Free Royal Flush by Rhys Bowen Page A

someone might have telephoned the queen over my little gaffe and I was about to be dispatched posthaste to be lady-in-waiting to a distant relative in the Outer Hebrides.
    Sir Jeremy cleared his throat. “Lady Georgiana, we at the Home Office are not unaware of the part you played in uncovering a plot against Their Majesties,” he said. “You showed considerable spunk and resourcefulness. So we decided you might be the ideal person for a little task involving the royal family.”
    He paused. I waited. He seemed to expect me to say something but I couldn’t think of anything to say as I had no idea as to what might come next.
    “Lady Geogiana,” he resumed, “the Prince of Wales has recently had a series of unfortunate accidents—a wheel that came loose on his car, a saddle girth that broke on his polo pony. Fortunately he was unharmed on both occasions. These could, of course, be deemed unlucky coincidences, but as we looked at them more closely, we found that the Duke of York and his other brothers had also experienced similar unlucky accidents. We have come to the conclusion that someone is trying to harm or even kill members of the royal family, or more accurately heirs to the throne.”
    “Golly,” I exclaimed. “Do you think it’s the communists at work again?”
    “We did consider that possibility,” Sir Jeremy said gravely. “Some outside power trying to destabilize the country. However, the situation and nature of some of these accidents draw us to a rather startling conclusion: they appear to be what one might call ‘an inside job.’ ”
    I went to say “golly” again and swallowed it down at the last moment. It did sound a trifle schoolgirlish. “You mean someone has infiltrated the palace?” I said. “I suppose that’s not completely impossible. After all, one of the communists managed it in Bavaria.”
    “We don’t think it is the communists this time,” Sir Jef frey said bluntly. “We think it’s closer to home.”
    “Someone connected to the family?”
    He nodded. “Which makes our surveillance rather difficult. Naturally we have our special branch men protecting the Prince of Wales and his brothers to the best of our ability, but there are times and places when we can’t be present. That’s where you come in. They’re all currently at Balmoral for the grouse shooting.”
    “Well, that’s all right then, isn’t it?” I looked up at Sir Jeremy. “They’ll be safely out of harm’s way up there.”
    “On the contrary. The Prince of Wales had a near miss while out driving only yesterday when the steering locked on the shooting brake he was driving.”
    “Gol—gosh,” I stammered.
    “So you see we were glad to know that you were on your way home. You are part of their inner circle. You can move freely among them. You’ll be the ideal person to keep your eyes and ears open for us.”
    “I’m not actually invited to Balmoral for another week,” I said.
    “That’s no problem. Castle Rannoch is close enough, and several members of the Balmoral shooting party are currently staying with your brother. We’ll let Their Majesties know that you will be arriving early and will be joining the shoot as part of your brother’s house party.”
    House party! That certainly didn’t sound like Fig. Surely no guests would stay long enough at Castle Rannoch to shoot anything, particularly if Fig displayed her usual meanness and allowed only half a slice of toast each for breakfast and two inches of hot water in the bathtub. Another thought struck me.
    “Do Their Majesties know about this?”
    “Nobody knows except for a handful of our men,” Sir Jeremy said. “Not even the Prince of Wales or his brothers suspect that these are anything more than accidents. In fact the Prince of Wales made a joke that he should probably check his horoscope before venturing out. And nobody is to know. Not the slightest hint, you understand. If this is true, then we are dealing with a cunning and