Chapter Eleven
If the mountain of evidence that has surfaced over the past three weeks isn’t enough to convince our counterterrorism experts that this dastardly duo must finally be taken seriously, we at the Regal Record have unearthed pictures of Evangeline deep in conversation with the accused leader of the Abr, known only as Guy Fawkes.
The pair are photographed in a private setting, reportedly discussing yet another attack on the royal family, this time at Balmoral—the alleged cause of all the fuss in Aberdeenshire this morning.
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At what point do the people of the United Kingdom stop allowing royals and the rest of the aristocracy to slip their gilded handcuffs and start demanding real justice?
Something is licking my toes.
I jolt awake, disoriented and confused, and jerk my leg away from the warm tongue.
I’m sprawled out on a couch in a drawing room deep within Balmoral, and as my heart races, a small black-and-white spaniel pops up from the other side of the sofa, cocking its head as its pink tongue hangs out of its mouth.
“Shit,” I say in an exhale. I know Constance breeds dogs, but I always assumed she skins them alive to make fur coats or something. Not lets them roam around like pets. “What are you…Stop that!”
“Ah, you’re finally awake.”
Tibby appears in the doorway, silhouetted by warm light from the hallway, and I scowl. “How did you find me?”
“Do you really think you don’t have your own personal protection officers here?” she says. “I see you’ve made a friend.”
I sit up and run my fingers through my messy hair, then do the same begrudgingly for the puppy. “Does Constance know she’s missing a dog?”
“Probably,” says Tibby. “Was your bed not to your liking?”
“Didn’t get the chance to try it out. Kit and I had a fight.”
“How unfortunate.” She doesn’t sound the least bit surprised. “When you make up, please keep in mind that the Queen Mother prefers that all unwed couples sleep separately.”
“Not going to be a problem,” I mutter, and pain stabs me unexpectedly.
Maybe I’m overreacting—Kit was right, after all.
I was being reckless, leaving the list there with only a tracker to lead us back.
But that doesn’t change the fact that he still went behind my back and broke my trust without even trying to talk to me first. If I can’t trust him…
But does he even trust me anymore, either?
“What time is it?” I say, mentally sidestepping those quicksand thoughts. The heavy curtains are closed, and it’s impossible to tell if it’s still light out.
“Nearly five o’clock,” she says, checking her phone. “Which is why I’m here. You’ve been summoned to a meeting of the Privy Council.”
“The—what?” I say, confused. “Aren’t they all in London?”
Tibby doesn’t answer as she digs through her handbag, and a moment later, she produces a hairbrush and a stick of gum. “If you wouldn’t mind. We’re already late.”
I could refuse to go—I really am exhausted—but given all that’s already happened today with MI5 and the Abr, my curiosity gets the better of me. And after popping the gum in my mouth and running the brush through my hair, I follow Tibby out the door, the puppy trotting happily at my heels.
Minutes later, we reach a sitting room with a table that seats twenty and a cabinet displaying hunting trophies that are undoubtedly older than some American states.
Maisie, along with my stepmother, Queen Helene, and my grandmother, the Queen Mother Constance, are seated on one side of the table, and my uncle Nicholas, the Duke of York, stands behind them as they all face an enormous monitor.
“…can’t ignore the public outcry,” insists a red-faced man named Doyle, the royal press secretary, amidst more than two dozen somber individuals all appearing on-screen. “Something must be done now that the relevant arrests have been made—”
“I agree,” says Ben, catching my attention like a white-hot hook.
He’s mostly concealed on the other side of Nicholas, but I can tell he’s still wearing that damn black suit.
“With photographic evidence out there to prove their involvement, it’s only a matter of time before the public will lose all trust in the monarchy if we don’t launch an official investigation.
It doesn’t matter who they are or who they’re related to—”
Someone clears their throat behind me, and only then do I realize Kit has followed us into the room. He stands an unnerving distance away from me, his hands shoved into the pockets of a cardigan and his back ramrod straight.
“I take it you’re talking about the pictures published by the Regal Record this afternoon,” he says stiffly, and I look between him and Ben, confused.
“What pictures?” I say, and Ben steps fully into view, looking every bit as polished as he always does.
“The pictures that show you cozying up to the suspect known as Guy Fawkes,” he says, and my stomach drops.
The only time I’ve been anywhere near Guy is last night, and there’s only one way Ben managed to get his hands on that camera feed.
It’s proof—not anything I can use as evidence, maybe, but it’s still proof.
“It’s 2024,” I point out. “Pictures can be easily faked.”
Ben smirks. “Is that really the defense you plan on using? The leader of the Abr has already publicly called you out for participating in the bombing and getting him access to our family—”
“If I may interrupt,” says a familiar London accent, and though he doesn’t speak loudly, Singh has the kind of authoritative voice that not even Ben can ignore.
Which is probably a good thing, considering I’m only now catching on to something I should’ve realized the moment I discovered Ben and the Abr were working together.
He plans to pin everything he’s done on me.
My insides are in knots as Ben gestures for Singh to go ahead, and the MI5 agent who has potentially ruined my life clears his throat.
“Your Majesties. Your Royal Highnesses. Today’s arrests are the direct results of the hard work and courageous action from members of MI5 and local authorities, but also—especially so—from Miss Bright and Lord Clarence. ”
Even though the ambient noise was already quiet, the silence becomes oppressive now, like a weighted blanket that’s smothered all the air out of the room. “Pardon?” says Constance, as if she hasn’t quite heard him correctly.
“Miss Evangeline Bright and Lord Clarence, ma’am,” repeats Singh, “were instrumental to our mission in finding individual members of the Abr and tracking them down for questioning and arrest. The pair have spent the past several weeks working undercover in Oxford at our direction and under our protection, and though we cannot yet share all the details of their mission with you, I can tell you, without a doubt, that if it hadn’t been for their willingness to come face to face with the terrorist known as Guy Fawkes—whom they both knew to be behind the bombing—we would be no closer to arrest than we were the day of the attack.
They are heroes, ma’am, and I—MI5—this country owes them a deep debt of gratitude. ”
All eyes turn toward us now, and my face heats. Even the puppy at my feet licks my ankle, and I bend down to scoop her into the crook of my arm, if only to buy a moment of relief from those stares. And Ben’s menacing glare.
“Kit? Is that true?” says Helene, baffled.
“Not necessarily the hero part, but the rest of it,” he admits reluctantly, stepping up beside me.
“Since I was already…associated with Fox Rex, Agent Singh asked for our help in finding a rumored list of Abr members. We agreed, and Evangeline has been with me in Oxford since I left London. We’ve been using our connections to infiltrate Guy Fawkes’s inner circle.
Seems she did a better job of it than me,” he adds with a glance my way, and I look at the puppy again, scratching her soft black fur.
Ben leans down to whisper something in Maisie’s ear, and they both glance at me before exchanging another whisper. I try to ignore it, but the assignment I gave Maisie before I left for Oxford slithers through me, leaving a trail of nausea behind.
Keep him close. Let him think he’s won. Let him think you hate me.
Nicholas’s jaw twitches. “You had no right to ask that of them,” he says to Singh, who nods in agreement.
“I wouldn’t have done so unless it was of the utmost urgency, Your Royal Highness. By agreeing, they saved our investigation months, possibly years, and my agents ensured they were protected at all times.”
“Ah, yes, because nothing says protected like a purple jaw and a swollen lip,” says Nicholas, his scowl deepening.
On the giant screen, Doyle clears his throat. “So…you’re telling us that they aren’t terrorists. That they are, in fact, the reason the arrests happened in the first place?”
“Indeed,” says Singh, and Doyle rubs his face with his meaty hands, clearly forgetting his audience.
Ben shifts his stance, his foot tapping erratically on the polished floor. “I for one am pleased that justice is served,” he says in what has to be the bullshit statement of the century. “But pictures are pictures, and the public will always assume there was a palace cover-up to protect them.”
“You’re right, Your Royal Highness,” says Singh in a deceptively light voice. “The chances of the public accepting that Miss Bright and Lord Clarence are completely innocent of all charges leveled against them are nonexistent.”
“It’s a disaster,” bemoans Doyle. “Unsalvageable. The king’s daughter and the queen’s nephew, caught up with terrorists—even if they’re innocent, His Royal Highness is right. There’s simply no way we can coax the public into believing them—”
“On the contrary,” says Singh. “I believe that if we go public with the story—the full story, mind you, or as much as we can declassify in a timely manner—then we’ll have a real opportunity to win over the British people.
There’s little more that buys loyalty and compassion than allowing someone in on a secret, and what bigger secret is there right now than what Miss Bright and Lord Clarence have gone through, all in the name of protecting their family and country? ”
One, two, three seconds of silence, and then chaos erupts.
“You want to go public?” explodes Nicholas.
“Have you any idea how vulnerable that would make Kit? And Evangeline?” says Helene, and I’m impressed she remembers to include me, even as an afterthought.
“Tell the people the truth?” gasps Constance, like this is the most absurd thing she’s ever heard.
“Do you have any idea how many ways this could backfire—” begins Doyle, but they’re all drowned out by Ben’s guffaws.
“You want to turn them into heroes?” he says over the shouting coming from the crackling speakers.
“Evangeline can’t even be trusted with a solo appearance, and Kit—” His entire body shakes with laughter now.
“We all know you’d rather be holed up in a cave somewhere than have a camera pointed in your face. ”
The shouts die down as everyone yet again turns toward Kit and me, because Ben might be the biggest arsehole in Britain, but he’s hit the nail on the head.
Kit and I are exactly the wrong people for this.
If it had been Maisie in Oxford instead of me, she could polish this shitstorm of a situation into a diamond that would redefine history.
A new age of Great Britain would rise up in her making, and the monarchy’s future would be secured for at least another five generations.
But my biggest contribution to this country has been my ability to sell salacious tabloids.
Even on days when the public likes me, I’m only useful as a laughingstock or some long-running gag.
Calling me a hero, or claiming I’m some superspy who helped take down one of the biggest domestic threats to British soil since the real Guy Fawkes himself—it’s a joke. And everyone here knows it.
But because it’s Ben who pointed it out, and because it’s his laughter that echoes around the room as the rest of the volume dies down, I look at Kit.
He’s looking at me, too, and though there’s still an enormous distance between us, a space I’m not sure we’ll ever be able to fully cross again, I shift the puppy into my other arm and touch his hand.
“If there’s a way to make it work,” I say, “then I’d rather have the truth out there than let everyone think we’re traitors.”
Kit swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I agree,” he says quietly.
Doyle frowns. “It would take more than just a statement from the palace. The public would expect interviews, appearances, perhaps even a book or…or a ceremony of some sort.”
I blanch at the idea of a ceremony, or anything celebrating weeks of me sitting around and one night of sheer recklessness.
But I can’t admit how little I really did, or how much I don’t deserve the credit.
Not in front of Ben. “We’ll do what we have to do,” I say after the slightest of nods from Kit.
“Just…release a statement, and we’ll go from there. ”
Ben scoffs again. “Ridiculous,” he mutters. “No one will buy it.”
“Maybe not,” says Singh. “But let’s give it a try, shall we?”