The Royal Assassin

PRAISE FOR THE VICTORIAN BOOKSHOP MYSTERIES

T
HE
C
OUNTERFEIT
L
ADY

“Engrossing . . . The promise of possible romance entices, Georgia's clever sleuthing satisfies, and the cliff-hanger ending will have readers eagerly awaiting Parker's third historical cozy.”

—
Publishers Weekly

T
HE
V
AN
ISHING
T
HIEF

“An engaging heroine . . . and a story that will keep you turning pages until you reach the end.”

—Emily Brightwell,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Mrs. Jeffries Mysteries

“A delightful adventure in Victorian England with the motley crew that is the Archivist Society—a group dedicated to obtaining justice when all else fails.”

—Victoria Thompson, national bestselling author of the Gaslight Mysteries

“Readers . . . will be satisfied by the shocking conclusion and eagerly anticipating the follow-up to this first mystery. Nicely done!”

—
Historical Novel Society

“This is an outstanding debut to a promising new historical cozy mystery series.”

—
Melissa's Mochas, Mysteries & Meows

“The story has more than the expected number of twists and turns . . . [Parker] has made a fine transition to cozy mysteries by combining all her strengths—history, suspense, humor, and romance.
The Vanishing Thief
is a nice blend of all four. I anxiously await the next Victorian Bookshop Mystery.”

—
Escape with Dollycas into a Good Book

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Kate Parker

THE VANISHING THIEF

THE COUNTERFEIT LADY

THE ROYAL ASSASSIN

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

This book is an original publication of Penguin Random House LLC.

Copyright © 2015 by Kate Parker.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

For more information, visit penguin.com.

eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-61742-7

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Parker, Kate.

The royal assassin / Kate Parker.—Berkley Prime Crime trade paperback edition.

pages ; cm

ISBN 978-0-425-26662-5

I. Title.

PS3616.A74525R69 2015

813'.6—dc23

2015003055

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime trade paperback edition / July 2015

Cover illustration by Teresa Fasolino.

Cover design by George Long.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To Corey, Adrienne, and Jennifer
You still keep me on my toes

“G
OOD
morning, Miss Keyes. Is Miss Fenchurch here?”

The familiar baritone of the Duke of Blackford reached me from the front of my bookshop. I jerked my head up to face the door of my tiny office. The metal tool I was using to pry open a crate of two-shilling novels slipped and jabbed my hand. I sucked on my injured finger, tasting blood mixed with ink and coal dust from the boxes, and felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment.

I didn't have a mirror, but I knew my auburn curls were springing loose from my topknot. I was filthy and in no fit state to be seen by anyone. My assistant, Emma Keyes, was seeing to customers while I dealt with the shipments of new books and illustrated weeklies, which filled the office and back hall to overflowing.

I shouldn't have been surprised that on a day when I looked like something Dickens, the neighborhood cat, left on my doorstep, Blackford marched back into my life.
Blast
.

“She's in the back, Your Grace.”

I'd given Emma orders not to let anyone see me.
Traitor.

A moment later, the duke appeared in the doorway with a cheerful “Good morning, Georgia.” He strode forward around the various stacks of periodicals and books, somehow squeezing past without a single smudge clinging to his immaculate trousers. Whipping out his pristine handkerchief, he pulled my finger out of my mouth and wrapped up the injured digit. “I can't have you getting blood poisoning. We have a problem and I want your help.”

The words “I want your help” coming from Blackford's lips would lead me to cross deserts in August and fly to the moon in a hot air balloon. Unfortunately, with Blackford, those were real possibilities.

The hint of excitement, of danger, that the duke carried with him made him irresistible to me. The fact that he was handsome and incredibly self-assured added both to his allure and my frustration. Blackford was a duke. I was middle-class. My dreams had no hope of coming true.

He looked me over and scowled. “Have you gained weight?”

Leave it to the duke to dissipate the warmth he always created in me when he held my hand. “No. I wore my work corset and this drab gown this morning because I'm checking all these boxes of books and periodicals against the shipping papers. This is my business. I don't trust my suppliers. And I will not be shortchanged.”

I pulled my hand away, still wrapped in his handkerchief. “I'm sorry I'm not dressed to receive Your Grace for tea.”

“I'm not here for tea, Georgia. I'm here for assistance.”

Blackford needed my help. Of course he did. There was no other reason a duke would call on a middle-class shop owner. And the only time he needed my help, and the help of the Archivist Society, was when a crime had been committed that affected the ruling class. “What is the crime?”

“Murder.” The duke stood before me amid the clutter and dust, unsullied, unwrinkled, unflappable. His posture was regal and his dark eyes mesmerizing.

His presence made my heart beat faster. At night, I often dreamed of the time when he kissed me. Well, I started it by kissing him. My face heated despite the pleasant breeze coming through the window, knowing he must not have felt the same way. His response to what I thought was a glorious moment was to disappear from my life far too often during the next year. This last trip, to the continent on his own business as well as to stop intrigue in Her Majesty's family, had lasted nearly three months.

However, I was determined to cling to my dignity. My office may have been tiny and crowded with new stock, but it was mine. Georgia Fenchurch of Fenchurch's Books was hostess here, not Queen Victoria. I removed two cartons from a chair and lifted it over some boxes.

Blackford snatched the chair from my grasp and set it down in the only free space on the floor. “Sit down, Georgia.” He used his no-nonsense tone that made most people jump to do his bidding.

“You sit on the chair. I'm already filthy.”

“I won't sit while you stand.”

I appreciated that he was always a gentleman. “This stack of cartons will do nicely for my chair.” I maneuvered my feet and my skirts into a tight gap between piles of scholarly tomes and perched on a container of the newest fiction, including the latest by Mrs. Hepplewhite. A copy of her gothic novel would go home with me that night.

Once Blackford sat, pride made me lift my chin and look down my nose at him. “You have my full attention.”

Blackford picked up a copy of one of the many periodicals we
stocked. I couldn't see if this one covered the queen's record-setting length of reign or the engagement of the son of her cousin to a fetching young Russian royal. Inexpensive illustrated editions touching on either event sold as soon as they appeared on shop shelves. I made sure they were instantly available in my shop. “Who buys this trash?” he asked.

“The people who pay my bills. And if you aren't going to come to the point, I need to get back to work.”

He shook his head but he stayed in the chair.

I lowered my voice. “Who was the victim? Where did the crime take place? And why are you involved?”

He waved the periodical at me. “The victim was the Russian bodyguard of this Romanov fiancée of the Duke of Sussex, the queen's cousin. The guard's body was discovered on a train returning from Scotland. There are international implications because of where the train originated.”

“How is Her Majesty?” I asked. I knew she was at Balmoral awaiting September twenty-third, the day when she'd become our longest-serving monarch.

“Well and wanting a quick solution to this problem. Tsar Nicholas and his family are visiting her, and the Russians see anarchists under every bed.”

“It's only been fifteen years since their tsar was assassinated. I'd be edgy, too.”

“They should be. Scotland Yard has detected anarchist activity in the East End. But there's no reason to believe anarchists killed the guard to Princess Kira.”

“Princess? I thought she was a grand duchess.”

“The press never gets titles correct. She's a great-granddaughter of Nicholas I but not in the direct line of inheritance. Her
grandfather was a younger son. Therefore she is styled Her Highness, Princess Kira.” He brushed away the issue of her title with a small motion of one hand. I couldn't help but stare at his still-pristine fawn leather gloves. I was dirty from the moment I walked into this paper-and-ink-filled space.

“Never mind her title.” He frowned at me. “The problem is Scotland Yard fears something worse will happen on British soil.”

“You mean to the princess? Because one of the Russian soldiers has already been killed?”

“To the princess, or to the tsar and his wife and daughter, who are in Scotland at this very moment. Scotland Yard also has to worry if a member of our royal family is an assassin's target.”

“Why kill a guard who'd left the queen and tsar and was coming to London? That doesn't make sense. Unless the guard had enemies here. Do we know anything about him?”

“Very little. He was an older, married man with a wife and children in St. Petersburg. He was chosen for this position because he was settled and trustworthy. They couldn't allow anyone young and dashing to be that close to the princess. The rules of propriety, you know.”

“His poor family.” I pictured them in a hovel in the snow. Except for the royal family, I pictured everyone in Russia living in poverty in year-round snowdrifts. “What was his name?”

“I don't know.” The duke pulled off his gloves and set them on his knee. Then he reached out and took my uninjured ink-smudged hand. “This is going to be a difficult investigation because the Russians are insular. Standoffish. They don't want our help in finding the murderer. As far as they're concerned, the killing was done by anarchists. They want Scotland Yard to round up all known anarchists and hang them.”

Between the thrill of Blackford's large, warm hand touching mine and embarrassment over the filth on my skin, I barely managed to pay attention to his words. “Why?”

“Because they're anarchists.”

I looked at him in amazement. “We don't do things that way in England.”

“You see the problem.”

“Lack of cooperation from those who knew the victim best.” Then it hit me. “You're involved because the Foreign Office is involved. I suppose the Russian government objects to everything Scotland Yard asks or does.”

He nodded. “We're going to need a different approach. Do you speak Russian?”

“Are you joking?”

“How about French?”

“I speak it like an Englishwoman, but I read it very well.”

“Good. And I see a typewriter on your desk. You must know how to use it.”

“For bills and orders. Nothing more.” Where was this going, I wondered.

“We need you to go undercover again. As Princess Kira's English secretary.”

“No.” My business hadn't fared well during my last undercover assignment. As much as I objected that time, playing the part of Blackford's paramour had had its benefits. I didn't see any good coming from being away from my bookshop a second time as a secretary.

“Georgia. Relax. Emma will be here looking after the shop. You'll spend every night at home. Your middle-class clothes and life will be part of your disguise.” He smiled at me. Wolves must smile like that at their prey.

“What about the Archivist Society's current investigation? I'm sure you know what we're working on, and you know we try not to split up our resources on two investigations at once.”

“You'll have to make an exception.”

“Why? We need to find out who robbed the home of the Marquis of Shepherdston. The thieves used dynamite and blew up part of the house before they killed one of his footmen. They're much more dangerous criminals in my view.”

“That's only your view.”

I pulled my hand away. He was being deliberately stubborn. Since the day the duke and I had met, when he tried to stop the Archivist Society from following leads in an investigation, he'd made it his business to know every case we worked on. I felt sure he'd suggested to the marquis that he employ the Archivist Society. We were now hard at work on an investigation, parallel to Scotland Yard's, on this burglary.

So far, neither effort had uncovered anything useful.

“Don't deny you know the Archivist Society has been asked by the marquis to find out who blew up his bedroom and shot his footman.” I raised my eyebrows, daring the duke to lie to me.

“They blew up his safe. The bedroom was a casualty of the bomb.”

I grumbled under my breath at Blackford's cavalier attitude. “Nevertheless,” I insisted, “they took the contents of the safe and some valuables from the rest of the house and the marquis has hired us to find the robbers and get his goods back.”

Blackford lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “He's hired the Archivist Society. He hasn't hired you personally.”

“I'm certain the Archivist Society has members who fit your needs better than I would.” Fenchurch's Books was my livelihood, and I'd had to abandon it for almost two weeks during a previous
investigation with the duke. Lacking a husband or family, I had to look out for myself. Such was the fate of a spinster.

“But none I want to work with. I am well-known to the Duke of Sussex. He will be around the princess a great deal, and I will accompany him as a friend and as Whitehall's representative.”

Here it was. A chance to work closely with Blackford again. Despite my hesitation to leave my shop, I felt excitement flooding my veins.

“I've already planted the seed in Sussex's mind that his fiancée needs a secretary who can also assist her in learning our language. The princess has been sheltered. She's very shy and knows practically no English. She does, however, speak passable French.”

“About the level of mine.” I looked him in the eye. “You've already arranged to have me hired as this woman's English teacher, haven't you? You did this before you asked me or spoke to Sir Broderick about the Archivist Society taking on this case. Blackford, you have to stop forcing people to do your bidding.”

“It's not my bidding. It's Whitehall's. I merely assist.”

“We're not your slaves.”

“Serfs.”

“What?”

“Serfs. In Russia, peasants are called serfs. You'll need to know that.”

“We're in England. We call them slaves. I am not a peasant and the Archivist Society does not like being used this way.”

By this time, even someone as self-assured as the duke should have noticed the steam rising from my head. He held both of his hands palms out toward me. “Georgia, I apologize. From here, I'm going to see Sir Broderick and ask him to arrange a meeting of the Archivist Society for tonight. I do not mean to take you and
the society for granted. But you're amazingly talented and I enjoy working with you.”