Long Live the Queen (The Immortal Empire) (26 page)

I answered. “Fee?”

“I need your help,” came her reply. She sounded… shaken.

I frowned. “Are you all right?” Avery shot a concerned glance in my direction. She was a sucker for anyone in trouble.

“Physically, yes. Emotionally…” She chuckled humourlessly. “Xandra, can you meet me?”

Halfie hearing being what it was, both my companions heard her request, and the tone in which it was delivered. Avery and Val nodded at me, silently giving consent. Sometimes I loved them so bloody much.

“Where are you?” I asked, rising from my chair and stealing another sandwich. Was she with Juliet? Had the police found our mother?

“Clarence House.”

I halted. “What the ruddy hell are you doing there?” Every person, be they human, aristo or something in between, knew who lived at Clarence House.

The Prince of Wales. And given that Ophelia was a suspected criminal, and the daughter of a woman thought capable of murder, I doubt she’d be all that welcome.

“I’ll explain when you get here. Hurry up.” Fee disconnected as I slipped out of the door into the chilly night. The smell of snow teased my nostrils, the brusque air making me sneeze.

Bloody right she was going to explain. Dragging my arse out when I should be with Vex, eating, shagging and basically enjoying his company, was cruel. I had too much to concern myself with to worry about what my older sister had got herself into.

Still, she came when I called her, so I should return the favour.

I didn’t have the Butler, as winter conditions often made it difficult to drive the two-wheeled vehicle, but I’d been doing most of my travelling underground anyway. I would have to use that same system to get to Fee.

Not far from the Belgrave Square house was a grate, tucked into a narrow alley between two houses. I didn’t know how old it was, or even if it was the work of the city. It might just as easily have been the doing of goblins. Regardless, it led me underside, and once I had my bearings, it was pretty much straight on – with a few twists and turns to access other tunnels. I emerged not far from Clarence House, though it required me poking my head up once or twice to find an appropriate spot. You couldn’t just pop up in the middle of traffic, or in a well-lit area where you were likely to be seen. It wasn’t that I was worried so much about humans seeing me; more that humans weren’t going to feel very secure knowing that the “monsters” could scurry about beneath their feet and their notice. Let them think we were confined to our West End.

Maybe I was being too careful. Clarence House wasn’t far from the palace, and therefore not exactly a hub of human activity, especially now. I wasn’t certain how to take the fact that the humans seemed to respect that we were in mourning and had backed off. Or maybe it was the fact that Scotland Yard was threatening to arrest troublemakers. Regardless, it was unlikely I’d be seen. Still, I preferred to be stealthy.

Ophelia hadn’t given me her location, so I was forced to try sniffing her out. I caught her scent around the back of the mansion, where the shadows were deeper. My rotary vibrated in my pocket. I took it out and glanced down.

Meet me in the gardens
. It was from Fee, of course.

I leaped easily over the wall. This place didn’t have the same sort of security the palace did. This was a bit more modern, with motion detectors and the like. Fortunately, as Royal Guard I’d been made to study and practically memorise the security detail for every royal residence in the city – and
those elsewhere. Unless Bertie had made some significant changes in the past six months, I shouldn’t have any problems.

And since Fee had obviously already sneaked in, I was going to go with the assumption that he
hadn’t
made any changes.

I caught a scent as I crept closer.
Ali
. She’d been here. Was that why Fee had called? Was the Prince of Wales dead? Eviscerated by my mad doppelgänger? I really hoped not. I’d smelled her at the palace and she hadn’t attacked, so perhaps she’d been here doing a little reconnaissance.

You tell yourself that, Vardan
, I thought,
if it makes you feel better
.

I kept to the wall, practically on it as I skirted the gardens. Then I avoided lights and sensors by scaling the side of the house, using windowsills and tops for foot- and handholds. The alarms would only sound if I tried to open a window or broke it.

There, suspended from a harness that extended high above her head, was Fee. She was clad entirely in black. Even her hair was covered. The soles of her sturdy black boots were braced against the stucco as she kept herself just out of line of sight from the room on the other side of the glass. A faint glow came from within.

She saw me coming, and placed a finger to her lips for me not to speak – to not make any sound if I could help it. If she was surprised to see me climbing without aid of any kind she didn’t show it. Cow. The least she could do was be impressed.

But then she looked decidedly grim. And… heartbroken. My own heart thumped hard once in response. What the hell had happened?

Slowly, carefully I inched closer to her, taking care not to
alert anyone to my presence by scraping my boot across a window frame. It had just begun to snow – big fat flakes falling around us – and the air had taken on that sort of eerie stillness it sometimes did on a snowy night. I had to be extra cautious, as the slightest noise could sound like the crash of thunder in the silence.

When I finally joined Fee, her mouth was set in a grim line, and I saw a sheen of wetness on her eyelashes. She’d been crying.

Since we’d met, I’d always thought of her as having less use for tears than I did, though I’d known her to turn into a watering can at times. Seeing her so upset affected me – made my stomach clench and flutter with anxiety.

She pointed at the window. I followed her gaze.

The room beyond was a bedroom, done rather splendidly in shades of pale blue and cream. It probably hadn’t been updated in the last century, but it appeared well cared for and opulent.

But who gave a flying fuck about the room? What Ophelia wanted me to see was Bertie, naked as the day he burst from the womb, going down on a woman on the bed.

I scowled as I looked at my sister, and mouthed, “
What the fuck?
” I hadn’t busted my arse to get here, and hang off the side of a building in the cold and the snow, just to see Bertie shag some bird.

Fee clenched her jaw and jabbed her finger at the window once more. Silently, I sighed, and looked again. Whatever she wanted me to see had better be worth the mental scarring Bertie’s white arse and raging hard-on was going to leave behind.

The woman, who had her face averted, and mostly obscured
by her blonde hair, writhed and arched on the bed. I could hear her moans with little difficulty. Either Bertie was really good, or this woman was a brilliant actress.

Things followed the normal path, and the woman was soon screaming. I admit, I cringed at the volume. Then Bertie pulled his face from between her thighs, grabbed her hips and flipped her over.

That was when I saw the woman’s face – flushed and glassy-eyed, filled with anticipation of what was yet – pardon the pun – to come.

No wonder Fee had cried. Myself, I felt a tad pukish. It was one of those times when I wished my suspicions and paranoia were nothing more than neurosis. I did not want to be right, and I most certainly did
not
want to see proof of it.

The woman giving Bertie what appeared to be the ride of his incredibly long life, and showing no concern for the fact that she was a wanted fugitive, was our mother.

Of all the hatters, knobbed-up things I’d seen over the course of my near-quarter-century on this planet, this was definitely one of the top five.

My mother – naked and looking far better than a woman her age had the right – was bumping nasties with the Prince of Wales right before my very eyes.

First thought:
Victoria is going to have a haemorrhage
. Second thought:
What the buggering bloody hell is going on?
Our mother had gone on the box practically calling aristos villains. She’d personally attacked Bertie’s mum, then invited Bertie into Bedlam, and now here she was bouncing up and down on him like a rubber ball in one of those paint-mixing contraptions.

I had suspected there was something going on between them, but I hadn’t imagined it would be quite so… enthusiastic.

I knew my mouth was hanging open like it had come unhinged, because I could taste snow on my tongue. I turned to my sister – who I felt the understandable urge to both hug and slap – and met her gaze. She was not happy about this. Neither was I, but I couldn’t sort out my moral outrage at the moment.

Ophelia, though, had had more time to let it sink in. There’d be no unseeing this, no pretending it hadn’t happened. She pointed towards the roof and began to slowly walk up the side of the house. I crawled after her, following her to the balustrade at the top – a popular feature of these older buildings – and swung my legs over so I could rise to my feet on the flat roof.

“What the fuck is that?” I hissed, jabbing my finger at the roof as though we could see right through it to the carnal spectacle below.

She shook her head. Snow drifted around her shoulders. “I don’t know.” She kept her voice low as well. “How could she?”

I shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I hardly know the woman. I thought she hated aristos.” Being fang-raped by one of them would do that, right?

“She does.” Fee frowned. “Or at least, she
did
.”

“Yeah, I think it’s safe to say her opinion has changed where at least one is concerned.” I squinted out at the falling snow. It was coming down more heavily now. It would be nice to have a little white stuff about for a day or two; it made parts of London look so Dickensian.

“What does this mean?” she asked. “Xandra, this makes no sense.”

I turned my attention back to her. “No, it doesn’t.” It explained why Juliet had seemed so odd at Buckingham
Palace, and it explained the coyness Ophelia had told me about, but the rest of it…

“It won’t look good for her if anyone else finds out. She publicly declared herself anti-aristocracy. The press will disembowel her like William Wallace.”

“Who?”

Her gaze narrowed – obviously I was a halfwit. “You’ve never heard of William Wallace?”

Halfwit might be a tad generous. “No, and what fucking difference does it make? Our mother is shagging Bertie, and there is absolutely no explanation for that that paints her in a flattering light.”

“Do you reckon she loves him?”

Her hopeful expression pressed on my chest, even though I wanted to laugh out loud. “I bloody well hope not!”

My outburst only served to make her seem all the more crushed.

“You’re really upset by this.”

“You fucking think so?” she shot back. Coming out as a whisper, her words lost some of their vehemence. “Can’t think of a single fucking reason why I would be fucking upset that my fucking mother is fucking the fucking enemy!”

That was a lot of fucking. Appropriate, given the situation below. “What do you want me to say, Fee?”

Her eyes actually welled up. “I want you to tell me that Bertie is secretly on our side, or that he seduced her. Tell me that my mother hasn’t betrayed everything I’ve been raised – by her! – to believe in. Tell me that she’s still who I thought she was.”

I stared at her. Ophelia was strong, and I’d always felt that we had a certain coping mechanism in common – the ability
to make sport of things and then indulge in anger and vengeance. I tried not to cry if I could help it, especially in front of an audience. Seeing her so vulnerable irked me. I wanted to go into the house and drag my mother out of bed by the ankle and tote her up here so she could see what she’d done to her daughter.

“I’m sorry I told you to follow her. You shouldn’t have seen this.”

“But I did, and now I know.” An odd expression settled over her face. “I know his voice.”

“Yeah, he’s the Prince of Wales.”

She glanced at me. “If you hadn’t met him, would you know what he sounds like?”

Actually, no. I only had a dim memory of him speaking at the Academy, and giving the odd holiday broadcast. “So where have you heard him before?”

Fee shook her head. “I’m not sure, but I’ll figure it out.” She looked away, sighed, and then lifted her gaze to mine again. “This looks very bad, doesn’t it?”

Did she honestly require an answer to that? “It does. Not just for Juliet, but for Bertie as well. The press would crucify them.” Not just the press, but Victoria as well.

Was that our mother’s motivation? Did she want to provoke Victoria into doing something rash? If so, she could have chosen something that wasn’t so dangerous to her own health.

No, I didn’t believe she had any other motive for bonking Bertie than the fact that she liked bonking him – a fact that boggled my mind. She hadn’t been wearing any slutty underwear, and there were no toys or whips about. Those things would hint at seduction, perhaps even manipulation, but naked, joyous sex with lots of eye contact and smiles was not typically
a weapon. At least not for a woman. I couldn’t vouch for the opposite sex.

My thoughts were interrupted when a wash of bright red light flashed across the scene. Special Branch. I grabbed Fee and hauled her down to the roof, so that we were lying down, hidden by the balustrade.

“What the hell?” Ophelia whispered.

I put my finger to my lips to shush her, and listened, peeking between the spindles.

Two officers I recognised as Maine and Cooke approached the house. Cooke was all right – bit of a dishcloth – but Maine was a first-class bastard. He’d tried to get me for Church’s death, even though Church hadn’t been declared dead, and basically made my life difficult for as long as he could.

They rang the bell, showed their credentials to the housekeeper and were taken inside. Soon afterwards, a commotion arose inside. There was a feminine scream, and a few minutes later Cooke and Maine exited the house with Juliet between them. They’d let her put on a dressing gown, and she weaved between them like a drunkard.