The Last in Line (The Royal Inheritance Series Book 1)

by Banks, Evie

  Chase looked furious. “There was a leak.”

  “Not from our side, I can assure you!” Britchford said quickly. “There were only twenty people in that room and we’ve all been sworn to secrecy since the first discussions regarding the future of the monarchy. The leak must have come from Rufus. Never trust a liberal, that’s my motto.”

  “It could have been a lucky reporter,” suggested Renee.

  Chase nodded. “It could be, but they had detailed information on him.” He passed a hand over his eyes. “God, this is all I need on top of the continuing investigation.”

  “What investigation?” asked Renee.

  “The explosion, of course. What killed everyone at the Grand Reunion.”

  “I thought it was a gas leak,” said Renee. “That’s what all the news reports said.”

  “The investigation is ongoing.”

  Chase refused to say anything more about it and pushed his way out of the kitchenette. Britchford and Roberts discussed strategy for making Renee the only possible candidate. But Renee, who had spent more time gazing at Chase’s face than she cared to admit, could see that his eyes were guarded despite the huge grin when Cassandra unleashed the word “bollocks” on him. There was something he wasn’t revealing.

  That was bollocks.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  LIGHT FILTERED THROUGH a grimy window. Threadbare curtains in an ugly brown and yellow floral print fluttered gently as the wind found its way through the cracks in the window casement. There was no heat except for the weak radiance provided by an old space heater that thunked, wheezed and rattled like a mechanic banging on the inside of a car engine, every time she turned it on. It was better to leave it off and not draw the ire of the tenants beneath the little attic apartment, which only qualified as an apartment if you applied the strictest meaning of the term to it. Yes, there was a kitchen if you counted the single burner hotplate, the electric kettle and the portable beer cooler which served as the refrigerator. There was also a utility sink which is where she washed out her tea cup, washed her hands after using the “facilities,” and washed her face and hair since there was no bathtub or shower. There was, however, a toilet in a corner. She had tried to stand up some suitcases and boxes around it to provide a sense of separation between the “lavatory” and the room she lived and slept in. Currently, a roll of toilet paper stood on a Dolce and Gabbana makeup box. The air smelled like a combination of old grease from the fish and chips shop directly below on the street, and nicotine. Not tobacco, which was a pleasant, homey scent and reminded her of her grandfather’s pipe, but the dirty byproduct of cheap cigarettes that had seeped into the wallpaper and discolored it. The former tenant must have smoked like a chimney because she could smell it everywhere. It was like ever present unwanted company. The conditions were not ideal here and she had not left the premises in four days, but the dark and smelly 300 square feet felt like freedom. It was more than she’d had in some time.

  A mobile phone buzzed in her pocket.

  “Hello?”

  “Tina? We’ve got to move.”

  “Again? But I just figured out how to make toast.”

  “We’re getting worried and there are some new developments. I’ll be there in an hour. You know what to do.”

  The line went dead. Tina sighed. She would miss the pigeon that nested beside her drafty window. Sometimes she opened it and pushed out a cracker and watched the bird peck at it.

  She opened up the back of her mobile phone and pulled out the sim card. She put it on the table and retrieved a hammer. With a single, precise blow she shattered it into three smaller pieces, and was immediately rewarded with the tenants below banging on her floor with a broom. She ignored it and took the pieces of sim card to the toilet and flushed them down. Then she put on gloves and wiped the rest of the phone free of prints and smashed that into pieces as well. She opened her window and flung the pieces in different directions. Then she wiped down every single item and surface she had touched in her days there. When she was done with that, she saturated a towel with bleach and scrubbed the floors and walls with it.

  There would be no trace or scent of her. It would be as if she had never been there. As if she didn’t exist.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  HARRY PASSED THE bundle of newspapers through the door to Chase, who glanced at them briefly and sighed.

  “There,” he said and slapped them down in front of Renee.

  Renee and Cassandra pounced, each taking different papers, spreading them open and hiding behind them until they had finished reading to switch with each other. Each paper had a similar cover with a large picture of Renee facing a large picture of Bretton. One of them had superimposed Renee’s head onto a boxer who was facing a similarly superimposed Bretton. They had their boxing gloves up and faced off under the headline Royal Rumble. Roberts stood by the table, peering down to read, but pretending he wasn’t. “The tabloids are utter trash,” he said and bent down to get a closer look.

  “Mom, this one says you were once suspended from school for smoking marijuana,” said Cassandra. Renee pretended like she didn’t hear.

  “This one here is quite flattering, Ma’am. It says you’re a five foot seven beauty of the Plains,” said Roberts.

  Chase opened one of the papers. “Cor, look at this one! They’ve found your high school portrait. Was your fringe really that high?”

  “They’re called bangs and they were all the fashion back then and took half a can of hairspray. The higher, the better,” said Renee and snatched the paper from Chase’s hands. She scanned it and frowned. “High school portraits should never be blown up to full page size. Look at that zit! Why are they printing ugly pictures of me and nice ones of Bretton? Look at this one of him dressed up in his Christmas suit when he was five. Is that fair?—Big zit versus cute kid—Who do you think people are going to vote for?”

  “It’s not an election, Ma’am,” reminded Roberts.

  “It might as well be,” Renee countered. “Public opinion will determine who the government chooses and right now”—Renee held up a newspaper dominated by the image of Bretton’s smiling, rogueish face that was captioned Prince Dreamboat—“he’s ahead by a mile.”

  “There’s no comparison,” said Chase.

  Renee fell silent. She hated it when he said things like that. It made her remember the moment on the flight over when they had been nearly touching, when she could have leaned over and kissed him. He had smelled so nice…

  “Earth to Mom, are you there?”

  Renee jumped in her seat. She hadn’t realized she’d been daydreaming. “Over, Rover,” she said. Cassandra rolled her eyes. Clearly, being a queen—or almost a queen—didn’t equate to being cool.

  Ever since her location had been outed on television, the phone in the hotel suite had not stopped ringing. Normally Roberts answered it and served as a screener, often redirecting calls to the Prime Minister’s office or taking care of business himself. The phone rang again, but Roberts and Chase were deep in conversation so Renee got up to answer it herself.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “Hey, I’m short a waitress and wanted to know if you could fill in tonight,” said a brassy female voice.

  “Brenda! How did you get this number?” Renee nearly hugged the phone from joy.

  “It was an ingenious plan. I watched the news, saw a reporter in front of Hotel Haviland talking about my former waitress, called the hotel and asked to be transferred to the future queen’s room. Voila! Yep, they don’t make ‘em as smart as this every day.”

  Renee wanted to both laugh and cry. It was so good to hear Brenda’s familiar, booming voice. She could hear a lot of noise and clattering in the background. “Are you at the diner?”

  “Where else would I be?”

  “How is everybody?”

  “I’m up to my ears in waitress drama and I think Antonio spiked the guacamole because Bryan has been running back and forth to the bathroom ever since
eating the Southwestern Omelet. Oh, here he comes now. I’ve got to go, but I’ll call back when I can. Say hi to Squirt for me.”

  Brenda hung up and Renee was left clutching the phone. She wanted to talk to Brenda some more; she always had words of advice and would know what to do with this Bretton person that was making her life miserable. She put the phone back on the cradle. Roberts and Chase were still talking and Cassandra was buried deep in the tabloids; she had been mentioned several times.

  The phone rang again and Renee thought they were going to have to hire a switchboard operator soon, but she snatched it up, eager to have a full on girls’ talk with Brenda.

  The voice on the other end wasn’t Brenda.

  She felt a tightening in her chest and the oxygen supply in the room seemed to rapidly decrease. Her face went pale and she broke out in a cold sweat. Chase looked up and saw her altered state, the anxiety in her eyes. He was by her side instantly and took the phone from her shaking hand.

  “Who is this?” he demanded. “Bretton, if you so much as—”

  But it wasn’t Bretton. Chase’s eyes opened wide, his face a mask of horror. His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. Silently, he handed the phone back to Renee and went to sit in a corner, head in hands. Roberts and Cassandra looked on fearfully.

  Renee reluctantly put the phone to her ear again. The person had not stopped talking, unaware that the phone had been handed back and forth.

  “—Awe come on, Sweetie, you can tell me your name. Don’t be shy. I can tell you’re tall by how deep your voice is.”

  “Mama, it’s Renee on the phone,” said Renee, cutting off the verbal torrent.

  “Renee! Who was that handsome man on the phone? You can always tell by a man’s voice what he’s going to look like before you see him and that one’s a looker, for sure. Also always check out a man’s hands; that’ll tell you a lot. Is he single? I know you’re not dating him. Is he—”

  Renee shut her eyes and wished she could make it stop. Conversations with her mother never went well. Renee was perfectly content to know that her mother was far away in Reno. Oh God, please let her still be in Reno.

  “Mama, was there something you wanted?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. I wanted to know why you are on the 6 o’clock news and why they are saying that you are going to be the queen of England. I had to check my calendar to make sure it wasn’t April Fool’s Day. It’s just the type of joke you would play.”

  “Mama, when have I ever played a joke on you?” said Renee.

  “Lots of times. Like the time you told me you were pregnant…”

  “I was pregnant,” said Renee through gritted teeth. “The kid’s name is Cassandra. The last time you saw her you ended up taking back her birthday money.”

  “Times were hard, honey, and I needed that money for an investment. Todd had an idea to buy some equipment and invest in a silver mine near Bodie. He figured the mine wasn’t tapped out yet.”

  “How many boyfriends ago was Todd?” asked Renee, not bothering to hide the sarcasm. Her mother’s taste in men ranged from the merely sleazy to the criminally investigated. She couldn’t figure out how her mother had ended up with her father, a man honest and hardworking, but austere. A man who disapproved of gambling and cards, though his poker face was so intimidating that on the rare occasions when he had been persuaded to sit down and play, he had cleaned up, whereas her mother loved games of chance and could often be found pumping quarters into slot machines. Her father’s preferred mode of relaxation had been to read a trade magazine while the radio played Waylon Jennings or Willie Nelson, taking long draws on his cigarette and kicking his feet up, while her mother would pace restlessly in the house lamenting the long drive to town and the high price of gasoline, wishing she could go shopping and play bingo. Really, it was a mystery to Renee how those two ever got together. But right now she was focused on her mother. “That worked out, didn’t it, just like they all do and then you had to borrow money from me again when the mine didn’t work out and he left you in Carson City.”

  “You watch your mouth, Missy.”

  “I’m a grown up and I’ll talk however I darn well please!”

  Renee was red in the face. Her mother always did this to her, always acted as if Renee was the guilty party while she was as innocent as a lamb. Always made her feel like she was 14 years old and had to justify herself. Oh, that’s right, her mother wasn’t around when she was 14 years old. She had already run off with some guy who wasn’t her father.

  Roberts tapped her on the shoulder. “Mother troubles?” Renee nodded, too angry to speak. “I’m excellent with mothers, you know—worked with one for decades. Allow me.”

  “Have at it,” said Renee and tossed him the phone. She went to collapse in a chair. Talking to her mother was like wrestling with a python; you could never get a good enough hold on it to kill it.

  “Hello, this is Roberts. With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” said Roberts in a voice so smooth and English it could have sliced through icebergs as easily as a knife through warm butter. She heard her mother’s angry rant dissolve into a girlish flutter. “Really? There’s such spirit in your expression, I would not have taken you for more than twenty-five. No, it’s not possible that you are Ms. Krebs’s mother. I just cannot accept it, a delightful lady like you.” Chase smothered his laughter behind a throw pillow, but his shoulders quaked from the effort to keep silent. “No, Ma’am, she’s not ignoring you at all, she’s merely had a very tiring day and went to take something for a headache. No, I’m not currently married; I never met the right…My hands? Why, they’re normal sized, I suppose. What do you…No, I really don’t think that’s necessary…No…please don’t….no…Yes, I will send a car to fetch you tomorrow. Yes. Four o’clock. Cheerio.”

  Roberts turned to them with a crestfallen expression. “Your mother, she’s…”

  “You invited her here?!” Renee jumped to her feet.

  “Certainly not. She already had a ticket and I merely agreed to provide transportation from the airport.” Roberts looked down guiltily at his polished wing-tipped shoes.

  Renee was too upset to be polite. “That’s really perfect. I didn’t need any other problems so thank you.”

  “It will be all right, you’ll see Ma’am. Perhaps she is eager to bury the hatchet,” said Roberts.

  Renee glared at him. She wished she had a hatchet; she wasn’t lacking any candidates to bury it in.

  Seeing he wasn’t going to get any help from Renee, Roberts turned to Chase.

  “Oh no,” said Chase putting up his hands. “When she gets here she’s your responsibility. After all, you have a way with mothers.” He shook with laughter.

  Renee stalked off to her room and slammed the door so hard the paparazzi outside probably heard it. Great, this was all she needed. Between Bretton, the paparazzi hounding her and now her mother popping up in her life at the first hint of money…Roberts didn’t lie, she really did feel a headache coming on and switched off the light with the dread knowledge of what tomorrow would bring.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  WHEN RENEE WAS THIRTEEN, her mother Leanne told her it was time to start wearing makeup and taking more care with her clothes. Renee hadn’t taken kindly to this advice as it didn’t seem to matter to the horses what she wore and she presumed a skirt and shiny shoes with buckles would only get in the way. Leanne sat her down on a stool and told her to hold still and close her eyes. Renee couldn’t stop worrying that her mother would poke her in the eye with the eyeliner pencil.

  “Ok, open ‘em up,” her mother trilled.

  Renee blinked her eyes open and stared into the mirror Leanne held. Her eyes were rimmed in the same blue her mother used to line her eyes. It made her look as if she had caught some rare, Amazonian malady where she would start bleeding from her eyes any minute.

  “Now pucker your lips.”

  Renee obeyed, calculating this would all end sooner if she went alon
g with it. Leanne swiped lipstick and Renee kissed the tissue she held out. The results were horrifying. The pink lipstick clashed with her strawberry blonde hair. She looked like some garish misrepresentation of herself, but her mother kept going on about how “glamorous” she looked and how the boys would go crazy over her. Renee looked directly at her and dragged her arm across her mouth, leaving a long, pink smear on her sleeve.

  Leanne put her hand on her hip. “What’s wrong with you people? It’s always dirty boots, dirty knees, and a whole lot of thanks for nothing!”

  She stomped outside and Renee could hear her on the porch. She could distinguish the words “nowhere,” “wasting my life,” and “sick of it all.” Renee was glad the closest neighbors were a mile down the road so no one would hear. She assumed the “you people” encompassed both Renee and her father George, which was odd because they didn’t have much of a bond, what with her father not being much for conversation, although they did both enjoy being outdoors and leaning against the fence to watch the horses trot or just eat grass. They both enjoyed the tense moment when a new horse would get saddled up for the first time, not knowing what the next ten seconds might bring, that sense of being ready for anything, that moment of possibility which made life worth living. Her mother, though, didn’t see it that way. She saw horses as a huge financial drain when George could be earning better elsewhere…elsewhere being a city with more people and glamour and glitz.

  Leanne made no secret of her belief that she was meant for something better. She often talked about moving to Branson and auditioning there for one of the stage shows or perhaps as a solo singer. She wanted to live in a place where her rhinestone jacket and teased up blonde hair were wholly appropriate every day of the week, where someone would recognize her obvious talent and make her a star.