Chapter Thirty-One
Guests are arriving. When I have a shot, I’ll take it.
No. Not until the announcement.
Announcement won’t matter if she’s dead.
I said no. Wait for my go.
Copy?
COPY?
Dylan, yes or no, copy?
—Text messages between two prepaid mobiles, 5 October 2024, 1:47 p.m.
At exactly two o’clock on the dot, Prince Benedict of York arrives at St. George’s Chapel—which is really more of a giant Gothic cathedral—on the grounds of Windsor Castle, dressed in a morning suit with a tiny red daisy pinned to his lapel.
His hair is slicked back, and he greets several people on the steps amidst the pageantry, making a point of ignoring the cameras and shouts from the press who are stationed at the bottom of the stairs.
He is, by all accounts, the epitome of princely composure, and at his first appearance on English soil in more than a year, it would be easy to mistake him for the heir to the throne.
I see none of it in person. Instead, I watch on a tablet as Ben disappears inside the open doors, and then the feed switches to a series of security cameras strategically positioned within the chapel and surrounding buildings throughout the Lower Ward.
A footman speaks privately to Ben, who nods and, rather than joining the other guests in the pews, follows him deeper into the medieval stone building.
And that’s when I stop watching. Instead, I set the tablet against the stone wall and take a deep, centering breath, making sure I’m hidden just to the side of the main door of the chamber as I wait.
“Small flick knife, left breast pocket,” crackles Singh’s voice in my ear, a warning meant only for me.
But he doesn’t insist we call it off. I exhale, my fingers twitching toward the structured bodice of my high-necked violet gown before I let them fall.
Everything will be fine. Everything will work out exactly like we planned.
A minute later, the door opens, the well-oiled hinges silent. “Sir,” says the footman, ushering Ben inside. “Your father will be here momentarily to speak with you before the ceremony begins.”
“Thank you, Percy,” says Ben, and though he looks as cool and confident as ever, as soon as the door closes behind him, confusion flickers across his face.
I don’t blame him—the chamber has to be at least three stories tall, but the only windows are at the very top, allowing limited light inside.
Long tapestries hang from high above, covering every inch of the stone walls and muffling any echo.
The room is otherwise empty, save for me and my tablet, and it feels like a prison cell.
“Waiting for someone?” I say into the silence, and Ben nearly jumps out of his skin as he whirls around to face me. His palpable fear is so damn satisfying that I wish I’d planned that better, if only to maximize his reaction.
“Evangeline,” he says, his breath catching and his eyes wide. He’s not wearing his glasses today, and I note how much less approachable he looks without them. “What is this?”
“I’m waiting, too,” I say, glancing at my wrist like I forgot I’m not wearing a watch. “Do you happen to know what time it is?”
“Er…two-oh-three,” he says, checking his mobile. “Are you not in the wedding party? Shouldn’t you be with your mother, preparing?”
“Shouldn’t you be with the other guests, waiting for the wedding to start?” I counter, and I step sideways and lean against the door, as if my weight alone could stop him from getting out. Which is ridiculous. The heavy iron bolt that slides into place behind me is more than enough.
Ben’s eyebrows lift, but his gaze is firmly focused on the door handle now, and I know he heard the lock, too.
“I’m meeting my father here,” he says distractedly.
He turns, glancing around as if looking for another exit, but despite the size of the chamber—at least fifty feet by twenty—it’s a dead end.
“And what, exactly, are you waiting for?”
“You,” I say casually, examining my manicured nails.
They’re nothing fancy—just glittery ovals—but I can feel Ben eyeing them like they’re daggers.
“What kind of attack are you planning this time? Another bombing? Sniper? Setting fire to the chapel? That might be a little tricky, with all this stone everywhere—”
“Attack?” he says, and it’s his turn to act confused. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I laugh, but it’s humorless. Or maybe a little deranged. “Really, Ben? Now you’re going to pretend like you haven’t been trying to kill me and my parents for the past year?”
“Kill you?” he repeats, as if this is the most scandalous thing he’s ever heard. “You’re my cousin, Evan. I would never.”
“Mm. Spare me the bullshit. What do you and Dylan have planned?”
“Dylan?” he says, sounding equally as clueless as before. “Evangeline, if you’re feeling unwell—”
“Ben? Benny? Is that you?”
The haunting sound of Rosie’s voice fills the chamber, and Ben’s pupils dilate, turning his blue eyes almost entirely black.
“Benny,” calls Rosie. “Please—you can’t do this—you can’t—”
Ben launches himself straight for the door—and straight at me.
“Get out of my way,” he growls, shoving me aside and yanking on the handle.
But the lock is old and made of iron, and worse, it’s exceptionally well maintained.
And even Ben and his sudden burst of fear-induced adrenaline can’t break through the thick door that stands between us and the only way out of here.
“What’s wrong?” I say, as if I can’t hear Rosie’s voice. “I thought you were waiting for Uncle Nicholas.”
“Where’s the key?” he says, his breaths coming quickly now. “I swear to God, Evangeline, if you don’t let me out of here right now, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” I say as he tugs on the door again, using all of his strength to no avail. “You’ll kill me? Go ahead and try.”
He yanks again and again on the handle, until the door rattles with his pointless efforts. “Help!” he shouts, his voice absorbed by the tapestries lining the walls. “Help!”
“What’s going on, Ben?” I say. “Are you claustrophobic? Or—what’s it called when you can’t stand being locked in? Cle…cli…”
“Cleithrophobia,” he says through gritted teeth before pounding on the door with his fist. “Let me out of here!”
“Weird thing to know off the top of your head,” I say. “Unless it affects you? Maisie may have mentioned something about that. About how you don’t like anyone to know, since it makes you feel vulnerable.”
He doesn’t reply. Instead, he continues to bang on the door until his fists are red and bleeding, and for the briefest of moments, I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.
Another ethereal voice fills the air, and this one makes my skin crawl. “Ben…be honest, mate,” says Jasper Cunningham with a low chuckle. “You didn’t actually think you’d get away with this, did you?”
“I think he did,” whispers Rosie, and she giggles. “What an arrogant prick.”
And then a third joins them—a deep voice with a refined accent. “You forgot one small detail, Your Royal Highness,” murmurs John Phillip Michaels. “Mutually assured destruction.”
Ben freezes, his colorless eyes wide. “What the hell is going on?” he wheezes. “What is this?”
“What do you and Dylan have planned?” I say, all traces of amusement gone now. “Tell me, and I’ll let you out of here.”
“I have no idea what you’re—”
“Wrong answer,” I snap, stepping back out of his reach. “Drop the act, Ben. MI5 has all the evidence they need to put you away for the rest of your life.”
Ben’s face, which was already the color of sour milk, mottles with blotchy patches of red. “I haven’t done anything wrong—”
“We have proof. Lots of it. And if you want a prayer of ever walking free again, you’ll tell me where Dylan is before you also go down for whatever he’s about to do next.”
Despite Ben’s obvious panic and unraveling composure, he actually scoffs. “I won’t go down for anything, Evangeline. I’m third in line to the throne—soon to be first, in case you haven’t heard.”
I tilt my head. “I hadn’t. How does that work, exactly?”
He manages a grin, even though it’s uneven and a bit manic. “The entire world knows Maisie’s illegitimate now, and Alexander’s finally abdicating like he should have decades ago.”
“He is?” I say, even though I’m not the least bit surprised.
Ben chuckles. “What, were you counting on the crown falling to you instead? You’re not even legitimate yet. And if you don’t let me out of here—”
He falters, but this is exactly the opening I’ve been waiting for. “You’ll what?” I press. “Make sure I never am?”
Ben eyes the door again. “Whoever this Dylan character is, he sounds rather dangerous. I certainly wouldn’t take my chances.”
I snort. “I bet you wouldn’t. What makes you think you’ll be named heir? That Alexander’s abdicating and Maisie’s being removed from the line of succession?”
He tugs ineffectively at the handle again, then kicks the bottom of the door twice, cursing when it doesn’t budge.
“My mother told me,” he says with strained haughtiness.
“And my father. They both confirmed it separately. Why else would I be here, Evangeline? To watch the delightful union between an adulterer and his mistress? The announcement will be made immediately following the wedding, and you won’t even have a chance at snagging your heirs a place in the line of succession.
The crown will go straight to my father, and then to me—”
“And how long will that take?” I say. “A year? Five? Ten? How long are you willing to wait before you murder your own father?”
Ben stares at me, but he doesn’t deny it. “Let me out of here,” he says, panic grating his voice, “and this doesn’t have to get messy, Evangeline. For any of us.”
Right. Because once my parents and I are out of his way, he’ll have no reason to come after us again. Unless it’s out of spite and revenge. “Or,” I counter, “you tell me what you and Dylan are planning, and I’ll tell you a secret. Maybe even two, if you stop trying to delay things.”