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He turned back just before he went around the corner. “And Caelan?”
“Yeah?”
“You never cashed the cheque but I always honour my bargains. As you shall discover.”
Caelan cocked his head. “Okay…”
“Oh, and Caelan?” He turned around one, last time.
“Aye?”
“It was a stroke of genius, how you dealt with Sherry.”
Caelan feigned ignorance. “You’ve lost me.”
Rathbone raised one eyebrow. “Like that, is it?”
“A pal o’ mine might’ve owed me,” Caelan conceded.
Sherry now languished in prison. Meanwhile, the younger Rathbone girls had been taken in by a friend of the family…
“If that’s what you’re going with, fine. But those were some nice adventures you had, son. Especially liked the hostage situation you negotiated for the Royals.”
Caelan scratched his head. “I’ve nae clue what you’re blethering about.”
“Not one word to Flora then,” Blake asked. “Like me, I know you can keep secrets.”
“Aye.”
“Good.”
Rathbone had a bit of a spring in his step, nearly vaulting his way to a taxi.
When Caelan arrived home, he picked up the gift from the hallway table and unwrapped it without much precision, then took the lid off a small box. Inside, there was a silver rattle, but also a picture of a beautiful Scandinavian-style log cabin, the Cairngorms in the background, an address typed in bold font at the bottom. There was also a small note:It’s ready for you and will be cosier than the castle, better for the bairn. Only what I owe you, plus interest, of course. My own rates. Let the past stay in the past. B.R.
“Arsehole,” said Caelan, chuckling.
He found a single key too and smiled, knowing just where he’d take Flora and the new baby for Christmas this year.
He’d take them home.
Chapter One
April 2023
I stood before my massive worktable, rifling through piles of photos that pictured the late Queen’s many, many outfits on mannequins. Taking a deep breath, suddenly the task I was faced with dawned. This would require more members of staff than we had and many more years than some of them had left. Apparently, I was the youngest person to ever head the Royal Collection’s wardrobe department—but since I’d done so much for the Duchess, now Queen-in-Waiting, including introducing her to my friend Wendy over lunch (an incredibly body-positive black woman who the Duchess hit it off with straight away)—I had gained myself a shoe in.
The new Prince of Wales was right when he said they couldn’t pay me what I was really worth as merely his wife’s dresser. However, the Royal Collection could, so there I was at Buckingham Palace this time, having just returned to work from maternity leave, starting this new and exciting adventure—collating collections to be put on display one day, when the time was right.
My knowledge of fabric and its restoration, not to mention preservation, would be put to its best use. Collections would be showcased in the palaces, castles and country boltholes where Her Majesty’s clothes had been worn: her tweed, tartan and wax jackets up in Balmoral; the gowns, dresses, jackets and suits she wore for state occasions, garden parties and other major events at Buckingham Palace; then the casual wear she’d donned at Sandringham or Windsor. Indeed, the late Queen’s clothes didn’t only speak of her life, but of Britain’s identity—through fashion. For me personally, the fabrics and their evolution told a story all on their own, but the meaning behind each colour choice, each brooch or hat or pair of shoes… these would be museum pieces for all time and I needed to get them ready to become more than just clothes. They would tell stories forever. This is what I dearly loved about dressing; it was about so much more than creating an appearance. It was about attitude, politics and projecting power. It was about personality. I adored my new job already, even if it were a gargantuan task that lay ahead.
It was decided a few months ago, just before I went off on maternity leave, that long-term, our Queen-in-Waiting would need someone with more stylistic experience to take her to the next level. Cue me introducing her to Wendy, who wouldn’t just bring the clothes, but would boost the confidence of someone destined to be Queen. I was all professional manners and logic, whereas Wendy boasted a creative, endearing touch. Not to mention people in the Royal Household would dare not say a word wrong to her. Wendy adored that she had them all on tenterhooks whenever she spoke to them, lest they say the wrong thing. Not only did she grow up in a poor New York neighbourhood, but she was an orphan and a self-starter. It’s hard to make small talk around that. She was beyond most people’s comprehension, but especially theirs.
My phone beeped with a familiar tone and I knew it was him. Pulling it out of the back of my jeans pocket, I found an image of our son Logan pictured alongside the dog, Jet. Both of them lay in a sunbeam near the French doors, Jet with one eye winking open because he knew he wasn’t supposed to be sharing the baby’s playmat. However, shelties are incredibly protective creatures and so we knew he would never hurt the baby, he only wanted to protect him.
They did look gorgeous lying there together and I grinned so much, I nearly didn’t notice someone else walk into the room—until he cleared his throat. Replying with a heart, I pocketed my phone and looked up to see the King’s private secretary had just walked in and was hovering near the doorway of my workroom. He had nothing to do with our business, but he sometimes liked to show his face. He didn’t interfere, he just wandered, occasionally.
“How are we today, Flora?” he said, in that stiff suit of his, bushy eyebrows raised.
