The Last in Line (The Royal Inheritance Series Book 1) (21 page)

Renee had begun to get a feel for the music and danced automatically, following the lead of her anonymous masked partner, who didn’t speak. That was fine with her. Her voice was hoarse from having made so many introductions, and the silence gave her the opportunity to dwell more on pleasant imaginings of her future life, which always seemed to involve Simon.

The French doors had been thrown open to allow some air into the packed ballroom and Renee didn’t notice that her partner had danced her near them, focused as she was on the difficult task of tracking Simon through a crowded ballroom while she was spun in circles.

“It’s hot. Would you like some air?” said her partner.

“Hmm?” said Renee, losing sight of Simon. “Oh. Yes, I’m sweating buckets.” It struck her that Simon Coakely would never say something like “sweating buckets.” She would have to learn to speak more genteelly.

Her partner whirled her elegantly through the doors and the sharp wind cooled her face. They danced a few more steps and then stopped. It was no longer raining, but the trees, shrubs and roses bent and waved in the wind, causing a million collected water droplets to sparkle in the reflected glow of the lamps. She shivered slightly. She waited for her masked partner to speak, but he remained silent.

“Are you having a good time at the ball?” she asked.

“Quite.”

He didn’t say anything more so she asked him the question which she knew got even the shyest tongue wagging at this party. “Who are you descended from?”

“From the noblest line.”

Renee pretended to smooth out her skirt. She was becoming perturbed by his stillness. Noblest line, what did that mean? It was ridiculous to get so competitive over a dead ancestor. She couldn’t see his eyes or his expression.
Deep breath. Queens sometimes have to talk to awkward people and it’s no different that waitressing or bartending
, she thought to herself. Just get them to talk.

“Let me try to guess. We have several folks here descended from Henry I and his mistresses. He had 24 illegitimate children. Can you imagine? Are you descended from them?”

He didn’t answer.

“From Edward IV who was known to go after anything breathing?”

Nothing.

“Well, I’m all out of guesses so you’ll have to tell me.”

“I told you. I’m from the only line that counts.”

“Which line is that?” she asked.

He pulled off his mask and pale, odd eyes stared down at her.

“Bretton!” she gasped. She screamed for the guards, but Bretton had already turned on his heel and strode back into the ballroom. There were noises of surprise as people recognized him. The music ended abruptly as the guards tried to push through the crowd.

“Keep your hands off of me. I’ve broken no laws,” he said.

Erastus stepped forward. His bushy brows were knit together.  “This is a private event. You are trespassing.”

Bretton shrugged. “Perhaps you should pay your doorman better.”

Erastus made a move to throw him out bodily, but Bretton jumped onto the orchestra’s dais.

“Good people!” shouted Bretton above the noise. “You are all here because you are proud of your royal lineage. I, too, value my family’s history. This history that runs in our veins is not just an interesting tidbit to be talked over at family reunions—No! It is a heritage that has been entrusted to us. We are the living preservers of our nation’s cultural heritage and the monarch is the embodiment of the nation. I am the legitimate descendant of Robert Bretton and am the heir to the throne of England. Do not leave the country’s fate to American trailer trash who can’t tell the difference between an earl and a duke, and the descendant of a family who couldn’t last six months at the helm. If you support me I will make sure to elevate you all to the peerage, without conditions or land requirements. From among you I will draw my council.”

Conversation broke out. Most people were shaking their heads, but Renee could tell that some were seriously considering his proposal.

“Right, out you go you lousy, murdering, nobody,” said Erastus. Bretton’s eyes flashed. Erastus raised his voice. “And I’ll tell you what else: If a Bretton ever steps on my land again I’ll set the dogs on him.”

Bretton stepped down off the platform and smirked at Erastus. “Go ahead, she’s right there,” and lifted his chin in Renee’s direction. “You know, if you really”—
POW!

Bretton staggered sideways from the force of the punch landed against his face.

Simon Coakely stepped forward, rubbing his knuckles.

“That is for showing up uninvited—how vulgar—royal,
indeed
. And that”—he pushed Bretton with the heel of his show, who was still bent over, gingerly rubbing his jaw—“is for insulting a lady.” Bretton fell into one of the round, cloth covered tables that still had dishes of pasta and fish on it. He jumped up, his tuxedo stained. His face had turned almost as scarlet as the mark that bloomed on his face, but his eyes had gone dark and they were focused on Simon. The sight of him terrified Renee and she wondered, not for the first time, if there was truth in the allegations that he had killed three women. Bretton looked like a panther ready to leap, but a familiar figure stepped between Bretton and Simon.

“Alright, the party’s over for you tonight,” said Chase, dressed in a tuxedo. “You heard the gentleman—it’s invitation only.”

Chase and three more guards led Bretton towards the door.

“You’ve all got a choice,” yelled Bretton.

“Yes, a choice between listening to a git or enjoying our evening,” said Simon, prompting a round of laughter and applause. Renee beamed at him.

The music started up again and though Bretton was talked of for the rest of the night, it was at his expense. Erastus checked on Renee and after being assured she was alright, he went to berate some of the staff. She didn’t need to read lips to know it was about letting Bretton in. The orchestra played a lively waltz and soon couples were swirling around, the evening’s interruption forgotten. It was with the utmost delight that Renee accepted when Simon asked her to dance. She thought no more of Chase that night, whom she last saw escorting Bretton out of the building, his shoulders squared against the revelry inside.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

RENEE SIGHED CONTENTEDLY over her coffee. It was late morning, closer to lunch time actually, and she and Cassandra were eating in the guest quarters. Cassandra nibbled sleepily on toast. Leanne was still asleep and loud snores could be heard coming from her room. Even Roberts, though the triangle of the handkerchief in his breast pocket was perfectly pointed, had a drooping appearance around the eyes and held off on his usual chatter about schedules, but sipped his tea in silence. Renee almost suspected he might have a post-party headache, which would be very un-Roberts like.

Renee, however, felt wonderful. She had spent the rest of the evening dancing with Simon. He had allowed her to nurse his injured hand by applying ice wrapped in a cloth napkin to it and she had traced his swelling knuckles with her finger. The party had gone on until the late hours of the night, until it seemed that there were more people slumped in chairs than actually dancing.

Erastus’s housekeeper had left the morning papers upstairs for them. Each one had an article about the League Ball with many pictures of guests arriving to the front of the house, but were very short on details. Renee silently blessed the Bastards for being so discreet. Their refusal to speak to reporters said much in their favor. Nor was there a word about Bretton’s surprise appearance. When she mentioned this to Roberts he replied, “Well, he didn’t come off looking very well, did he? Had his intrusion gone the way he had hoped, I’m sure it would be all over the news.”

“But what about his offer to turn the Bastards into aristocrats? I bet some people are considering it.”

              “Oh, do stop speaking of that wretched man,” said Roberts and massaged his temples with his fingers.

Renee smiled. It amused Renee to see Roberts out of sorts, but decided not to press her luck. “Hey,” she said to Cassandra, “The sun is out. Let’s go see if Erastus has some tennis rackets.”

Cassandra hopped out of her chair and she and Renee raced each other down the stairs, nearly smacking into Erastus himself as he rounded a corner.

“Oh, ho! Up and looking lively, I see.” He looked around for the others. “Some of you are up at any rate.”

“Roberts is hung over,” said Cassandra. Renee tried to shush her.

Erastus shook his head. “I tried to warn him about the hard cider. It’s less like cider and more like a swift hammer to the head.”

Renee told him of their intention to make use of his tennis court and he quickly located some tennis rackets and balls. The day was chilly, but mercifully dry, and they warmed up quickly as they played, first Renee against Cassandra and then Renee and Cassandra against Erastus who quickly became tired and refereed the rest of the time. By the time they were done—and Cassandra had trounced Renee three sets in a row—their cheeks were red and they were out of breath. The three of them decided to head back to the house for hot chocolate. The kitchen was warm and bright, with copper pots hanging from the beams. They sat for a happy half hour, sipping hot chocolate and listening to Erastus spin tales about his travels to South America and the Far East. It was the most normal afternoon Renee had yet experienced in England.

They were interrupted by an older gentleman with round spectacles, who was so short he barely reached Cassandra’s height.

“Ah, there you are Owen!” bellowed Erastus. “Come meet our guests of honor. Lady Montshire, this is Owen Millthwaite, our resident historian.” The little man bowed.

“I know you!” exclaimed Renee. “I saw you on television giving the speech about the family tree at the Grand Reunion.”

“A terrible day,” said the small man.

“Owen is the one who tracked you down. He put all the clues together and went digging around in libraries and archives in America to track down the Montshires,” said Erastus.

Owen seemed pleased to be recognized for his work, but was startled when Renee slipped off her kitchen stool to give him a hug. “Your Majesty!” he said, turning red.

Erastus clapped Owen on the back, knocking his spectacles askew. “Don’t let his pint size fool you. He’s a member of the League; a direct descendant of Robert the Bruce and as keen a mind as ever you’ll meet. I asked him to come here so we can all have a look at some of the records I have in my possession.”

“Oh, yes. Do lead the way, Hughes,” said Owen, and they all went to the library. Several minutes were spent digging the armchairs out from under the piles of books and clearing off a table for Owen to use. Despite the windows which reached nearly two stories, the room was dark from the wood paneling and muted sunlight, so Owen switched on a lamp and settled into a wingback chair.

“Brandy?” asked Erastus. Owen readily agreed, but Renee shook her head and looked sternly at Cassandra who had initially nodded her head. Erastus poured from a crystal bottle. Owen took a drink, sighed contentedly, and opened the file in front of him which he had brought with him.

“I’ve made copies of all the relevant documents for you to have in your own records, Lady Montshire. It’s all here: the land deeds, birth records, the letter stating George had been stopped at Winchester, the letter from the neighbor of George Montshire in Virginia, etcetera, all the way to the birth certificate of Cassandra Montshire Krebs. It’s watertight. No one can question your origins.” He closed the file, tied it with a strap and pushed it across the table to Renee who cradled it in her arms. This was her family. She had always felt so lonely out there on the ranch with no cousins or family stories, but here it all was.

“That is everything that could be found through public research. But what I haven’t seen yet are the materials in the care of the Hughes family,” said Owen.

Erastus coughed a little guiltily. “It didn’t occur to me that they would be important until after a Montshire descendant had already been named as the heir on television. If I had
known
you were looking in that direction, you could have had unfettered access.”

Owen waived his hand dismissively. “It makes no difference. No difference at all. We accomplished the impossible without it, but this will be a delight,” said Owen, looking as if Christmas Day had arrived early. “Have you looked through them before?”

“Never,” said Erastus.

“How did they come to be in your family’s possession?”

“They were entrusted to us. It’s quite a dramatic story, really. Alfred, the third son, was overthrown and Agnes Montshire, the mother to the ill-fated boys, galloped out of London with her foes on her tail. She stopped at Highlowe to change horses and she was implored to rest the night, but she insisted she be off and it was then that she thrust the bundle into the then Lord Hughes’s arms and begged him to always protect George, to which my ancestor agreed though he believed George, if he still lived, would not be long for this life. She was gone again on the fresh horse, her long hair flying behind her. It was a good thing that she did not stay the night because her pursuers reached Highlowe within hours and pulled it apart looking for her. Highlowe was gone by morning, having been burned to its foundation. These papers survived because Lord Hughes’s wife had the presence of mind to hide them behind some loose bricks in the cellar. These and some excellent bottles of wine were all that survived the destruction, but once the Montshires had been deposed for good, it was in no one’s favor to read them.”

Renee was riveted.

“What happened to Agnes?” asked Cassandra in a small voice.

Erastus sighed. “She was put to the sword on the floor of Canterbury Cathedral two days later. She had sought protection there, but not even the Church could protect her once the dynastic winds had changed.”

Cassandra shivered and pulled her chair closer to Renee’s. Renee could only think of her many times great-grandmother’s blood spilling out over the cathedral. She and all her sons dead. Not
all
her sons, Renee reminded herself.

“Well, let’s have a look at them, shall we?” said Owen, suddenly very much the historian. Erastus produced an old-fashioned key and went to a glass-fronted cabinet that was built into the bookshelves. He unlocked it and pulled out an ancient looking leather folder. Dust flew up when he put it in front of Owen who waved away the dust and examined the folder on every side. “A very typical example of the period,” he said.

“Hurry up. It’s what’s inside the folder that we all want to know about,” said Erastus irritably when Owen continued to examine it. Owen sighed, clearly unhappy that no one could appreciate the thoroughness of his historical examination. He opened the folder and Renee, Erastus and Cassandra leaned in forward to see what it contained.

Renee couldn’t read any of it. It was written in a script that was so ornate she couldn’t tell if it was English or not. Owen bent his head over it. His eyes went back and forth, scanning the lines of script, turning a page every couple of minutes and saying, “Hmmm,” every so often.   

Erastus drummed his fingers on the table. “Well?”

Owen looked up over his spectacles. “Patience never was a Hughes virtue.”

“Damn and blast, man!”

Owen sighed. “So far it looks like government correspondence, not very interesting at all: Discussions regarding the interest rate on a loan to refurbish the royal residence; instructions to pay a departing employee five pounds and a length of damask; appointments to various positions of no import….”

Renee sighed. She didn’t know what she had been expecting. Erastus slouched in his seat.

Owen turned another page over. “What’s this?” he said, startled. His eyes read over the page and then started back at the beginning again.

“Find something?” asked Renee. She stared listlessly out the window at a crow, which was being chased by a sparrow. The crow must have gotten too close to the sparrow’s nest, she thought.

“It’s a letter,” said Owen, “from William, the oldest brother, to his mother, Agnes. Some is in Latin and some in French, but I believe I understand enough. It was written during his brief reign in 1688. It mentions that his Master of the Horse, who has become invaluable to him, has heard a rumor of a plot against him.”

Owen read haltingly as he translated:

Dearest Mother, The blessings which have touched our family are manifested daily in your prayers and hours spent in studying the Holy Scriptures. Once this would have brought danger to our door and our prayers would have been whispered in secret, but now, by the grace of God and His Son, the defenders of the pure faith have been elevated for His glory.

While I foresee much good, there is also much peril and the slightest crack of the door will open us wide to it. My master of the stables, who rides with me and is skilled with the bow as well as the musket, has proven invaluable and daily brings me news of our vast household and of the common folk. Often it is of a minor matter and I have more than once fabricated a solemn countenance in front of a servant for while he speaks gentlemanly, I know him to be an imbiber and wanton carouser who was struck across the face by his own wench. I should not report such things to a Lady of piety, but I mention it only to inform of the intelligence I receive from this man for he has brought it to me only this morning, and his news unquiets my mind. He has heard in the Town grumblings among the people that their king is not a true defender of the Church of England and has allowed its popish enemies to flourish. This strikes at my core as I have not forgotten the stories of how our family suffered during the reign of Mary Tudor, but nor do I wish to inflict those same terrors on those who choose to remain wallowing in ignorance and heresy. The Lord knows His own and will sort the wheat from the chaff at the end of times. My heart is grieved but I shall remain on this course for I shall heed the Prophet Micah who asks what the Lord requires of us, and answers that he requires us to love Mercy and Justice, and to walk humbly with our God. Amen, and may the Lord bless you.

Your faithful son,

William

Owen flipped through the pages, his eyes quickly scanning the lines of faded ink. He was on the hunt now and knew, with an historian’s instinct, what he was looking for.

“Here’s another one dated a month later,” said Owen.

Dearest Mother,

I pace my quarters in a frenzy, convinced that the walls are not solid and the curtains shall transform into snakes and strangle me, for how else can I perceive the world which was until today a place orderly and understandable? Mother, it will pain you when I relay this news. It will pain you more than when our dear sister died in infancy for at least then we had consolation that the child would find a home in Heaven, but there is no comfort in this case for the souls in question will find Terminus in Hell, and these your own children!

My master of the stable, who has been keeping me well-stocked in information of the sort that a ruler cannot do without, made bold to speak to me today when we had outstripped the other hunters and were stopped in a quiet grove. He begged his pardon and when I bade him to speak freely, he, with many sidelong looks to ensure that foreign ears would not hear us, said that he had heard word that there was a plot to unseat me and that the blackguards were people I knew well. He faltered then and would not speak more, but when I urged him on pain of whipping to divulge this information, he said that it was mine own brothers!

He caught the bridle of my horse for a wave of dizziness overtook me, but I was well enough in a moment. The galloping of hooves alerted us that the rest of our party was upon us and we could not speak more of the subject. Among them were the brothers, previously so dear to my heart, and when Frederick, closest in age to me and the companion of my youth, called out “Hallo!” I recalled that he had always been the most pious among us, spending entire nights in prayer before the chapel altar. It is Frederick who most fervently defends the English Church and calls out the papists as rascals. It would be he who is not satisfied with my policies. When I saw him raise his arm in greeting to me, I had to resist the urge to kill him on the spot and only the steady hand of the horse master on my steed’s bridle and the urgent looks he gave me prevented me from doing it. I understood his meaning, for if I were to strike Frederick there in the presence of the others of our party, it would not be understood. No, there must be charges and proofs. And proofs there shall be…