Avalon (9 page)

Parliament as a whole was much more doubtful about the benefits of a presidential system than they were about dissolving the monarchy. Even the most ardent republicans disagreed; after all, why throw over one king just to elect another?

The vote on the necessary presidential legislation would be close, and Waring knew he would need every single one of his majority seats to carry the day. For, despite their impressive show of unity and power, the British Republic Party had been running on reputation for some time. Savvy insiders knew already, and the media were beginning to suspect, that their rhetorical bark was far worse than their political bite.

The Prime Minister’s great fear was that the occasion of a State funeral would revive the latent royalist sympathy within his party — to say nothing of the nation as a whole — and he would lose even more ground to an increasingly powerful Opposition. Six seats was as slender a majority as he ever cared to see. Years ago, the old Tory party had limped along for a while with a two-seat majority, but they had crashed and burned in the very next general election; and, after a few years in opposition, they had disintegrated completely, ridding the political landscape of their unsightly presence.

Waring had no intention of repeating their mistakes. If necessary, he would lobby every one of the fence-sitters and renegades and promise them whatever it took to secure their loyalty. He ardently hoped it would not come to that.

The Chief Whip put aside his paper and took up the next one. “When questioned about the funeral,” he said, “thirty of the floaters were in favor of a full State funeral.”

Waring frowned. If half the floaters wanted a slap-up funeral for the old bugger, how many of the rest felt that way, too? Was it worth risking a royalist backlash to appease his wayward backbenchers?

“Poll the payroll,” he ordered, making up his mind. “I want the results as soon as possible.”

He thanked Sforza then, and dismissed him. When the Chief Whip had gone, the PM turned to his second in command, and said, “It looks like we might have to toss the press a few fish.” He drummed his fingers on the table for a moment. “Right. We’ll arrange to meet the coffin, and let the newshounds cover it — limousines and a police escort, that sort of thing. I want it tasteful, but low-key —
ultra
-low-key, in fact. This thing will have to be stage-managed to keep it from getting out of hand. Understood?”

“Absolutely.”

“Get on it, Angela. Make like it was our intention all along.”

“I’ll brief Pat and Dennis and we’ll pull some options together, and” — she glanced at her slender gold watch — “I should be able to give you a call after dinner.”

“Do that.”

When the Deputy Prime Minister had gone, Waring turned to Hutchens. “Get the media sorted. A few papers and only one camera crew from each of the major channels. I won’t have a circus — got it?”

“Got it.”

“Good,” Waring said, turning his attention to the leather notebook before him. “Get busy.” When his aide made no move, he glanced up. “What?”

“Nothing.” The press secretary hesitated. “It’s just… well, there
is
one last niggling detail.”

“For God’s sake, spill it, Martin. I don’t have all day.”

“This Teresa Vierta,” said Hutchens, watching the PM’s eyes. “Teddy’s floozy.”

“What about her?”

“I have to know if there is any way she can be traced to us.”

The Prime Minister stared at his press secretary for a moment. “I shouldn’t think so.”

“In other words: yes.”

“All right, have it your way. Yes — but only in a most peripheral way.”

“Did money change hands?”

Waring glanced away. “Yes.”

“Jesus H. Christ!” The young man leaped up. “Why didn’t I know about this?”

“You didn’t need to know,” the Prime Minister told him.

“How much?”

“How much what?”

“How much money did you give her?”

“Not much. Eight, maybe ten thousand — something like that. It was in the way of a one-time payment, ostensibly so she could buy the proper clothes and a better apartment. What does it matter how much?”

“And what was she supposed to do for this? Become his love slave?”

Waring frowned. “Nothing like that. I only wanted information. I had to know if the old sot was going to do the right thing or cause trouble.”

“So you set him up with a hooker,” Hutch said. “I don’t believe this.”

“She isn’t a prostitute,” Waring corrected mildly, unmoved by his aide’s dramatics. “She’s a socialite.”

“I can’t believe you gave her money. It’s so amateurish. If she goes public with that, it could blow us out of the water big time. No way could I control that.”

“Relax, Martin. It’s already under control,” the Prime Minister said casually.

“Let me tell you, these things have a way of —”

“She won’t breathe a word to anyone. Trust me.” When he saw that his assurances were failing to persuade his press secretary, Waring added, “Instead of worrying about things that don’t concern you, why not try coming up with a way to sideline those Save Our Monarchy demonstrators for a change? They’re beginning to get on my nerves.”

Hutchens regarded his boss, silently shaking his head.

Waring stood. “That is all, Mr. Hutchens.”

“Are you sure there aren’t any more hand grenades you care to lob my way?”

“As always, you’ll be the first to know.” Waring flicked his hand at him. “I’ll expect a preliminary report in the morning.”

The press secretary made a sour face and departed. Waring sat down and leaned back in his chair for a moment to review the various aspects of the meeting just concluded. When he was satisfied he had covered all the details, he rose and opened the door to the outer office. “Leo,” he said to his private secretary, “I’m going upstairs.”

“Very good, sir. Good night, Prime Minister.”

Waring walked back through the empty meeting room and left by a side door, which opened onto a private lift. Once upstairs, he took off his suit jacket, poured himself a drink from the crystal decanter, picked up the remote control, and settled back to watch the news.

Caroline arrived with Donald’s pudding, one for herself, and a second helping of chocolate torte for Cal. “Isobel insisted,” she told him, sliding the plate before him.

Donald, eager to share news of his small victory, remained undeterred by the arrival of his dessert. “I’ll tell you what it was, shall I?”

“Please do,” James invited.

“The Prime Minister declared in the House of Commons that Britain was still a monarchy.” Donald picked up his spoon in triumph. “Didn’t you think that was significant?”

“I guess not. Is it?”

“Most certainly, it is — highly significant,” Donald remarked, sliding his plate closer. “When the most rabidly antiroyalist Prime Minister ever to occupy Number Ten swears to the House and the nation that he answers to king and crown, I call that significant. Why, for the last eighteen months the devolutionists have had their goons combing the countryside, systematically terrorizing some of Britain’s oldest and most respected families, and a host of other decent citizens, coercing everyone into signing away their nobility. Anyone who refused was strong-armed into —”

“Donald,” Caroline chided, “don’t lecture our guests, dear. Let them eat their pudding in peace.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, and dug into the thick slab of chocolate with his spoon.

“We don’t mind,” Cal said, speaking up. “We rarely get to discuss politics with a real, live Member of Parliament.”

Donald smiled, spooning up some of the cherry sauce. “Actually, it’s rather a new rôle for me — I was one of the so-called ‘Horde of Lords’ who migrated to the other House when our own club was shut down.” Regret flitted across his face, vanishing at once. “Much of the rigmarole is similar, of course. The canteen is worse. The big difference is constituency work, which I enjoy immensely — a happy discovery, that. Didn’t think I would. The plum appointments are all committee related, and I’ve yet to get my oar in.” He licked his spoon happily. “Still, it’s very satisfying to have one’s say in the House and ruffle a few feathers if possible.”

“Like today,” James pointed out.

“Indeed.” Donald chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then resumed, adopting a more philosophical tone. “The King’s funeral is important. It is, I believe, fundamental to who we are as Brits. We shouldn’t allow ourselves to be robbed of our valuable heritage.”

“Is that what they’re trying to do?” Cal inquired.

“I’m sure Waring and his minions would like nothing more than for the whole miserable thing to sink quietly out of sight. But we’ve got our teeth into this one, and we’ll give ’em a run for their money they won’t forget.” It seemed to James that Donald had shifted gears and was now talking about something different. “One has to appreciate the irony of it, really. I mean, the thing that signals the end of the monarchy may be the very thing that will save it.”

“Donald,” interrupted Caroline, “tell me you’re
not
going to go into all that again. It’s just too tedious.” She looked across the table. “Calum, how are you coming with that pudding? Ready for another?”

“This’ll do for me,” Cal replied, manfully tucking into the torte, which was even bigger than the first slice. “Thanks all the same.”

Lord Rothes took another big bite of his dessert, and then pushed the plate away. “Good pudd,” he said, with a slight smack of his lips. “Forgive me, but I can’t seem to think or talk about anything else. These are momentous events — absolutely earthshaking. Look at it! We are less than three months away from an Act of Parliament that will bring down the curtain on the world’s last genuine monarchy, and what does the world’s last genuine monarchy do to mark the occasion? He puts a gun to his head and blows his bloody brains —”

“Donald…” cautioned his wife, “table talk.”

“Let us say that, unable to face the ignominy of being known for all time as the King who presided over the abolition of the monarchy, Edward chose another way out of a particularly unhappy dilemma.”

“Suicide, then. Is that certain?” Cal asked.

“No question whatever,” Donald affirmed. “Waring only presents the other options — murder and misadventure — because he’s afraid some of the blood might spatter on
his
lily-white hands.”

“I never like Edward,” Caroline confided, “but I wouldn’t have wished this on him. I wouldn’t wish that sort of desperation on anyone.”

“Rubbish,” Donald scolded. “First manly thing he ever did in his life. Teddy knew, as well as everyone else, he’d failed. Had he been a better man he might have made something of his life — be might have made something of his Crown.”

“And pigs might fly,” Cal observed dryly. “The royals were always a randy bunch of skirt-chasing ne’er-do-wells and adulterers, if you ask me. Self-seeking, self-serving, and self-indulgent stinkers to a man, mean-spirited and stingy as the day is long. Reprobates, rakes, and rascals — you can have the lot of them.” He glanced from the ring of faces around the table to his glass and, feeling perhaps he had gone a little over the top, added, “That’s only my humble opinion, of course.”

“Quite,” Donald affirmed. “The final irony” — again, James noticed, he used that word — “is that if he hadn’t been the kind of man he was, poor Teddy would never have ended it the way he did and we wouldn’t have the chance now to —”

He checked himself abruptly, leaving the distinct impression he realized he had been speaking out of turn. “Well” — he smiled weakly — “let’s just say all is not lost. Not by a long chalk.”

Lady Rothes changed the subject smoothly. “The coffee must be ready, I expect. Donald, why don’t you be a dear and go help Isobel carry in the tray?”

It was Cal who responded to her suggestion. “I’d be happy to go,” he said, rising eagerly to his feet. “Donald can finish his dessert.”

“I wouldn’t hear of it,” Lord Rothes protested.

“I’m halfway there already,” said Cal, stepping away from the table.

“I expect he wanted to ask about her recipe,” James suggested when he had gone.

“He wouldn’t be the first,” Caroline replied knowingly.

“It’s true,” Lord Donald observed, placidly spooning cherry sauce from his plate. “That girl is an inspired cook. She could have a job in any of London’s top restaurants just like that.”

“You’re lucky to have her,” James said, making conversation. “How long has she been with you?”

“Forever,” replied Donald. “She’s our daughter.”

“Then you’re doubly lucky,” James told him. “She’s a lovely young woman.”

“And absolutely indispensable to my work. The average citizen has no idea just how much government goes on behind the scenes. Why, a Member of Parliament is always entertaining someone or other. Isobel takes all the fuss and bother out of it, and allows me to get on with the business at hand. Don’t know what I’d do without her.”

Talk turned to Scotland then, and mutual acquaintances, whereupon Cal and Isobel emerged from the kitchen — Cal with a tray of cups, and Isobel with a
cafetière
and a pot of cream. “What did you think of the torte, Daddy?” she asked, pausing to give her father a peck on the cheek.

“Delightful, my dear, as ever.”

Isobel put down the
cafetière
and relieved Cal of the tray. He resumed his place, and she poured the coffee, distributing the cups around the table. Taking one for herself, she settled beside Cal and announced, “Calum keeps horses for hunting. He’s invited all of us to come up over the holidays to go riding.”

“You’d be most welcome,” Cal told them. “It is a magnificent estate, and there are miles of bridle paths — some of them have never been used by anyone but James and me. It would be a pleasure to show you.”

The Rothes declared it a wonderful invitation, and agreed to give it their full consideration. But at the mention of the estate, James felt his heart sink; pleasantly distracted by the company, he’d forgotten that particular burden for a while. He listened dully as Cal recited the splendors of Blair Morven; the Rothes seemed more than mildly interested.