The Prince and I: A Romantic Mystery (The Royal Biography Cozy Mystery Series Book 1) (7 page)

“A little something to wash that down with?” he asks and pulls two wine glasses off the shelf. “I opened this red a while ago. Can I pour you a glass?”

It’s probably not a good idea. I probably shouldn’t be drinking on the job. After all, I am a professional biographer. But wait a minute. I just flew from New York to London and then drove all the way to Scotland in a possessed car. I deserve a drink.

“What are we drinking?” I ask him, feeling happier than I think I have ever felt in my life.

“I don’t know, some California rubbish,” he quips. “I bought it at the liquor store around the corner. There’s a wine cellar in the castle, but all that stuff is for important meetings and the like. I can’t just nick it,” he states as he chops chives furiously with a knife.

“When will everyone else be here?”

“Soon, they’re on the last flight of the day which should be landing,” he glances at his watc
h
,
“just about now. Whisk, Liz, whisk like the wind! They’ll all be arriving at any moment and they’ll be starved.”

I am whisking away when the Prince’s iPhone lights up. “That’s Rose now,” he says and picks up the phone.

“Boo, where in the heck are you?”

There’s a long winded reply on the other end and the Prince’s brows knit together.

“I told you not to book the last flight of the day, now what are you going to do?”

There’s more long winded conversation from the very sad-sounding “Boo” and then Alex hangs up.

“Well, I’m afraid, Lizzie, it wasn’t meant to be. Everyone’s stuck in London. It’s just you and I. Of course, we can’t stay here. We can’t give the gossips more fodder. There’s a nice inn down the road.”

“We can’t stay here?” I ask crestfallen. There goes my night in Holyroodhouse.

“Well, we don’t have to go just yet. I’ve got five frittatas in the oven…”

“And a pile of dishes in the sink.” 

The prince glances around. Holyrood’s stream-lined kitchen is a mess. Whatever they taught him at Eton, it was not how to pick up after himself. It takes us over an hour to clean up.

“Might as well eat here, why get the dining room messy?” he says when we finish toweling off the last dirty dish.

He hands me a fork and I dig in. I’m so hungry I can’t take it anymore. We eat the first frittata right out of the pan, occasionally dipping into the salad. I take a sip of what is truly an awful California wine and ruminate about how this would all be terribly romantic if it weren’t for the fact that he is a Prince and I am his biographer.

“Another frittata?” he asks. I motion for him to bring it on. I must admit, I am quite caught up in the moment. When Alex puts his fork down on the countertop and gives me a strange look, my mind goes wild and I wonder if he is going to lean in for a kiss.

“Wait,” he says quite seriously, “I bought a delicious chocolate cake. It’s in the fridge. I’ll cut us both a slice and we’ll take them on our tour around the castle. How will that be? You look like the kind of woman who loves cake.”

Instantly all the warmth and happiness of the moment drains out of me. “You look like the kind of woman who loves cake
”
—
what the heck does that mean?

That’s it. Tomorrow I diet. Sean used to tell me my love handles were adorable, but I don’t think he really believed it. Once he bought me a gym membership for Christmas. I went to that gym on occasion and sat in the locker room reading history books, so that Sean wouldn’t feel like he had wasted his money. Why did I even bother?

I watch the Prince pull an enormous chocolate cake out of the fridge. In curly brown writing it reads, “Happy Birthday, Sparky.”

I don’t even ask about “Sparky.” I am still feeling offended by Alex’s cake comment, although the confection he plunks down on the table looks mighty tasty. He cuts two enormous slices; each one so large I’m sure it will instantly add five pounds to whomever eats it.

“You are eating on a dish that was given to Queen Victoria by the Countess of Blois on the occasion of her thirtieth birthday.”

“Oooh,” I gasp and forget about the calories in the cake.

“No, I’m just kidding. I have no idea where these dishes came from. Just making crap up. Anyway, you’ve got frosting smeared all over you lips, did you know?”

I blush ten shades of red.

“No matter, I think, we’re ready. Shall we get a good look at that painting, the one of Queen Mary? Then it’s off to her state apartments. I’ll show you exactly where they killed David Rizzio as he clung to the Queen’s skirts. If you like, we can sit behind a tapestry and wait to see if we can catch the ghost of Bald Agnes.”

He says all this with the most mischievous twinkle in his eye before turning heel and heading out of the kitchen.

Queen Mary’s chambers, left in situ as they were by Queen Victoria when she inherited the palace, are extremely eerie at night. They might be fine by daylight, with 500 tourists marching through. But with the setting of the sun, and a particularly thick fog all about, the entire North-West tower gives off a disturbing vibe.

Dutifully Alex reenacts how Mary’s second husband, Lord Darnley, came rushing up a private spiral staircase from his room below. With the help of his group of henchman he dragged poor Rizzio, Mary’s private secretary, from the hem of her skirts. Darnley and his men then used their swords to turn the poor man into a pincushion.

It’s easy to imagine such a tragedy on a night like tonight.

“I have to confess I don’t really know who Bald Agnes is,” I say, when Alex is done imitating Rizzio falling over dead.

“What? There’s something the historian doesn’t know?” he mutters, standing back up and picking his cake plate up off of Mary, Queen of Scot’s bedside table.

“Well I ….I sort of stick with the leaders of countries and all… ”

“Of course you do. You specialize in royals. Which is lucky for me, because that’s how we met.” He grins and takes another bite of his cake. “Well, let’s see, Bald Agnes, the poor woman was garroted and burned at the stake for witchcraft by James I. It was in the late 1500’s, I believe. I’m not too good with dates. But I believe they were seeing witches everywhere in those days.”

“And you really think you saw her ghost?”

“Who knows what I saw when I was three!” he jokes. Then he takes me around and shows me some of the amazing objects in Queen Mary’s room. The most amazing of which is a chest with tortoise shell hearts that gleam ominously in the track lighting. In this light, the hearts appear blood red. Alex opens the doors to the chest, inside is a maze of tiny drawers. He opens each one and we peer inside until he gets to a small door hidden behind all the other doors. Inside, it is like a small stage surrounded by mirrors. On the stage, reflected in all the mirrors, is a little brown book that appears to be made out of vellum.

“Never seen that before.” Alex jabs his cake fork at the book. “It’s always been empty when the tour guides showed me it before.”

“May I,” I ask and pick up the object.

“What is this piece of furniture,” I ask, as I run a hand over the sewn binding of the book.

“It’s a chest that holds one’s collection.” Alex informs me, “One’s finest figurine would go on this little stage, that way it would be reflected in all these other mirrors as soon as the doors are opened. But, like I said, I’ve never seen a book in here before.”

I scratch my head and open up the book to glance at the first page. “Honestly, this seems authentic. It’s written in French. By its construction, I’d place it at about mid-16th century.”

“Well, what the devil is it doing here?”

“Maybe somebody misplaced it. It looks valuable. You should return it to the palace curator.” I snap the book closed and offer it to him.

“I’ll do that,” he responds, taking the book from me with his free hand. “I’ll turn into the head curator, Mr. Schnipps, in London. But before we leave the room, I want to tell you something about the chest.

“It didn’t really belong to Mary Queen of Scots, did it?”

“How the devil, Lizzie?”

“It’s a Victorian collection chest, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s right. Some Earl of something or rather…” he reads the man’s name of a plaque on a nearby stand that describes the chest, “gave it to Queen Victoria and claimed it had belonged to the poor, forsaken Mary, but it turns out it was built 100 years or so after her death. How did you know? I am beginning to believe you are the brightest historian I’ve ever met.”

“I read the plaque when you were doing your David Rizzio-as-pin-cushion impression and falling on the floor,” I say cheekily, paying him back for tricking me about the cake plates.

“Fair enough, Lizzie. Fair enough,” he replies. He gives a little laugh and then acting as tour-guide, he motions for me to follow. Our next stop is the bedroom of another hapless Scottish hero, Bonny Prince Charlie. The battle he fought to regain the English throne for Scotland cost many highlanders their lives. The government troops of King George II spared no one. Innocent, peaceful Scots living in villages nearby were slaughtered after the English troops routed Charlie at the battle of Culloden.

A huge grandfather clock strikes eleven as Alex brings the tour to a close. Even though I’m exhausted, I don’t want to go. I can’t remember when I’ve had a better time. We talk logistics briefly, and decide to head for the inn in my rental car. After returning our plates to the kitchen and washing them thoroughly, the Prince grabs his small black duffle bag while I grab my rollaway. At a quarter past, we head out the door.

“What’s wrong with it?” Alex asks a moment later, when the BMW won’t start.

“Don’t know, seemed fine all the way here from London,” I lie.

“Hmm, well, it’s dead now. We’ll have to walk. Don’t worry the inn isn’t far.”

From Holyrood, it is only a mile walk to the Edinburgh castle, along a street lined with restaurants, hotels, and shops. Alex doesn’t head towards the castle. Instead, he turns and ventures down a small, twisty lane, heading in the direction of the outskirts. After a five minute walk, we arrive at an authentic Scottish pub.

“It’s a fine place. They’ll give you a comfy room at a low rate. Tell them Mickey sent you.”

I raise a brow.

“It’s a code. I’ve stayed here a few times myself.”

“You won’t be staying tonight?”

“No, trust me. If I do, it’ll be all over the newspapers tomorrow that you and I are having a fling. More fodder for Alfred’s next book. You don’t want that. No, I’ll just bid you goodnight, Lizzie. I’ll stay at the Sheraton. I’m heading back to London for a charity even tomorrow night. I’ll be in touch as soon as possible.”

“Wait a second, before you go, I should wish you a happy birthday, Sparky.”

He smiles. “My birthday was a while ago, and I already had an official celebration with my parents, but thank you.” With a polite bow of his head, he turns and heads off into the night. I watch him go, and my heart beats wildly inside my chest.

“Yes, Trudy Rue, you are a hopeless romantic,” I mumble to myself before I step inside the Earnest Ewe and tell the barkeep that Mickey sent me.

The next morning, Alistair rings before I have even opened an eye. My stay at the Earnest Ewe Inn has been one of the most pleasant I have ever had. The pub owner gave me a fantastic rate when I told him I was sent by “Mickey.” He put me up in a room with a soft but firm mattress that was so comfortable, I fell asleep without the aid of any medicine.

“Good morning, Alistair,” I answer the phone with a breathy voice, wondering if he’s going to tell me to hold the line for the Prince. Does Alex miss me already? Maybe he wants to meet for breakfast and to tell me that he’s always dreamed of life with a big-boned girl such as myself.

“Good Morning, Ms. Rue, I wanted to tell you that Prince Alex informed me of your rental car problems. The rental car company has promised to drop off another car at the Earnest Ewe should you wish. Or if you prefer, they will refund your money and you can take the train back to London, which I think you would greatly prefer. It’s a much more pleasant way to travel. Driving from Scotland to London is just wretched.”

I yawn. It’s all very considerate, but all I want to do is fall back asleep. I eye the clock, half past nine.

“Actually, a new rental car would be great. And if you don’t mind, I need to make a small detour before coming back to London.”

“I’ll let the rental company know.”

He rings off and I fall back into a deep sleep, dreaming about how convenient it would be to have an Alistair of my own to arrange all my schedules.

Two hours later, I am back on the road. It takes a long time to reach Bourton-on-the-Water; the roads through the Cotswolds are narrow. I am driving along, concentrating on the road, when suddenly I receive a text. A voice comes over the rental car’s Bluetooth set.

“You have received a text from Alex, do you want to read it?”

“Read it,” I demand, frantically grabbing at my phone in case the Bluetooth connection drops. Oh dear, am I smitten? I am smitten. I absolutely have to know right this second what Alex is texting me.

<>

“Do you want to reply or hang up?” the Bluetooth lady asks.

“Reply, reply,” I shout all excited.

What do they say about texting and driving? Don’t do it. As I am driving, I drop my phone.

“Okay….that’s what I get for playing around…” I mumble, but apparently I only pronounce a few of these words out loud. Unfortunately, it’s enough for the Bluetooth lady.

“Texting <> to Alex,” she says.

“No, no, no,” I yell in frustration.

“Okay, player? You been reading Alfred’s biography of me, Lizzie?” Alex replies a second later.

I text him back, via the Bluetooth lady, that it is all an autocorrect failure. Minutes go by, but there is no reply.

Damn, why doesn’t he reply?

Well, I refuse to sit here and ruminate over any man. As soon as I hear from Alex again, I will apologize profusely. Right now, I need to concentrate on my driving. I am only five miles outside of Bourton-on-the-Water, otherwise known as the “Venice of the North.” The village was given this nickname because the river Windrush has been channeled into glorious canals that run straight through the middle of the town. It’s quite stunning. Like the real Venice, the canals lure tourists by the busloads.

When I was young, we spent an entire week visiting the Cotswolds, my father loves this part of the world. Once more, I think about the irony that I was the one who introduced Sean to Bourton, and subsequently, he secretly purchased a cottage in town. In my opinion, the most magical thing about Bourton-on-the-Water is this: at around five p.m. all the tourist buses leave and then it’s a quiet, sleepy hamlet where rose bushes scramble up the sides of 17th century stone cottages.

I remember walking the streets in the evening with Sean, crossing over the stone bridges, peering into a shop that had figurines of every breed of dog and every manner of cat. I also remember Sean telling me he wanted to retire to a stone cottage in Bourton and write. At the time, I thought he meant he wanted to retire with me. Suddenly I feel a twinge of sadness at how wrong I was about my relationship with my ex. This sadness dissipates a few minutes later as I drive into town to find that the cottage I have been bequeathed is situated in the dead center of the village, at #4 High Street. It is marvelous stone structure, with all sorts of flowers blooming out front.

How could Sean have ever afforded this?

It takes me awhile to navigate the streets. I have to drive around back to find a place to park my car. I parallel park it in between a ford and a Mercedes, then I walk around the high stone fence to the front of the cottage and unlock the door. I almost squeal in delight at the sight that meets my eyes. The main room has vaulted ceilings with large exposed beams. The fireplace looks large enough to roast a deer. There is so much old-world charm here that I rise up on my toes in delight. I can’t believe this place is mine. Immediately, I am drawn to a writing desk in one corner. A shelf which runs above the desk houses dozens of folders with labels in Sean’s handwriting.

“I’ll be deviled,” I mumble. I stop and stare intently at the one marked Croesus. I’ll examine that later. Right now I need to visit the rest of the cottage.

I poke a nose into the kitchen and let out a shout of happiness. It’s light and airy. There’s a large farm sink and white finished cabinetry. The floor is tiled in tasteful terra-cotta. A modern sliding door opens onto a conservatory. I step out into the fresh air and stare open-mouthed at the enormous garden. An expanse of lawn and mature trees stretch before me. To one side is a stone garage for a car.

“I could buy a car and adopt a dog,” I say to myself, temporarily forgetting that my work is in New York.

Salivating, I head off to visit the rest of the rooms. There’s no dining room, but that’s okay. The tiny kitchen table will do. There’s also no bathroom on the first floor. I take a tight stairway to the second floor. The master bedroom is gorgeous. Here the trusses are exposed. There’s another large fireplace, and two recessed windows which for small alcoves where I can sit and read. This room is whitewashed, and there is a bedspread with dainty, multi-colored flowers to mark the place as decidedly British. I let out a low whistle. I still can’t believe this place is mine.

Is it evil that I think about inviting the Prince over for a stay? It is evil. After all, I inherited this house from a man who was murdered, a man with whom I have lived for seven years. How can I think about inviting the Prince? It is also bad of me to think about Alex in that way. It will only lead to heartbreak. He is used to the femme fatale, as I read this in his unofficial biography. He is used to coat-hanger thin women with razor sharp cheek bones who have just stepped off of the runway. He doesn’t date the large ones who like their chocolate cake.

Not to mention the fact that I think I seriously insulted him by calling him a player.

Still, this place is so inviting. If I could sneak Alex in, we could close out the rest of the world…

I continue on with my tour. I believe I actually yell out loud when I see the bathroom. It has a claw foot tub and a romantic, built-in shelf for towels and candles.

How much did all this cost, I wonder, as I check out two more small bedrooms. I stop at the top of the stairway and do some math in my head. This cottage has to be worth over a million dollars. How on earth did Sean afford it?

Selling antiquities on the black market is very lucrative,
I think to myself. Stop it! Stop thinking this way. Still, somehow Sean had to pay for this cottage and if I’m right, if he was selling antiquities on the black market, Sean may have been in league with some very dark forces. He would have been working with people who would have done anything to keep him quiet.

I’m too tired to think about this now. I’m going to unpack my suitcase and settle in. I’m going to go to a local pub, eat some fish and chips and down a pint. Then I’m going to come back, take a long bath, and sleep as long as possible in my beautiful cottage in Bourton-on-the-Water.

“Lizzie?”

Two hours later, I answer the phone from the luxury of my bubble bath. I actually did head off to a grimy little pub, ate some fish and chips and drank some really good ale. It all tasted wonderful. At first, when my cell rang, I was quite put out to exit the tub and retrieve it off the nightstand. But now as I hear Alistair’s voice saying, “Hold please for his Royal Highness,” I think the night couldn’t get any better.

There’s something deliciously naughty about talking to a Prince while taking a bubble bath in a million dollar cottage left to you by your cheating ex. It doesn’t happen every day, and I’m going to live it up.

“Yes,” I reply in a silky, sexy voice.

“You okay? You sound funny?” the prince asked.

“Oh, um, yes, right.” I sit up in the tub. “How wonderful for you to call. I want you to know that calling you ‘player’ was an auto-correct failure.”

“That’s alright. It’s very American, isn’t it? Nobody’s ever called me ‘player’ before. I laughed for half an hour. Anyway, I wanted to make sure you got to your destination all right. Wanted to make sure it worked out with your replacement rental car,” he says, sounding cheerfully gallant.

I think perhaps this may be the nicest, most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me. I once walked across a remote mountain region in Afghanistan to visit an archeological dig in tribal-controlled lands. Sean didn’t call once to see if I arrived in one piece.

“I thought you were at a charity event tonight.”

“Just wrapped up, so I thought I would check in with my favorite biographer.”

I find it so easy to talk to the Prince, we fall into a long chat about his evening - he tells me it was very boring but worth every second due to the money raised for the South African Spotted Sea Otter. Or some such animal, I don’t really know, because I am just so thrilled to be on the phone with Alex.

“I’m glad we didn’t run into Bald Agnes last night, like you and your brother did that time,” I say, completely changing the conversation.

There’s a bit of a pause from the other end of the phone --where is he anyway? I hear the sound of a car horn. The English don’t honk, they are far too polite; they suffer bad traffic in silence.

“I loved Albert very much you know,” the prince whispers solemnly. I am so shocked that I barely move in the tub. I don’t want to spook him. I want him to keep talking about his brother. For the next ten minutes Alex tells me everything a four-year old could remember about his brother. He tells me how he looked up to him one second and how he and Albert would throw rocks at each other the next. Finally he startles me once more when he adds, “I wanted to
be
him.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that last part - what did you say?”

“Where are you, Lizzie? Is that water I hear running?”

Long ago I learned that if you don’t want to answer a question, ask another question.

“Where are you? I thought I heard a car horn.”

“I’m trapped in traffic. It’s only a mile to Kensington but nothing is moving.”

“What kind of car do you drive?”

“A black golf GTI.”

A GTI? Hmm, that’s a fine car for us common people, but I thought a prince would drive something spiffier, like an Austin Martin or a Tesla.

“And where are you, Lizzie? Are you in the bathtub?”

I don’t reply. If I answer yes, Alex is going to picture me nude in my bathwater. That is inevitable. I’m not sure he wants to envision me and my extra poundage in the tub.

On the other hand, I can’t lie.

“Yes,” I respond, “Guilty as charged.”

There is another, longer pause.

“Lizzie, you should have told me it was a bad time to talk. Goodnight.” Faster than one can say, “Happy Birthday, Sparky,” Alex hangs up, leaving me feeling terribly confused.

I put my cell phone down beside the tub, lean back in the bubbles and chide myself. “You should have lied, Trudy Rue. You should have lied. No one wants to envision nude in a bathtub.”

I stand up, dry off and go to bed feeling confused about everything.