Free The Prince's Secret (The Royal Biography Cozy Mystery Series Book 2) by Julie Sarff Page B

we are the happiest two people to ever go on a road trip. It has taken the Prince a week to get out of all his charity engagements. He told everyone at Buckingham he wasn’t feeling well and asked to take a mini-break away from the crowds while recovering. That didn’t go over well with his mother, who wanted him in bed at Buckingham while he recovered.
    “What will people think if you miss the National Breast Cancer Society Gala and go gallivanting off around the countryside.”
    “I won’t be gallivanting. I’ll be resting, at a friend’s house in peaceful Scotland,” he told her, and sealed the deal by getting one of his old buddies from Eton to call his mother and assure her that “Alex will be fine, he’s staying with us in Oban, and we’re just having a few quiet days. Not to worry, your Royal Highness, nobody will ever know he’s here. He can get as much rest and relaxation as he needs.”
    After that, the Prince slipped away. He drove his well-known Volkswagen GTI which is now parked in my garage, and then, after placing a very silly curly black wig over his own hair, we set off in my car.
    Let me just point out that Scotland is not really on the way to Northern Ireland. However, when the Prince arrived at my house, he told me to close my eyes and hold out my hand. Then he placed a photo in my upturned palm. I opened my eyes to see a picture of a small white marble tomb with a cherub up top. The side of the tomb read, “Jane Mortin, Countess of Erlington, birth – (here the date was so badly damaged as to be illegible), death - 1599.”
    “I don’t understand. Who took this photo?”
    “The owner of the Earnest Ewe. Michael and I have been good friends for a long time, and I asked him if he might have time to check out Greyfriars for Jane Erlington. I asked if he found her tomb if he would let me know if there is a cherub attached up top. A day later, he sent this photo.”
    “Bingo!” I shouted in pure excitement.
    “Bingo!” he repeated my exclamation, caught up in my excitement.
    “Right, well, I’ll head there in a few days. Right now we have a rather long drive to Northern Ireland, don’t we?”
    “What say we swing by Scotland on the way? Got enough clothes and all for a slightly extended road trip?” Delighted by his suggestion and thinking him quite the sport, I hurried upstairs to pack a few more things.
    Driving out of Bourton, I reflected on the fact that it was really nice of the Prince to put off his journey to visit Agnes Tannebaum for one more day. But as we struck up a conversation somewhere around Manchester, I learned that the reason the Prince was willing to put it off for one more day was because he wasn’t especially excited about visiting with Agnes.
    “She wasn’t there when Albert died, so she doesn’t know what happened. She’s just Margery’s sister. What can she possibly have to tell me?”
    His spirits seemed to go downhill after that and we drove on in silence, the Prince staring ahead with his jaw clenched tightly. Even when we stopped in Carlisle for a very late lunch, he couldn’t relax. Luckily, nobody even recognized him in his wig and sunglasses. As we ate some lovely Italian food and shared a half a bottle of wine, I realized I felt confused about the Prince. Here we were again, having a romantic moment. Yet the weight of what we were doing was taking its toll on both of us.
    In addition, I confess I’ve been angry with the Prince ever since I phoned him and found him with another woman.
    But wait a minute, he’s not my man. Why should I be angry? He is a 29-year old single man. He is allowed to sleep with whomever he wants.
    Still…
    “Exactly what is our plan of attack?” he asks, leaning into the table. Briefly, his expression changes, as if he is relaxing, shaking off his doom and gloom of our impending mission.
    “Well, nothing intrusive or illegal,” I explain. “We’ll just go up to the thing and tap on it.”
    “Is that American