AllFreeNovel
Share Us
If I can just stop my tears for a second so I can leave with at least some of my dignity, I’d be grateful. Stepping around him, I pause at his side, lifting my stare to his in a show of defiance.
“I’m not coming back,” I tell him as I make to leave.
“Yes.” His hand flattens to my stomach, stopping me from walking away. “Yes, you will. You’ll return tomorrow like you were meant to.”
“I won’t.”
“You will, and we will carry on. Three nights a week, you’ll play for me. I’ll listen and watch, and it’s how it’ll be. No touching. No—”
“Goodbye, Your Grace,” I cut him off, pushing past his hand and walking away.
Everything is a blur. The surroundings that have grown so familiar become a treacherous road that I can’t walk quick enough. Although I know that he’s right, I will come back tomorrow. I keep telling myself that it’s not because of him. I’m not returning for him. It’s for me. This is a means to an end, and that’s all it will ever be.
And just like that, I lose another piece of myself to him. Henry Sloane. The Duke of Gloucester has made a liar of me.
CHAPTER TWELVE
HENRY
The gates to St. James’s Palace open slowly, allowing me another glimpse at the front-page headline of this morning’s Telegraph.
Whitechapel Murder, Again
East London has seen another woman brutally murdered in its backstreets four months on from the fatal attack on Emma Elizabeth Smith. Miss Smith was a North London resident and mother of two. She died in hospital on April 4TH, two days after sustaining serious injuries as she left a known brothel in the late hours of the night. Although no suspects were named, it is believed that Miss Smith was set upon by vigilantes who have been protesting the presence of the establishments in the area.
Last night’s attack heralds calls for police to take action. The unnamed female victim is said to have been leaving the White Hart pub late in the evening when she was savagely attacked to her death. Police are yet to release the identity and further details of…
The tentative knock on my window interrupts my reading. Emma Smith. The name is familiar enough that it gives me pause as I establish whether the connection to the mistress will complicate things for the Society. Last night was messier than it should have been, but maybe this vigilante issue will help cover up our involvement. Either way, with his mistress dead, Chapman will be on the lookout for a replacement, and Elizabeth is ready.
After I’ve parked, I grab the newspaper and the file underneath it before heading inside the Prince of Wales’ residence. As a child, I remember spending a lot of time here with our parents. Before Arthur was the heir apparent, and our biggest concern was who would win whatever competition we thought of between us. As there was no body of water at this residence, fencing was the main sport here. After we tried bringing back jousting a few times, we were banned when we almost took each other out for good.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” the footman greets me as I head up the stairs to Arthur’s apartment.
Since my father was killed, security has been amped up around the Prince of Wales. Or maybe it’s the fact his father is dying and wants to protect his heir. Either way, it feels odd having security inside the house as well as outside. Knowing Arthur, this will be driving him crazy.
“Afternoon.” I nod down at him as I reach the landing for the first flight of stairs.
“His Highness has…a visitor,” he tells me with a telling raise of his brows.
Of course he does. “Thank you for the warning,” I say before I continue up to the top-floor apartment overlooking the gardens and St. James’s Park across The Mall.
It’s oddly quiet as I walk inside the private living quarters. Despite the light drizzle outside, the windows are open, allowing the cool air to circulate around the open-plan living space. While I wait for Arthur to appear, I make myself a strong coffee and sit in the window seat with my newspaper.
The article doesn’t say much more on my crime. Percival made sure the chief of police silenced the investigation before it even started. But a part of me is disappointed that all that’s said is speculation. I’m a man that owns his actions; I don’t pass my blame on to others.
Taking a sip of my coffee, I try to push down the frustration of it. In the end, all that matters is that I’m closer to justice, and the Society is closer to getting a spy in the United Republic camp. Taking them down is the only way we’re going to survive when Arthur finds out that the king is dying. The people’s king. The only thing stopping the United Republic’s poison from taking hold.
My phone rings as I’m about to go knock on Arthur’s door. I can’t wait around for him all afternoon. I have plans, and after last night, I have every intention of making sure Eve turns up. Even if I have to go get her myself.
Calling her was a mistake. It was wrong and reckless. But I was so out of touch that I needed something desperately to ground me. I needed something that would pull me out of my blind rage. And it was her. Someone. My beautiful Eve.
“Andrew?” I answer, getting up from the window seat and taking my empty cup to the kitchen. Everything is sparkling, almost new from lack of use.
“We need to talk. Urgently,” he stresses.
“What about?”
“I think this would be better in person.”
