Chapter Twenty-seven
We at the Regal Record can exclusively reveal that Evangeline Bright, illegitimate daughter of the King, is allegedly a close friend of one of the suspected terrorists in the bombing of the Modern Music Museum in London.
Evangeline and Aoife Marsh, 19, pictured together below, met last year through Christopher Abbott-Montgomery, Earl of Clarence, and the two have reportedly been in constant contact ever since. Marsh was one of three suspects arrested at the scene of the bombing yesterday morning, during an official visit from the King, whose condition remains unknown. Eight others were killed in the blast, including two royal protection officers thought to be guarding His Majesty.
Both Evangeline and Lord Clarence were present during the attack, though the couple, who began dating this past summer, were released from a London hospital in the early hours of this morning. Evangeline was infamously involved in the death of Jasper Cunningham this past June, but was not charged despite alluding to her guilt in a live interview that aired weeks later.
There has so far been no word from the Home Office on the connection between Evangeline, Lord Clarence, and Marsh, though we can only hope that with eight families mourning the loss of their loved ones today, no one, not even the daughter of the King, will be above the law this time.
—The Regal Record,13 January 2024
AOIFE, KIT’S SWEET AND BUBBLY friend from university, tried to kill my father.
Aoife, whose beaming face is clearly visible over my shoulder in the image on Doyle’s tablet, is responsible for the deaths of Ingrid and seven other innocent people.
Aoife, who’s hugging me like we’re best friends and have known each other our entire lives, is an actual terrorist.
And somehow the only picture of us together has surfaced barely twenty-four hours after the bombing.
My stomach twists so violently that I think I might be sick, and slowly, as if one wrong move will make me fall apart, I sink down onto the edge of the mahogany table, my head spinning.
I don’t know what to say. There’s nothing to say, not when the media will take this picture and wring every last drop of conjecture and bad-faith assumption out of it. Even if the palace tries to claim it’s photoshopped, even if the royal press office manages to convince the BBC and CNN and every other major news outlet that Aoife and I’ve only met once, this single photo will inevitably make headlines around the world. And this time, it’ll be my name trending with #offwithherhead.
“Do we know where it came from?” says Jenkins to Doyle, who grunts ambiguously.
“A gossip site called the Regal Record posted it fifteen minutes ago,” he says, and Maisie sneers. “I already have my team trying to get them to take it down, but—”
“They won’t,” says Jenkins grimly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Bloody hell. How do we get ahead of this?”
“I don’t know that we do,” admits Doyle. “We can release a statement making it clear that she and Evangeline have no connection, but it won’t do any good, not if Lord Clarence knows her. The media will immediately frame it as a cover-up.”
Maisie crosses her arms tightly over her chest, her lower lip caught between her teeth before she speaks. “Talk to us, Kit. How do you know these people? Why do you know these people?”
Kit’s eyes are still glued to the floor, and when he speaks, it seems to take him an enormous amount of effort. “I knew Dylan at Eton,” he rasps like he hasn’t had water in days. “We ended up on the same course at university. I…I didn’t suspect anything was off until recently, but—”
“Until recently?” I blurt, stunned. “You knew they were…?”
“No,” he says firmly, and finally he looks at me. “I didn’t know they were involved in this sort of thing, Evan, I swear. They—” He grimaces. “They’re members of a group called Fox Rex.”
“The dinner club?” says Doyle, seemingly flabbergasted. “I remember it from my Christ Church days. Wasn’t it banned years ago?”
“Yes,” says Kit, but his focus is still on me. “Though apparently it was resurrected as a secret society. Over the summer, I discovered that my brother was a member, and…they invited me to join at the start of term.”
Secret societies aren’t news to me—there were plenty of those at the boarding schools I attended, but as far as I know, none of them turned into terrorist organizations. “What does that have to do with the bombing?” I say.
“I’m getting there,” he assures me, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I turned them down at first, and they started to push, particularly Dylan and Aoife. Dylan has always been…outspoken about his politics. He’s a republican,” he adds, and he must see the question on my face, because he clarifies, “In the UK, it means he’s an anti-monarchist. He doesn’t support the royal family.”
“Oh,” I say. “Is that why you were nervous when we ran into them?”
“One of the reasons,” he admits. “And…because it’s relevant, if my aunt weren’t who she is, I’d likely lean that way as well. Which I made the mistake of mentioning to Dylan while we were at Eton, before I ended up with a bloody courtesy title.”
Thisis news, and I stare at him. “You’re a…republican, too?”
He shakes his head, and I can see the pleading in his eyes. “Not in the way they are. Never in the way they are. The things Dylan would let slip when he was drinking…” A muscle in his jaw twitches. “He told me on Bonfire Night that among the more senior members of the club, it isn’t Fox Rex. It’s Fawkes Rex. As in Guy Fawkes.”
“The fifth of November guy?” I say, and this earns a loud snort of derision from Maisie.
“Honestly, what have your tutors been teaching you?” she mutters. “Yes, the traitor who tried to blow up Westminster Palace in the Gunpowder Plot of 1605. He and his co-conspirators wanted to assassinate King James I. Though they intended to place a Catholic monarch on the throne in his stead,” she adds. “Not abolish it entirely. That was far more of a Cromwellian thing.”
“I don’t know what that means—”
“And not one of us is surprised,” she says, cutting me off. “Kit, will you please get to the bloody point?”
He flinches, and when he continues, he’s looking at me again, as if I’m the only thing that matters about any of this. “The more Dylan let slip, the more I wondered if…perhaps it didn’t have something to do with the reason why Liam…” He pauses, pain flickering in his deep brown eyes. “I was chasing ghosts, and Dylan could tell. He mentioned my brother a few times, hinted that I might find some answers, and finally I agreed to join. I didn’t question why they wanted me so badly, but as soon as I became a member, it was clear my presence offered their more…extreme political leanings legitimacy.”
“In what way?” says Jenkins. Kit exhales.
“I discovered that everyone invited was an anti-monarchist to some degree. And while I’m not—I’m not,” he insists at Maisie’s quirked eyebrow. “Even then, my courtesy title, my future dukedom, Aunt Helene…it was as if they could put me on a pedestal and claim they were surely on the right side of history, if even the nephew of the King and Queen wanted to be part of it. As soon as I realized what sort of mess I’d gotten myself into, I tried to disengage. We were nearing the end of term by then anyway, and it was easy to prioritize exams.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I say, my voice small and pathetic, but the words are out before I know they’re coming.
“I’m sorry, Ev,” says Kit, and his hand flexes like he wants to reach for me, but he doesn’t close the distance between us. “I’m so bloody sorry. I wanted to tell you, but…I could never find the right words. And you’ve had enough on your plate lately, with everything that happened over the summer, and I didn’t want you to worry.”
Part of me isn’t surprised, though that doesn’t stop it all from hurting anyway. “You should have said something,” I say. “I could have helped. Or—I would’ve at least listened.”
“I know,” he says, his voice barely audible now. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t you—it was never you. I was…ashamed that I got taken in like that. That I didn’t see them coming, and the last thing I wanted was for you to get tangled up in it as well.”
“Too late now,” I mutter, glaring at the tablet. “That picture…Kit, it makes it look like—like—”
“I know.” His eyes are shining with tears now. “I had no idea. It must’ve been a setup—it was too much of a coincidence to run into them, and now the photo…”
“Do you have reason to believe there’s a connection between this Fawkes Rex club and the Army of the British Republic?” says Jenkins. “They’re the ones who’ve taken credit for the attack, though MI5 has yet to confirm their involvement.”
Kit shakes his head, but at the same time, he gestures toward the screen. “Aoife’s proof, isn’t she? And the other names that were released…I recognize them, too.”
Doyle mutters several curses under his breath, while Maisie’s posture stiffens. “You’re certain?” she says.
“That I recognize the names? Yes,” says Kit. “That Fawkes Rex has any direct ties to this Army of the British Republic outside of Aoife and her cohorts? No. It could feed the other way—Aoife could have been involved with the bombers before she joined the club, or the other members could’ve roped her into it. I thought—I thought it was all theoretical,” he adds, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If I’d known for a second that there was a plan, or any chance they might’ve taken action…”
He trails off, and my sister watches him, her expression unforgiving. “You need to speak to MI5 immediately,” says Maisie. “The photo’s already out there, and we’ve no hope of getting ahead of it now. But we can at least come up with a reasonable explanation that has a chance of mitigating the damage and proving your innocence. And Evan’s,” she adds, glancing at me. “But the fact that you two were there yesterday…it doesn’t look good.”
No, it doesn’t, and as I stare at the picture again, I finally begin to understand just how bad this all is.
“Doyle,” says Jenkins, “draft a statement for anyone who asks about the photograph. Make it clear that Evangeline’s met thousands of people during her time in the UK, and find pictures of her hugging other fans to send to journalists who are friendly tous.”
“I could spin it into a security issue,” suggests Doyle. “Make it seem like we’re deeply concerned that someone like Aoife Marsh was able to gain access to Evangeline and accost her in the street.”
“Do whatever you have to do to steal the narrative,” agrees Jenkins. “Lord Clarence, I’ll have one of the palace lawyers join you before MI5 arrives. Follow their directions to the letter, is that understood?”
Kit nods mutely.
“Good. Your Royal Highness, as soon as everything is taken care of, I’ll update you and the rest of the royal family.”
“Please do,” says Maisie with stiff bravado, but I can see the fear in her eyes.
“And Evan…” Jenkins takes my hand in his, and it’s only then that I realize I’m trembling. “It’s likely that you’ll need to speak to MI5 as well, I’m afraid. Is that something you’re willing to do?”
I try to nod, but it’s taking everything I have not to cry. Jenkins watches me for a long moment before pulling me into a gentle hug, and I cling to him as a single sob finally escapes.
“We’ll sort this out, darling,” he murmurs into my ear. “I promise. None of this is your fault.”
But as bad as it all is for me, that’s not the reason I’m crying. Instead, I watch Kit over Jenkins’s shoulder, both furious with him and terrified for him at the same time.
“I need to…” I try to say, but the words come out as a croak, and I clear my throat. “I need to talk to Kit. Alone. Please.”
Doyle looks dubious at best, and even Maisie hesitates, but it’s Jenkins who shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, sweetheart.”
I pull back. “What? Why not?”
“Because this way, the three of us can assure the Home Office that there’s been no collusion between the two of you now that we know about Lord Clarence’s connection to the suspects.”
“Collusion?” I stumble over the word. “Jenkins, this isn’t some spy movie—”
“He’s right, Evan,” says Kit thickly. “If this gets…sticky for me, the palace is going to focus on protecting you. And they can’t do that if you’re trying to protect me.”
“I—” I look between them, stunned. “So what, you’re going to separate us?”
Doyle dabs his forehead with a handkerchief. “For the time being, it would be…wise for Lord Clarence to keep his distance from the royal family,” he says. “Not only from a legal perspective, but the optics—”
“But he didn’t do anything wrong,” I protest. “If you kick him out, it’ll look like we think he did. Jenkins—”
“I’m sorry, darling, but this is all rather serious, I’m afraid,” he says, still holding my hand. “We’ll know more once you and Lord Clarence speak to the Home Office.”
I open and shut my mouth, momentarily speechless, and finally I look at my sister. “Maisie, please,” I beg. “He’s your cousin.”
“So is Ben.” Her eyes are red as she meets mine. “I’m sorry, Evan. You told me to listen to my advisers, and…I’m listening.”
I push off the edge of the table with such force that my leg nearly buckles beneath me. “This isn’t fair,” I say jaggedly. “You know it’s not fair. You can’t just throw him to the wolves because it’s easier—”
“We’re not throwing anyone to the wolves,” says Jenkins. “You’re right, Evan. He didn’t do anything wrong. But we need the opportunity to prove that. He’ll have our best lawyers with him, and when it’s all said and done, everything will be fine.”
“How can you say that when—” I begin, but a tentative brush against my shoulder startles me, and as I whirl around, Kit snatches his hand back, every bit as fearful of touching me as he was during those first few weeks we knew each other. This, more than anything, is what breaks me, and when I finally close the distance between us and throw myself into his arms, it’s a relief to feel him embrace me in return.
“It’s all right,” he murmurs into my hair—not a whisper, not a secret Jenkins and Doyle and Maisie can hold against us. “As soon as we talk to MI5, it’ll all be settled. Dylan and Aoife have been texting me about the club for months, and I have everything I need to prove I had nothing to do with any of this. And that you didn’t, either.”
The ringing in my ears grows louder again as I hold him, refusing to let go. All I can picture are the terrible ways this could end—the worst-case scenarios that have Aoife and Dylan claiming Kit was part of this all along, that he offered them access and information and gave them everything they needed to pull this off. I can see the headlines. I can hear the jeers and the boos. I can imagine the talking heads and media figures tearing him down, mentioning his name in the same breath as Aoife Marsh and acting like they were in this together the entire time. And I’m terrified.
At last it’s Kit who gently pushes me away, until I’m clutching the fabric of his jacket and staring up at his blurry face. “I’ll see you soon, Ev,” he promises, resting his forehead against mine. That small gesture is enough to remind me of what my parents have been through and how everything in their lives conspired against them, and I am desperate—desperate to not let that happen to us.
“I love you,” I say, the words easy even if I have to force them past the lump in my throat. And despite the way everything is going so incredibly wrong, he manages a tiny, genuine smile.
“I love you, too,” he says, pressing his lips to my temple. And then it’s Jenkins’s arm around me instead, leading me to the exit. I watch Kit over my shoulder until we reach the doorway, and the last image I see of him is of his hand pressed to his mouth, and the utter despair he must’ve been holding at bay finally creeping over him, stealing the last of his smile.