Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Michael
The word stuck with him all weekend. Thems. Who would give Mrs. Johansdotter money to lie about Lady Royal?
He’d not put it past the Morning Show’s higher-ups to pay for lies. Between Stone’s declining ratings and the network’s lust for money, integrity was an expendable.
Michael passed the information up the chain to Gunner, who reported it to Nordvagt Yard, Lauchtenland’s version of America’s FBI and Britain’s Scotland Yard.
Even though the case was not his, he’d spent the morning digging around social media and other sources for a hint of who paid the money. The RECO sort often posted clues on socials, thinking they were being clever and cloaked.
He hadn’t seen much of Scottie since the Garden Party. They had a short outing with Her Majesty Tuesday morning. Brunch with the local lord and his wife.
Wednesday afternoon, she’d Zoomed with her team at O’Shay, working through a manufacturing issue.
After which, she called to say she was going for a walk.
He met her in the kitchen, where she grabbed a handful of fresh strawberries and headed across the castle grounds.
Michael followed several yards behind, giving her space.
Thursday evening, as he surfaced from Hadsby’s Operations Room for a spot of tea, Mum rang. She talked. He listened, drinking tea and eyeing a slice of chocolate cake.
“How hard can it be, Mick?” Mum was in fighting form tonight. “Your grandparents’ sixty-fifth wedding anniversary is this weekend, and we’d like confirmation that you’re attending this monumental occasion. Put aside your disgust for me and show up.”
“Mum, I have to clear everything with HMSD. I’m on duty. I don’t get a day off. Think of me as deployed.”
“Working to protect an American? I’m sorry, Mick, I support the Crown but not you missing your grandparents’ anniversary. I’ll see you there.”
She rang off, which didn’t surprise him. It had been her thing since the day she walked out on Dad—thus, on Michael and Evan.
Michael fixed another cuppa, then sat in the servants’ hall, enjoying every bite of cake, the sweetness almost erasing the bitterness from the conversation with Mum.
When he finished, he set his plate in the industrial dishwasher and looked out the long, deep windows toward the cliffs and the ancient stone portico overlooking Whistlecrag Bluff.
The gold, purple, and orange hues of the evening coated the grounds still cultivated for the Garden Party. In the front and sides of the castle, squared hedges and hundreds of flowerbeds framed the green lawn. But his favorite part of the castle grounds was the field of wild lavender.
He squinted, leaning close to the glass, peeking between a thread of light and shadow. Scottie—her silhouette leaning against a pillar and gazing toward the open sea.
Retrieving a tall mug from the cupboard, he filled it with tea warming in the kettle and headed out.
“The wind coming up through the crag is cold,” he said, handing her the mug as he sat beside her on the dry, cracked cement of the old world—lime, sand, and water.
“I came out to see the stars, but it’s still too light.” Scottie tasted the tea, glancing at him. “Thank you.”
“I won’t remind you to let me know if you leave the castle.”
“Which you just did. Very passive-aggressive.”
“Your words, not mine.” With a sigh, he stretched his legs toward the edge of the stone. “Are you all right?”
“I had no idea, Michael.” She cradled the warm mug to her chest. “I thought I did, but I didn’t.”
“About?”
“Coming here. Accepting a title. Pretending I could just slip into my mother’s world without causing a stir.
Blending into an established family would be a chore for anyone, but I’m trying to blend into an ancient family that symbolizes an entire nation.
” She turned toward him. “Are the people really tired of having a royal family? Are they really upset Americans have joined the House of Blue?”
“It’s clickbait, Scottie. Something to stir emotions.”
“With me as the latest stick?”
“Yes, but I saw something at the Garden Party, even amid the quay lunacy. You draw people, Scottie. They gravitate to you. It’s true, you see everyone as your friend. As for the press, the media, they’re conflict entrepreneurs, love. They’ve become millionaires by peddling your worst fears.”
“I just wanted to spend time with her. I like that she needed me. No one’s ever needed me before. My dad, grandparents, they loved me, raised me well, gave me a good start, but I’m not sure they ever really needed me.”
“O’Shay Shirts needs you.”
“Maybe… I guess.” Her voice softened, a familiar southern warmth slipping in. “My friends back home keep texting memes and posts. ‘Hey, Scotto, did you see this?’ Like I really want to know that someone at the Garden Party called me a minger, whatever that is.”
“The opposite of you,” he said. “You were beautiful at the Garden Party. Like I said, everyone wanted to be near you.”
Their eyes met, stirring early sensations he’d worked to bury. He broke his gaze as the turbulent sea below thundered against the rocks.
“The sea is angry tonight,” he murmured.
“Tell me everything will be all right, Michael. The thems aren’t coming after me.”
“It will be, lass. I mean it. Nordvagt Yard will handle the thems. You’re strong, you’re wise, you know who you are. Don’t let the lunatics reroute your narrative.”
“Do I know who I am? This past year I’ve cared less about O’Shay Shirts, which is so unlike me.
I’ve been obsessed with that company since I could hold a pencil.
Another reason I came here was to scratch the itch, you know?
To discover these people who share my bloodline and heritage.
All my life it’s been Dad, Fritz, Shug, a few aunts and uncles.
I’ve traveled the world for O’Shay, negotiated with factories, hired and fired.
Six years of college and grad school in design and business.
I’m not a natural talent. I’ve worked at it.
Then suddenly, I’m on The Price Is Right.
‘Come on down, Scottie O’Shay! You’ve won a royal family! ’”
“Very good impression of a telly presenter,” he said, smiling.
“It’s a bit much, I grant you, but don’t lose sight of the big picture, love.
” Love. He must stop using that word. He hadn’t called anyone love since Purnell.
“If you do, you’ll waste time and emotion better spent on knowing your mum.
Consider the externals as part of your royal experience.
Mrs. Agnus Johansdotter will merely become one of many anecdotes in your memoir. ”
Scottie sighed, taking another sip. “Hey, to change the subject, I met Eloise Bright—Eloise Ltd.—at the Garden Party. She was amazing. Thrilled I carried her clutch. She said she’d tried to buy land a few years ago but was undercut by a bigger manufacturer.”
“The scandal with Princess Holland and Lord Cunningham,” Michael said. “Prince John never mentioned it? His late wife schemed to sell that land to Reingard Industries after Eloise Ltd. showed good faith—even ran an environmental study.”
“She said it nearly ruined her company. Now she’s bought a place in the Midlands, waiting for another chance to expand, but she’s getting nowhere.”
“With you carrying her bag, she’ll gain her global attention,” Michael said. “But she told you all this in a Garden Party line?”
“We chatted at the cake tent. Do you think we could visit her shop? See if I can help?”
“Ah, royal responsibility has set in.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning those in your position often feel a duty to lend a helping hand—if they’ve a halfway decent heart.
Which you do. You’ve resources, connections, respect that comes with the name Blue.
I’ll check with Her Majesty, but she may grant you Royal Warrant privileges.
You could extend one to Eloise Ltd. Even after June, the warrant remains valid for five years. ”
“Explain, Michael Cross. What is a Royal Warrant?”
“A seal of approval from the Crown. Only the queen, king consort, and Prince John hold that right. But the queen might allow you one such privilege. Use it wisely. A warrant allows a business to display the House of Blue coat of arms and a legend—‘By appointment of Her Majesty the Queen, Eloise Ltd. is her supplier of fine women’s fashion.’”
“Really? Okay, let’s ask. The wonders of royal life never cease.”
“I advise you research carefully first, Scottie. You can’t extend a warrant to a supplier who lacks quality or can’t meet demand.”
“Yeah, totally get it.” Her southern lilt flared again, and Michael felt oddly proud he’d helped restore it.
“Enough about me.” She patted his knee. “What. About. You.”
“I’m a rather boring bloke, I’m afraid.”
“You are the opposite of boring. You’re a man of mystery. Tell me three things about you. Good ones.”
“Let’s see. I love sports. Played football for years and was decent in my day.”
“Easy to believe.”
“I’ve a brother. He coaches my nephew in football.
He’s very enthusiastic. The nephew, not my brother.
He’s married. My brother, not my nephew.
Evan’s also got a daughter who wraps me round her finger.
” He hesitated, wary of stars and surf conspiring to loosen his restraint.
“I’m close with my dad but…my mum and I don’t get on.
I’d never risk my career to spend time with her. ”
“That’s quite a confession, Michael Cross.”
“Even to my own ears. But as a wise woman once said, ‘the dark makes us honest.’”
“Is there a reason for the rift?”
“She divorced my father, thus my brother and me, when I was eight. She left without looking back.”
As if on cue, his phone pinged. Evan.
Evan: Come on, mate, you must be there Saturday. Finn says it’s no fun without you. We’ll wrangle Mum together. Besides, Granny and Granddad will be crushed if you don’t show. You’re their favorite.
Michael slipped the phone away and leaned against the pillar.