Again, I love you.
Marcus
P.S. I didn’t tell the papers about Zoe, by the way. She’s my sister. I’d never do that to her.
“Oh God, oh God, Marcus . . .” Tears spilled out of Joanna’s eyes. “But you did show me, darling, you did!”
She cried some more, the awful finality of death—the fact she could never thank him for what he had done for her—hitting her acutely as she reread his last words to her. She realized that, despite his flaws, never in her life had she been loved as much as she had been by Marcus. And now he was gone.
“I’m not strong, or brave,” she muttered, as she wandered into the bedroom and looked in her rucksack for the sleeping pills the doctor had given her when she’d left the hospital. She would definitely need them tonight.
Pulling out the old newspaper cuttings and the envelope containing all her “evidence,” Joanna climbed into bed and looked at the pile. Yet again she was compelled to compare the photographs, and yet again her mind reached for answers.
“This was your grandfather, Marcus,” she whispered into the silent room as she swallowed a pill and tried to get comfortable on the new mattress.
“Who was he?” she asked the ether.
An hour later, still unable to sleep despite the pill, Joanna sat up. Surely . . . surely she owed it to Marcus, who had lost his life on the search, to find out?
Following Alec’s advice about posting an advert in the small ads, Joanna set to work on her computer. Over a dozen national French newspapers were listed, plus numerous local papers. She decided she’d start with Le Monde and the Times, which, being of English origin, Grace might buy to keep in touch. If she received no joy from adverts in those, she’d move on to the next two, and so on. After all, there was no guarantee that Grace was still living in France. She might well have left soon after her faked “death” all those years ago.
But how to word the advert so that Grace would know it was safe to reveal herself? And, by the same token, not alert anyone who might be watching and waiting? Joanna sat cross-legged on her bed far into the night, the pile of discarded scraps of paper—each one of which she knew she must burn to a cinder before morning came—growing as she racked her brains to find the right words to use.
As the sun rose, Joanna typed up the advert, then deleted it immediately after it had printed. When she arrived at work, she used the office fax machine to send it through, with a note to both newspapers to place the ad as soon as possible. The ads would appear in two days’ time. It was a long shot, she knew, and all she could do now was to wait.
* * *
Lunchtime found her in the local library in Hornton Street to work, the table full of books on the history of the royal family. She studied yet another photograph of the young Duke of York and his bride. Then, casting her eyes down, she noticed a ring on a finger of his left hand. Even though it was partly in shadow, the shape and the insignia looked familiar.
Joanna closed her eyes and scoured her brain. Where had she seen that ring before? Cursing out loud because the answer would not come to her, Joanna looked at the clock and realized her lunch break was over.
At four o’clock, as she drank a cup of tea, she thumped her desk in exhilaration.
“Of course!”
She picked up the receiver and dialed Zoe’s number.
* * *
“How are you?” Zoe opened the door to the Welbeck Street house that evening, made a fast check of the street, then ushered Joanna inside and embraced her warmly.
“I’m . . . okay.”
“Sure? You look very thin, Jo.”
“I guess. How are you?”
“Yes, well . . . you know, the same. Tea? Coffee? Wine? I’m opting for the latter, as the sun has long passed the yardarm.”
“I’ll join you,” Joanna said as she followed Zoe into the kitchen. She grabbed a half-drunk bottle and sloshed the wine into two glasses.
“You don’t look that great either,” Joanna said.
“To be honest, I feel like crap.”
“Me too.”
“Cheers.” They clinked glasses in mock celebration and sat down at the kitchen table.
“How’s it been, coming back to London?” Zoe asked her.
“Difficult,” Joanna admitted. “And I found this last night in my post,” she said quietly, handing Zoe the letter. “It’s from Marcus. He must have written it to me after our fight . . . I thought you’d . . . well, I thought you might want to read it.”
“Thanks.” Zoe opened the envelope. Joanna watched her read it and could see the tears sparkling in her blue eyes. “Thank you for showing me this.” She took Joanna’s hand. “It means a lot to me that Marcus loved you so deeply. I didn’t think he would ever experience it, and I’m so happy he did, even if it was only for a short time.”
“I just wish I’d believed he loved me, but it was very difficult, given his behavior and past reputation. We also had an argument. I feel so dreadful. I accused him of shopping you and Art to the papers.” At least it was a half-truth.
“I see. I thought it might have been you, but Simon swore it wouldn’t be.”
“That’s nice of him. Anyway, as it happens, it wasn’t either of us.”
“Then who was it?”
“Who knows? A neighbor maybe, who saw Art coming in and out of your house? God, Zoe, I’m so ashamed I accused Marcus.”
“Well, at least you two made up in Ireland.”
“Yes, we did,” Joanna lied, hating the fact she could never tell his sister that Marcus had saved her life. “And I miss him terribly.”
“So do I. Even though he was irritating, self-indulgent, and useless with money, he was so passionate. And alive. Now, let’s change the subject before we both end up having another sob-fest. You said you wanted to see William Fielding’s ring?”
“Yes.”
Zoe reached into her handbag, pulled out a small leather box, and passed it to Joanna, who opened the box and studied the ring inside it.
“Well? Is it the one you saw in the catalog you mentioned on the phone earlier? A lost heirloom from tsarist Russia? A priceless ring stolen directly from the finger of some murdered archbishop during the Reformation?”
“I’m not absolutely sure, but it certainly might be valuable . . . Would you let me borrow it for a few days so I can check if it is the same one? I promise not to let it out of my sight.”
“Of course you can. It’s not even mine to keep anyway. Poor old William had no living relatives. I did ask at the funeral, but all the people there were either old actor friends or others who knew him from the business. Maybe, if the ring is worth something, he’d like the money to go to the Actors’ Benevolent Fund.”
“That’s a nice idea.” Joanna closed the box and stowed it away in her rucksack. “I’ll let you know as soon as I find out for sure. Now, tell me all about your prince.”
“He’s fine.” Zoe took a large slug of wine.
“Only ‘fine’? Not an apt word for the love of your life, the fairy-tale relationship of the decade, the—”
“I’ve not seen him in a while. I’ve been spending some time with Jamie over the Easter holidays. He’s still shaken after what happened and he’s nervous about going back to school and being ribbed about his mum.”
“Poor Jamie. Sorry, Zoe. I’ve been away for weeks, so I’ve rather lost touch.”
“Well, he got teased at school about my relationship with Art. I hadn’t told him about it and while Art and I were away in Spain together, he ran away from school. It was Simon who found him, actually, lying asleep on his great-grandfather’s grave.” Zoe’s face softened. “I’m still amazed Simon knew Jamie well enough to know where to look. He’s such a kind man, Joanna. Jamie adores him.”
“But you and Art, you’re still okay, aren’t you?”
“If I’m truthful, I was very angry with him when I left Spain. He just didn’t seem to understand how frightened I was, or, to be honest, care that Jamie
was missing. Although when he flew back to London, he did the bouquet thing, apologized profusely for his insensitivity, and promised to make sure Jamie was better protected in the future.”
“So, everything’s fine again now?”
“Supposedly, yes. Art’s moving heaven and earth to have his parents and the rest of the family accept me. But”—Zoe twirled a finger around the base of her wineglass—“between you and me, I’m seriously beginning to question my own feelings for him. I’m desperate to believe that what I’ve felt for so long is real. Art is all I’ve wanted for years, and now that I’ve got him . . . well”—Zoe shook her head—“I’m beginning to find fault with him.”
“Personally, I think that’s understandable, Zoe. No one could live up to the imaginary prince of your dreams.”
“I keep telling myself that, but the truth is, Jo, I don’t know how much we have in common. He never finds things that I find funny even vaguely amusing. In fact, to be honest, he rarely laughs. And he’s so”—Zoe searched for the word—“rigid. There’s no spontaneity at all.”
“Surely that’s more to do with his position rather than his personality?”
“Perhaps. But you know how with some men you don’t feel you’re your true self? How you feel you’re always acting? That you can never really relax?”
“Totally. I had one like that for five years, although I didn’t realize it until he dumped me. Matthew—my ex—just didn’t bring out the best in me. We rarely had fun.”
“That’s just it, Jo. Art and I spend our lives having intense conversations about the future and we never just enjoy the moment. And I still haven’t got up the courage to introduce him to Jamie. I just have this awful feeling that my son won’t like him much. He’s so . . . stiff. Besides all that”—Zoe sighed—“it’s the thought of the scrutiny I’ll be placed under for the rest of my life. Having the media analyzing my every move, having a camera lens pointed up my nostrils everywhere I turn.”
“I’m sure if you love Art enough, he can help you through all that. It’s your feelings for him that you must get straight in your mind.”
“Love conquers all, you mean?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, that’s the bottom line, I suppose. I feel a bit like Pooh Bear stuck in Rabbit’s hole; I’m so far in that I’m wondering how on earth I can get out. God, it’s times like this when I really wish my grandfather was still alive. He’d be bound to have some sane, wise words to throw on the subject.”
“You really were close, weren’t you?”
“Absolutely. I wish you could have met him, Jo. You’d have loved him and he’d have loved you. He adored feisty women.”
“Was your grandmother feisty?” Joanna probed.
“I’m not really sure. I do know she came from a wealthy English background. The White family were awfully grand—she was a ‘lady.’ Of course she lost her title when she married my grandfather. Quite a catch for an actor, especially one with supposed Irish origins.”
Joanna’s heart skipped a beat.
Talk to the White Knight’s Lady . . .
“Grace’s maiden name was White?”
“Yes. She was really pretty . . . petite and dainty.”
“Like you.”
“Maybe. Perhaps that’s why James was so fond of me. Speaking of dead wives, there’s something else I wanted to tell you. I’ve been asked to play one.”
“Sorry?” Joanna forced herself to concentrate on what Zoe was saying.
“Paramount is doing a major, multimillion-pound remake of Blithe Spirit. They want me for Elvira.”
“Blimey, Zoe, are we talking Hollywood here?”
“We sure are, and the part’s mine if I want it. They saw a rough cut of Tess, called me in for a quick read-through, then came through to my agent yesterday with an offer that borders on the obscene.”
“Zoe, that’s fantastic! Well done, you! You totally deserve it.”
“Come on, Jo.” Zoe rolled her eyes. “They probably think their American audiences will flock to see it, with my being the girlfriend of an English prince. I don’t wish to be cynical, but I hardly believe the offer would have come through if my face hadn’t been plastered all over the US papers with Art next to me.”
“Zoe, don’t belittle yourself,” Joanna urged her. “You’re an extremely talented actress. Hollywood would have come calling eventually, with or without Arthur.”
“Yes. But I can’t do it, can I?”
“Why not?”
“Jo, get real. If I marry Art, the most I’m going to be doing is chomping my way through canapés and shaking endless hands at charity functions, if they can’t get one of my higher-profile prospective in-laws to do it.”
“Times are changing, Zoe, and you could be just what the royal family needs to bring them kicking and screaming into the new millennium. Women have careers these days. End of story.”
“Perhaps, but not careers where they may have to take their clothes off, or kiss their leading man.”
“I don’t recall any nudity in Blithe Spirit,” Joanna chuckled.
“There isn’t, but you get my drift. No,” sighed Zoe. “If I go ahead and marry him, I’d have to kiss my career goodbye. I mean, look at Grace Kelly.”
“That was in the 1950s, Zoe! Have you discussed it with Art?”
“Er, no, not yet.”
“Then I suggest you do. Fast, or someone’ll leak it to the press.”
“That’s exactly my point!” Zoe’s blue eyes flashed. “My life’s not my own anymore. I get papped walking down the street to buy a pint of milk. Anyway, I have two weeks to decide if I want the part. I’m taking Jamie back to school this Sunday, and then I’m going to go down to Dorset for a couple of days to try to get my head straight.”
“Alone?”
“Of course not.” Zoe raised an eyebrow. “Those days are long gone. Simon is joining me, not that I mind him being around. He’s a great cook actually. And a great listener.”
Joanna looked at Zoe’s eyes and how the expression in them had suddenly softened.
“You know, I think this comes down to whether you love Art enough to give up everything for him. Whether your life would be meaningless if he wasn’t by your side.”
“I know. And that’s the decision I’ve got to make. Jo, did you love Marcus?”
“I think I was definitely falling in love with him, yes. The problem was that by the time I managed to trust him, ignore his reputation, and believe he really did have feelings for me, it was too late. I just wish we’d had longer together . . . he was a very special man.”
“Oh, Jo.” Zoe reached a hand across the table. “It’s so, so sad. You brought out the best in him.”
“He made me laugh, never took things too seriously, except his precious films, of course. I was completely myself with him and I miss him dreadfully,” Joanna admitted. “Anyway, I’d better be off. I have some . . . work to do back at the office.”
“Okay. And I’m sorry I even thought for one minute it was you that gave me and Art away to your paper.”
“Don’t worry about it. To be honest, I thought about doing it for at least one minute!” She smiled as she stood up and kissed Zoe. “You know where I am if you need to talk.”
“I do. And you. Can you come to the launch of the memorial fund at the end of the week? I’m speaking in Marcus’s place.” Zoe handed her an invitation from a pile on the worktop.
“Of course.”
“And also, would you come to dinner here next weekend when I’m back from Dorset? I think it’s about time Art met some of my friends. Then you can judge for yourself. I could do with a second opinion.”
“Okay. Give me a buzz during the week. You take care.”
Joanna left the house, and seeing a bus pulling into the stop opposite, she dodged through the traffic and jumped aboard. Finding a seat at the back of the top deck, she sat down and opened her rucksack. Pulling out the photograph she had been studying so hard last nigh
t, her fingers shook as she opened the box containing the ring.
There was absolutely no doubt. The ring she held in her palm matched the one that the Duke of York once wore on his little finger.
Joanna stared out of the window as the bus wended its way along Oxford Street. Was this the proof she needed? Was this ring enough to guarantee that what her dear old granny had so innocently pointed out was the truth? That Michael O’Connell had been used as a double for the ailing Duke of York?
And there was something else too . . .
Tucking the ring safely back into its box and into her rucksack, Joanna removed Rose’s letter and read it again.
If I am gone, talk to the White Knight’s Lady . . .
James had been knighted. Grace, his wife, was not only a “lady” but a “White.”
Joanna felt her stomach flip. It seemed Alec had been spot-on.
37
The front doorbell rang and Zoe went to answer it. She smiled as she saw who it was.
“Hello, Simon.” Zoe reached up on tiptoe as he came inside and planted a kiss on his cheek. “It’s lovely to see you. How have you been?”
“Well. You?”
“Coping, just,” she sighed as Simon headed for the stairs with his holdall. “Jamie was sorry to have missed you,” she added, following in his wake up the stairs. “I took him back to school yesterday. He was so nervous, poor thing, but I had a good chat with the headmaster and he promised to keep an eye on him.” Zoe watched as Simon placed his holdall down on his bed and she picked up a card with a felt-tip picture of two people playing on a computer to hand it to Simon. “It’s from Jamie, to welcome you back. He wasn’t so keen on the man who replaced you while you were gone—not as fun as you, he said.”
Simon smiled as he read the words inside. “That’s sweet of him.”
“Now, you get settled, then come downstairs and have a drink. I’ve cooked us supper, seeing as I owe you one.”
“Zoe, sorry to be a party pooper, but I’ve already eaten and I have a heap of work to do tonight. It’s very kind of you, but maybe some other time, okay?”
Her face fell. “I’ve spent all afternoon cooking. I . . .” She fell silent as she saw his closed face. “Oh well. Never mind.”
The Royal Secret Page 39
