Chain Reaction (6 page)

When this whole ghastly nightmare is over Sir Hugh, with his cool eye on promotion, will make it his business to drop a few hints to the Monarch. Nothing wrong with getting a few well-earned Brownie points, nothing wrong with smoothing your path to the top. But many a slip ’twixt cup and lip; there are so many pitfalls along the way.

They have certainly not heard the last of this.

The imperious and elegant Sir Hugh gazes out of his office windows, elbow; resting on his gigantic desk, suit jacket hung on the knob of his chair, the same chair on which his illustrious father started his career with The Family. A bit like a baby’s training potty. His father ended up as Lord Chamberlain before his sudden, frightful accident. Now he’s a virtual cabbage, stuck in a wheelchair on his estate. Sweet fragrances waft into the room, resting on the warmth of the air. The tall, smooth man compresses his lips. There’s Jamie’s friends for a start, if you can call them that. A pack of louts would be a fairer description, monied young men, debased and wretched, with not a brain between them, but alas, poor Jamie has ever been attracted by the seamier side of life. A rebel without a cause—bah! Sir Hugh has always stood out contemptuously against this nonsensical business of a ‘normal’ education. Rubbing shoulders with God knows who in the infernal undergrowth of the outside world. There was a time when the great public schools were populated by those who knew better—the sons of the gentry. He himself was educated at Eton and Trinity, followed by a stint in the Foreign Office to finish him off. He has already accompanied the Prince on official visits to Canada, the States and Kenya (do they still call it Kenya?). But everything’s changed in that respect; money and the power it brings have seen to that. Far better when these high-born folk were educated amongst their own in their nurseries with their gillies and their governesses and their riding masters. After all, they require a wholly different education from the masses, have educational needs which experience and wisdom alone, handed down through the generations, should be quite sufficient to fulfil. For theirs is a destiny unlike any other. Theirs is a higher purpose.

‘The woman is obsessed,’ reported young Dougal Rathbone, aide to Sir Hugh, son of Lord Rathbone and the man picked to deal directly with the hapless young person in question. Sir Hugh’s revered name must not be mentioned in any discussions which might take place, there must be no suggestions of any of The Household being involved in this disreputable affair. ‘She won’t listen to reason.’ Dougal ran a frustrated hand through his sleek, black hair. ‘He loves her and she loves him and the fact he denies that now is because he is running scared.’

Jamie?
Running scared?

Sir Hugh, middle-aged and handsome but for a certain look, a look that has hardened over the years until it has become his whole self, his attitude and his bearing, clicked his tongue in annoyance.

‘And you saw her…?’

‘… in her flat in Queensway, as arranged. Arabella was on her own. I don’t think anyone saw me arrive or leave.’

Why the hell doesn’t the fellow get to the point? ‘And you put the proposition to her?’

Dougal nodded. ‘As a friend of Jamie’s, as we agreed. I think she trusted me, after some initial hysteria. She seemed to be most upset because Jamie hadn’t called himself. She needs to talk to him—she kept telling me she must talk to him. Of course she understands that he is in Scotland with The Family at the moment, but as she points out—that never stopped him before.’

‘And her own family?’ interrupted Sir Hugh.

‘They don’t know yet but they soon will. The young lady is already leaning backwards on her heels like a duck and she’s only ten weeks—’

‘Good God, man!’ This is the kind of sordid detail Sir Hugh does not wish to hear. It’s the hard facts which interest him. Her family pose an uncertain threat. City people, made it under Thatcher, no form, only a whiff of class and certainly not enthusiastic supporters of the Crown, according to reports. ‘And she’s still maintaining the child is his?’

‘Naturally,’ said Dougal, adjusting his very white, crisp cuffs, fiddling with elaborate cufflinks of gold. ‘She is sticking to that and I am afraid it sounds as though she is telling the truth. And anyway, these days a DNA test would prove—’

‘Let’s hope it never comes to that,’ snapped Sir Hugh, irritated by the prideful preening of his equerry. He lowered his voice for the next question. ‘And no fresh evidence from Lovette?’

‘No, Sir Hugh. Lovette himself telephoned me yesterday. His men have discovered nothing new. She did have a slight reputation—she let her hair down when she first came to London, but not since she started seeing Jamie. According to her friends it was true love after that. That’s why she came off the pill.’

‘Damn fool,’ cried Sir Hugh, slapping his fist into his hand. ‘Silly, stupid little fool. What on earth did she think would happen?’

‘She is not the most intelligent of mortals,’ Dougal explained with a wry, handsome smile. ‘Not according to old school reports.’

‘None of them are,’ snorted Sir Hugh. ‘Sex mad, probably. But in the very lowliest of life-forms one expects to find some sense of natural preservation.’

‘But I don’t think she perceived any threat,’ Dougal went on, far too complacently for his superior’s liking, in his Brasenose College accent. ‘She’s just not very worldly-wise. She actually believed he would marry her and she’s only just recovering now from his thoughtless advice to abort the child. When she saw him on television attending church last Sunday, hand in hand with Frances Loughborough, she went into an immediate decline. She told me she couldn’t believe it. Lord knows what her reaction is going to be when their engagement is announced.’

‘Oh my God,’ moaned Sir Hugh, briefly closing his cold blue eyes. ‘What are we dealing with here? We must get a settlement before then, signed and sealed. And the Grange—you put that suggestion to her?’

The charming Dougal hesitated, wondering how he could soften the blow. ‘Her initial reaction is that she doesn’t want to live up north.’ He ignored Sir Hugh’s heightening colour. ‘She says she doesn’t know anyone up there.’

This time the private secretary slammed his fist on the desk. ‘But you took her the brochure?’

Dougal nodded. ‘Oh, she liked the house well enough. It was just the isolated location and the idea that she should live there without Jamie. I think she was pretty taken aback. I pointed out that of course she would have staff to see to her every whim, and visitors, too, naturally. She just sat there with her arms wrapped round herself and listened with her mouth gaping open. Didn’t really seem to take it in, if you know what I mean?’

‘Perhaps this little madam is more cunning than we take her for.’

‘It didn’t seem that way to me.’

‘Pushing for more…’

‘She is not that kind of girl.’

‘What?’
Sir Hugh rounded on Dougal with scorn. ‘Don’t tell me you are enamoured of her as well.’

‘Absolutely not,’ said Dougal, fidgeting uneasily. Surely Sir Hugh knew all about his closet preferences. He’d been screened, hadn’t he? He hurried on, ‘But I do see what Jamie saw in her.’

Thank God he is not the firstborn.

She
might not be that sort of girl but James Henry Albert, third and last son of the Sovereign, knows exactly what he is doing, the disgraceful bounder. He is as eager to sort this business out as everyone else involved. Sir Hugh had been deliberately hard on him, playing the strong father figure, last time they talked. Well, someone had to get through to the idiot before he ballsed everything up.

Since he cocked up at university, quitting after a year and a half to the great consternation of the tabloids, the boy has been treading water. Gadding off round the world disgracing himself while the country falls deeper and deeper into recession. Turning over luxury yachts, bungee-jumping off aircraft from the Queen’s Own Flight, motorbike-scrambling on sensitive mountains, intent on destruction. Well, hell, he has almost succeeded. His public rating is nil at the moment, let alone if this unfortunate business comes out. Refusing to go into the Services, refusing to throw himself into Good Causes, living in easy affluence, the only option left is for him to marry and procreate and thank God the virginal Frances is available and willing.

The traffic below was a steady grey noise, the rhythm of ordinary mortals. Little people. Sir Hugh closed the window.

‘I don’t consider your attitude to this as responsible as it might be,’ he stated firmly, raising a charcoal eyebrow.

‘She’ll get over it,’ said Jamie lightly, his easy, honeyed voice making everything sound so simple, his overlong curls half concealing the supercilious look in his eye. ‘And anyway, I’ll still see her.’

Sir Hugh felt like moaning aloud. ‘Oh no, you won’t, young fellow, that’s exactly what you won’t do!’

Instantly Sir Hugh sensed the tension. There was that hostile glance again, that challenging stare that has always been Jamie’s since early childhood as if to say ‘You can’t
make
me!’ The press used to love that look, considered it endearingly boyish. ‘Right little rough-neck,’ said the
Sun,
but fondly when he was six years old. He used to clench his little fists while his face contorted to hold back the tears. And then came the tantrums. Sometimes Sir Hugh, ever the realist, wonders about the boy’s IQ. Jolly good thing it was never tested.

‘I have the strongest impression, sir, that you don’t fully appreciate the extent of the scandal, should any of this come out into the public domain.’

Jamie smiles, a weak-faced man with his hands in his pockets, barely pubescent in a strange sort of unshaven way. But his eyes are extraordinarily bright, with flecks of amber round the pupils that spark whenever frustration hits him. ‘Do stop fussing, Sir Hugh. Peaches is a biddable wench, she’ll do whatever I ask her.’

‘I sincerely hope you are right,’ said his secretary, holding tight to his anger. ‘We are having to go to a good deal of trouble, let alone expense.’

‘Whose expense?’

‘Your expense, who else’s?’

‘You have never discussed this with me.’ Jamie’s shoulders tensed, his face seemed suddenly hot.

‘A girl is carrying your child!’

‘She’s not the first.’

‘No, indeed, but despite what you say she is not prepared to fade decently away into the background.’

‘I’ll see her…’

‘No! No, you must not! You must not be seen anywhere in her vicinity. The press—’

‘Bother the press!’ And then, as suddenly as he had flared up, James Henry Albert calmed down and bent his long, lean athletic body over the majestic desk and glanced with interest at the brochure from Jackson Stopps & Staff.

There was silence for a moment.

‘It is an ideal retreat,’ explained Sir Hugh. ‘Perfect in all respects. High-walled, to keep out the press, security gates and alarms sprinkled everywhere. Owned by one Colin Smedley, otherwise known as Jacy from the popular group Sugarshack, of whom I am certain you will have heard.’ This last was said down the thin, aristocratic nose of Sir Hugh with a fair amount of disdain.

‘Perhaps,’ the young Prince hesitated, ‘perhaps if I were to take her there myself, introduce her to a few characters, a house party perhaps…’

‘No! Sir, if I might speak frankly, it is crucial that Arabella should understand that this affair is over. It is essential she be made aware that whatever her behaviour, she will never, ever see you again. We are far too close to your engagement announcement to take the slightest risk. If Lady Frances should ever discover…’

‘Lady Frances is quite happy to turn a blind eye.’

‘Excuse me, sir, but I do not believe one can predict a woman’s reaction after that ring slides on her finger. There’s likely to be a complete change of attitude, if you’ll pardon me for pointing this out.’ My God, in spite of his dubious experience, the silly ass is so damn naive. Did Sir Hugh have to spell it out? Was he totally unaware of the dangers implicit in all this?

‘How much is this Clitheroe place? How much am I coughing up for Arabella’s silence?’

Playing the selfless Civil Servant, Sir Hugh attempted to hide his disgust but all the same his sensibilities flinched. Money is something he would far rather not discuss. He spoke wearily, well prepared for a negative reaction. ‘Half a million, I’m afraid, sir, and much work to be done on it yet.’

‘And where is this money to come from? I’m so skint at the moment I have to borrow the dough for taxis.’

Blast the idiot! He knows full well he should never travel by taxi. His security guards are at their wits’ end, so much so that it’s proving difficult to keep them. Sir Hugh decided to ignore the gaffe. ‘The money will come from your grandfather’s trust, an early release. The trustees have looked into the matter. We can wangle it.’

‘You can find the money for this little tart and yet I have to wait till I’m twenty-five!’

Sir Hugh stared at him warily. ‘And an income for herself and the child for life…’

‘This is outrageous!’

‘We have little choice, sir, in the circumstances. We can hardly approach the Queen.’

‘Well, dammit, can’t we marry her off to somebody else? How about young Dougal?’

What an absurd remark. What sort of world does the fellow inhabit? Certainly not the real one. ‘She vows she is in love with you, sir, and that is the nub of the matter.’ Sir Hugh was suddenly aware that his words of counsel were falling on stony ground. James Henry Albert barely recognised his presence; his mind was already somewhere else, dwelling in pleasanter pastures. The older man sighed as he raised the other important matter of the moment. ‘And before you leave, sir, I must pass on a message from your mother. Would you please get your hair seen to—
pronto.’

M
OTHER HAS THE GALL
to suggest she is going to write to the Queen. It really is quite pathetic. She honestly believes that the Queen would write back. She can hardly see to write anyway and is constantly sitting on her ill-fitting spectacles. She looks wild, older and more shrivelled than usual with her hair down like this, grey rats’ tails, pinned down by the weight of her years.