“Understood,” says Singh, and he offers me a small nod before gathering his laptop and hurrying out the door, leaving us to pore over the files in search of a spark that might, for once, start a fire we control.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Singh:I apologise, I know it’s early, but I just got off the phone with your father, and I wanted you to know that you were right. The individual following Rosie in Hyde Park was Dylan Baxter.
Evangeline:What? How did you—
Singh:His face was hidden, but we traced him back to a flatshare in Hackney and raided it a few hours ago. It was definitely Baxter, and we found receipts and other significant evidence that we believe will tie him to Rosie’s death once toxicology comes back.
Evangeline:But you didn’t find him.
Singh:No. We didn’t find him.
—Phone call between Agent Suraj Singh and Evangeline Bright, 6:18a.m., 14 September 2024
Kit and I are alreadyawake, showered, and dressed when Tibby arrives at seven o’clock that morning, yet she doesn’t seem at all surprised to see us sitting at the dining table, both of us in foul moods.
“I take it Singh told you,” she says, and I nod once as I stab at a piece of pear with my fork.
“He apparently hasn’t been back there since the night hemurdered Rosie,” I mutter as the pear slips away, nearly sliding right off my plate. “He could be anywhere by now.”
“Out of the country if he’s smart,” says Kit grimly. “Which unfortunately he is.”
“They should have his picture everywhere,” I say, furiously chasing the piece of fruit around the plate. It manages to slip away each time, and I curse. Loudly.
Tibby pointedly picks up my knife and spears the pear for me, then hands me the utensil without a word. “It seems your father has thoughts on this development as well, as His Majesty has called a mandatory family meeting later this morning. I’ve already adjusted your schedule. In the meantime,” she adds, “are you planning on eating your breakfast or torturing it? Because if you’re feeling particularly violent, I can arrange for the PPOs to help you work out some of that aggression.”
I nibble the piece of pear Tibby subdued for me. Kit and I haven’t worked with a PPO on self-defense since Ingrid died in the bombing, and while there’s a fair chance Tibby might be kidding, that’s actually not a bad idea. “I could get sweaty,” I say, glancing down at my T-shirt and leggings. “Do you think they’d teach me how to punch without breaking my hand?”
Tibby snorts. “If you can manage to reach their chins with your tiny Tyrannosaurus rex arms, I’m sure they’d be delighted.Kit?”
“Always happy to watch Evan try to hit things,” he says, sipping his coffee. “Any idea what this meeting is about?”
“Haven’t a clue,” says Tibby, already tapping her phone screen. “But whatever it is, I’m certain you two won’t be the only ones with a temper.”
—
A pair ofPPOs spend the next three hours walking Kit and me through some practical self-defense moves, mine in particular tailored to my height. It’s exhausting, sweaty work, exactly like I’d hoped, and by the time Tibby calls an end to our impromptu seminar, my limbs are wet noodles and I desperately need a nap. But we have just enough time to shower and change again before Tibby escorts us to the white drawing room, and I pause in the doorway, frowning when I see who’s gathered near the roaring fireplace.
Alexander and my mother, of course, along with Maisie, Helene, and Nicholas. But Venetia, Duchess of York, is also there, standing opposite Alexander, her head held high and her expression set like she’s expecting a fight. Has someone told her what her son has been up to? Has Ben himself already poisoned the well and made sure that his mother believes his lies?
Holding Kit’s hand, I move gingerly to an empty sofa near the edge of the gathering, not sure what to expect. My father is standing despite the clear effort it takes, his hands shaking slightly as he leans on his cane. But while his body may be weak, the look on his face is anything but.
“Does Benedict no longer consider himself part of this family?” he says to Venetia, and she crosses her arms, her posturestiff.
“I told him to stay away. With all the false accusations against him, I don’t trust any of you to treat him like your blood,” she says, and it’s the most serious—and venomous—I’ve ever heard her sound. Ben has definitely been lying to her.
“False accusations?” counters Alexander. “Such as?”
Silence settles over the group, and Venetia shifts her stanceawkwardly. “Accusations about—well, I certainly won’t give you any ideas,” she blusters. “But I do know you haven’t treated my Ben fairly since the incident with Evangeline, even though he’s bent over backward to apologize and ask for forgiveness, and I refuse to stand by and let this family continue to bully him for what was, admittedly, a lack of good grace, but is hardly treason.”
“Funny you should say that,” says Alexander as I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from objecting to Ben’s audacity. “I take it you heard about the fire at Windsor that nearly killed my daughter.”
Venetia’s reproachful gaze shifts to Maisie for a split second. “I sent a bouquet and a get-well-soon note, of course. And I am very glad that you’ve recovered so well, my darling.”
Maisie tilts her head in the slightest of acknowledgments, and it’s only then that I notice how tense she is. Not just stiff, like Venetia, but almost like every muscle in her body is tight enough to snap at the slightest touch.
“What would you say,” says Alexander, “if I told you that we have considerable evidence that Benedict was the one to arrange the fire?”
