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“You’d be surprised.”
In the distance he caught a glint of light in the dim sky. Slowly, the outline of the Sea King Commando chopper became clear.
Right on time.
“You knew there’d be trouble?” Goulding asked.
“It was a good bet. But we had to come for a look.”
He saw the professor agreed. “That we did. Thanks for bringing me along.”
The helicopter settled nearby, atop more rhyolite formations. They ran through the wash of the blades, and he allowed Goulding to enter the passenger compartment first.
He followed.
But as he did, he hoped no one was watching.
His newfound status as a corpse would come in handy.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Yourstone slammed the door to his study. The past few hours had been the worst of his life. He’d left Windsor and ridden back to London in silence, heading first to his office at Parliament. He’d felt safe there, though he realized that his time as an influential member of that body was drawing to a close.
Nothing had gone right.
And he couldn’t count on Peter Lyon.
No. This problem was all his.
He stepped to the bar and poured himself a whiskey, downing the drink in one swallow, then made himself another. This seemed like a good night to be roaring plastered.
He reclined on the sofa.
The door to the study opened and his son stormed into the room.
“My God, Father. What have you done?”
He was definitely not in the mood for prattling. “Leave me alone.”
Andrew rounded the couch and faced him.
He did not rise or even look up.
“You cannot dismiss me.”
He gulped another swallow of whisky. He was going to need fortification. “If I could only be so lucky.”
“You have destroyed us. I spoke to Eleanor. She told me what happened with the queen.”
“I no longer give a bloody damn what you think or care.”
“Our title could be ended. My inheritance. Gone.”
He downed the rest of the whiskey and rose for more.
His inheritance.
The moron.
Yourstone had enjoyed the sweet nectar from a poisonous tree. He’d bedded a princess and plotted to overthrow two legitimate heirs to the Crown. He’d even come close to making his son king. What did any inheritance matter?
He splashed more whiskey into the tumbler.
“You seem unconcerned,” Andrew said. “Don’t you even realize what has happened?”
He pushed past his son and settled back on the couch. He actually wished he had another mistress. Her flat would be an excellent place to spend the next few days. But he’d concentrated all his attention on Eleanor of late, trying desperately to impregnate her.
“Leave me alone,” he said. “Go and bed one of your tarts. Pretend to be a man. I hope whoever she may be likes her men on the weak side.”
He downed more whiskey.
“You are an abomination. A disgusting monster.”
He saluted his glass as the young man stood before him. “To me. The abomination.”
He bottomed out the tumbler and enjoyed the feeling that burned a path to his stomach.
His son rushed from the room.
Good riddance.
Malone stuffed a pistol between his belt and shirt. He wore a dark jacket, cords, and a brown shirt, his feet wrapped in black Nikes. He climbed from the car into a night made soft by a half-moon and a plenitude of stars. He was parked down the street from Nigel Yourstone’s Belgravia house. He’d waited until darkness before moving, having learned all about Victoria’s confrontation at Windsor with Eleanor and Yourstone. But if he’d guessed right, and he was certain he had, Yourstone was facing something far worse than a royal wrath.
He shut the car door and walked down the sidewalk.
Lights burned inside the residence.
Yourstone enjoyed another whiskey and then decided on his course of action. It would be easy to simply take a revolver from his desk and blow his brains out. That was precisely what two great-uncles had done when faced with financial ruin 200 years ago. Every family had its share of weaklings, men and women remembered more for their shortcomings than their accomplishments. But he was not about to resign his fate to such dismal depths, always having his name preceded by poor, and succeeded by remember him, such a shame what happened, killing himself like that. He would not give anyone the satisfaction of feeling sorry for him. Instead, several million pounds waited on deposit in Swiss and Cayman Island accounts. Money he’d long ago siphoned from his tax obligations and businesses. Thanks to the Falklands War, the Argentines still hated anything and everything British. No extradition treaty existed between the two countries, no matter the crime.
He could actually live a comfortable life there.
He stepped to the desk, unlocked the lower left drawer, and found the passbooks for the two
foreign accounts. Upstairs in the bedroom safe was 50,000 pounds. Money he always kept on hand. He located the telephone directory and reached for the phone. A moment later a reservationist for British Airways came on the line and told him there was a flight to Caracas, Venezuela, leaving in five hours. From there he could grab a connection to Buenos Aires.
Perfect.
He booked a first-class ticket, then headed for the hallway and upstairs.
Before reaching the study doors, the panels swung inward.
Had his son returned?
He hadn’t the time to dawdle over more of his nonsense. But the figure in the doorway was that of a silver-haired man, clean-shaven, dressed in a three-piece suit, his right hand gripping a peculiar walking stick, the left holding a revolver.
Sir Thomas Mathews.
“I heard your conversation with the reservationist. Argentina is lovely this time of year.”
The spymaster blocked the doorway.
“Why haven’t you answered my calls?” Yourstone asked. “I’ve tried reaching you since yesterday.”
Mathews motioned with the gun. A sound suppressor extended the snout a few extra inches. “I thought we’d speak in person. Have a seat.”
He decided not to argue and retreated back across the room, sitting behind his desk.
Mathews casually examined the bookcases. “Your choice of reading is admirable. The classics, mythology, St. Augustine. Quite a variety.”
“My ancestors were well versed.”
The older man chuckled. “You aristocrats aggravate me so. I would rather deal with terrorists and fanatical avengers, like Peter Lyon, than the blue blood of old money.”
“You didn’t seem to mind using me for your purposes.”
“Quite right. I never minded a moment.”
It had been Mathews who’d provided nearly all of the surveillance information on Richard. The Secret Intelligence Service possessed resources no one could match. Monitoring mobile phone calls had been easy for them. Keeping tabs on Richard simple. Secrecy a matter of course.
