packing up my possessions, I went to the arraignment of the man and woman who killed my ex-boyfriend. Pierre St. Clair and Maggie Delvers are accused of masterminding and carrying out the murder of Sean McKenzie. They stood proud and defiant as they were charged with several counts of felony. They also pleaded not guilty, but I knew better. They killed Sean to keep him silent. After working on the biography of the British Prime Minister, Sean discovered a system of kickbacks that were fattening up the bank books of the Minister of Public Works and her minions. The kickback system may have also been fattening up the bank books of Prime Minister Morton, who in the wake of the scandal, remains adamant that she knew of no wrongdoing. When answering questions in the press, the Prime Minister insists she knew nothing of her ex-husband Pierre St. Clair’s plan on fleecing innocent business victims who wanted to obtain building permits. Sean discovered Pierre’s plan, and Sean was foolish enough to try to blackmail the man. According to Pierre’s accomplice, Maggie Delvers, it was cheaper to kill Sean than continue to pay him to remain silent.

  Over the last month I have spent far too much time worried about my ex-boyfriend’s murder. So today, as I am driving up the Cotswold road, reveling in the first flush of wildflowers blooming in vibrant hues of chartreuse, scarlet and orange, I mentally wash away my past. Like these flowers, I am starting anew. Instead of thinking of the tragic ending to Sean’s life, I need to concentrate on reinvigorating my own. The beauty of my surroundings puts a smile on my face as I drive through the green, gently-curving hills that lead me home. Thinking about the upcoming charity ball that I’ve been invited to as the official biographer of the Prince, I am overcome with the desire to shop for my gown. In my head I imagine a host of lovely options, perhaps something over the shoulder, but nothing too clingy. And what color? Again, I look at the wildflowers for inspiration. The possibilities are all so exiting. I’ve never had a special-occasion dress before, not even a prom gown, because I’ve never been invited to anything, not even a high school dance.

  Holding tight to the steering wheel as I take in the countryside, I am jarred a bit when my cell phone emits a shril
l ring. After hitting the answer phone button on the steering wheel, a voice comes over the radio speaker. “Hello, Ms. Rue, my name is Rupert Schnipps,” a very British man, who slurs his ‘s’, says. Rupert Schnipps…Rupert Schnipps…I know that name. He’s the head curator for the King’s Palaces --all three of them. The man must be extraordinarily busy. He has to catalogue every precious item contained at each residence.

  “, Mr. Schnipps.” I try to sound fine and upstanding, as befits a royal biographer.

  “Good Morning, Ms. Rue,” he draws out each word as if eating an enormous piece of taffy. “Is now a good time to talk?”

  It is not. There is an elderly lady, with her hair immaculately coiffed, who is driving rather slowly in front of me. Behind me is an enormous truck, the driver of which seems to be in a terrible hurry. He keeps veering into the oncoming lane, looking to see if he can overtake both of us. With so many cars travelling this narrow two-lane road, I think the man must have suicidal tendencies to even contemplate such a move.

  “Well, I suppose it’s an okay time to talk,” I reply, worried that I’m about to witness a terrible accident.

  “Fabulous, wonderful. I have been informed by his Royal Highness the Prince that you were in the room when he found a small diary in the Mary, Queen of Scots’ chest-of-drawers at Holyrood.”

  That’s true. The Prince and I found the diary together. It was odd because it was inside an empty Victorian collection chest in the Mary, Queen of Scot’s Apartment. Prince Alex informed me that he had never seen anything in that chest-of-drawers before, and so we removed the book, thinking it belonged somewhere else in Holyrood. The next day the Prince took the diary back to Buckingham and gave it to the Palace Curator, Mr. Schnipps.

  “Yes, I was in the room when we found the diary.”

  “And it was just the two of you?” Mr. Schnipps asks and I believe I hear a note of disapproval in his voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Curious,” he mutters. “Ms. Rue, I’m wondering if you have any idea as to how that diary got inside the collection chest.”

  This is a strange line of questioning at a very inopportune time. If I’m not mistaken it sounds like Schnipps is trying to accuse me of something.

  “No idea. The Prince and I entered the chamber together, and he was showing me the various objects in the room when we found it.”

  “Umm hum,” Schnipps muses in a disbelieving tone. What does he think? Does he think I am some oddball who found a diary in another part of the Palace, and, then as a prank slipped it into the chest-of-drawers?

  “Well then, perhaps you can help me with something, Ms. Rue?”

  “What’s that?” I respond. Behind me the mad truck driver decides to go for it, pulling out to pass both me and the older driver ahead.

  “How did you correctly identify the item as mid-16th century?”

  “I’m a historian,” I respond, not at all amused with his underlying insinuations, and, at the same time, growing dangerously alarmed that the truck driver is going to be forced back into my lane due to oncoming traffic.

  No, strike that, the truck driver is going to be killed by an oncoming truck! It all happens in a blink of an eye. In a desperate attempt to pull back into the proper lane the truck driver swerves dangerously. He hits the car in front of me, sending its driver and her sensible hatchback flying into a ditch. I stomp on my breaks, narrowly avoiding the collision.

  The accident unleashes a flood of adrenaline. Quickly I pull my car over and throw open my door, jumping out to check on the woman in the hatchback. At the same time the truck driver revs his engine, intent on speeding away. I try to note the license plate number but am only able to memorize the first two digits before it shoots out-of-sight. Approaching the woman’s car, I can still hear Schnipps voice over the Bluetooth, “Ms. Rue, Ms. Rue, why aren’t you answering my questions?”

  Chapter 2

  Fortunately, the woman turns out to be fine. She is dazed but not hurt in any way. Her hatchback, however, has seen better days. Its entire passenger side is smashed.

  “Lady Margaret Jones,” the woman presents her hand for me to shake. She is dressed in a tasteful brown suit, with a bright print scarf around her neck.

  “What a scoundrel,” I say, with regards to the man who knocked her off the road. Lady Margaret uses stronger language.

  “And your car?” I ask as Lady Margaret throws up her hands.

  “Men,” I state furiously in response to her gesture.

  “Men,” she agrees with a wink. I like this woman. She is old school. Her finely tailored suit looks like it’s from the 40’s. Not the 2040’s but the 1940’s. How her hosiery and shoes managed to escape the car accident unscathed is beyond me. I look at her hair; not a lock of her greying curls is out of place.

  “Can I give you a lift?” I ask.

  “That would be lovely.”

  “We should call somebody about your car.”

  “Ah yes,” she replies. Just then the hatchback issues a loud hissing noise from the area of the engine. A huge stream of steam escapes from underneath the hood, dissipating quickly in the bright blue Cotswold sky. I give Lady Margaret a sympathetic pat on the back.

  Apparently Lady Margaret is a woman of action. She does not stand around and mourn her predicament. Instead, she pulls a phone out of a purse and dials a number. She is a member of a motoring club, and the man on the receiving end of the call promises to send someone immediately.

  “Where can I take you?” I ask, half an hour later. A tow man has since hoisted her car out of the ditch, carting it away on the back of his truck to a body shop on the outskirts of Oxford.

  “Well, I was on my way to Chipping Norton for lunch with friends. If you could give me a lift, it would be awfully good of you.”

  “Right, Chipping Norton it is.” Chipping Norton is in an entirely different direction than the one I’m heading, but after all this woman has been through, I don’t mind. We drive along, still talking in disbelief about how maniacal the truck driver was to try and pass two cars on such a narrow lane. Lady Margaret tells me that as far as she is concerned, civility in England has taken a nosedive.

  It doesn’t take long until we reach the town of Chipping Norton. I drop her off at The Crown and Horse, which I find to be a very interesting name for a teashop. Before she exits the car, we exchange cards and she says, “So you’re a historian. I would love to have you over for tea some time --to thank you properly. I believe you would enjoy my humble abode.”

  “I’d love that.” I really would. I don’t have any friends in England, other than the Prince and I’m not sure if I should count him as a friend since we have a working relationship. With a polite wave good-bye, I turn the car around and drive back out of town the way I came, past the row of plane trees and stately stone buildings from the era when wool was like gold in this part of England. Even though I’m anxious to return home, I drive prudently on the road toward Morton-in-Marsh not wanting to fall victim to any more accidents.

  *****

  Once home, it only takes a few hours to unpack all my possessions. Afterwards, hunger causes me to head out to the pub for fish and chips. I eat slowly, feeling exhausted from the plane flight. I stroll back to my cottage in the cool night air admiring the canals formed by the river Rush as it makes its way through town. A short while later I tuck myself in bed with a smile on my face. It’s so good to back. As I revel in the coolness of my new rose-print sheets, my thoughts begin to scatter, my breathing becomes deeper. I fall asleep just as the phone rings.

  “Now who is it?” I throw back my duvet with a grumble, swearing that my whole life revolves around that tiny device.

  “Lizzie? So glad to hear that you are back on this side of the pond. Now that you’re back from New York, maybe we can make some headway on this biography thing.”

  It’s good to hear Alex’s voice. I haven’t talked to the Prince in weeks. Not since we watched that dreadfully boring cricket match at my place.
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  “All set for the charity ball?” he questions. “It’s in two weeks and it’s black tie.”

  “I’ll be set,” I answer and then, trying not to sound completely ignorant, I ask what exactly “black tie” means in this age of casual-khaki Fridays.

  “Full length gown for the ladies, that’s really all I know. The event promises to be very dull, full of people who think they know everything about everything. Still, it should raise money for a great charity.”

  “If that’s the case, then I can’t wait.”

  “Perfect, because we have our own table. It will be my cousins Rose, Ava, and I representing the Windsors. Not sure who else is coming… oh, and my good friend Cressida will be along.”

  Cressida? The Cressida? The woman with whom the Prince has had an on again-off again love affair for many years? I deflate like a pricked balloon.

  “Oh yes, and Alistair says if you pop round to Kensington on Thursday you can see my childhood nursery. Should be such a thrill,” he laughs.

  I still haven’t moved beyond his Cressida remark. Why is she coming to a charity event with the Prince?

  She’s his date, that’s why, and I’m just tagging along in an official capacity as his biographer.

  For the first time since I’ve met him, I no longer feel like speaking to the Prince. True, it’s my job, but tonight I’m too tired. The flight from New York to London was long. Not to mention the fact that I had to drive out of my way to Chipping Norton. And now I have just been informed that despite what I may have been lead to believe, I will not be attending the ball “with” the Prince. No indeed, I am attending the ball so that I can observe what the Prince is like, and write up a nice, charming biography so the world can see that he is a marvelous person of substance.

  “I’ll do that. I’ll call Alistair tomorrow to finalize arrangements. I’m sure the nursery will help me understand your childhood better, so I can describe what it was like for the readers.”