Private Royals (Private 12.50)

‘De Villiers,’ Cook said, casting an icy glance towards the man. ‘The closest he ever came to combat was an air-conditioned office in Bahrain. I’m sorry you were screwed by him on the contracts, Mr Morgan. I can tell you from personal experience that I know what an institutionalised old boys’ club the British security forces can be.’

‘Call me Jack. And it is what it is. Believe me, there are cliques and fraternities in the American hierarchy too.’

‘So what brings you here to London, if not work?’ she asked.

‘Heading back from Europe across the pond, so I wanted to see how my guys are getting along here. I’ve always wanted to see the Trooping the Colour parade, so when Peter told me that he had invitations, I could hardly refuse.’

‘Well, I’m glad you’ll get to experience something new here in London.’ Cook’s eyes gave the slightest suggestion that marching soldiers were not all the city had to offer. ‘Home is LA?’

‘The Palisades. It’s the bit between LA and Malibu.’

‘Malibu? Do you surf?’

‘It’s the second-best way I know to clear my head.’ Morgan smiled.

Cook fought a losing battle to stop herself from doing the same. ‘I surf. In Cornwall,’ she managed, on the edge of blushing.

Morgan said nothing. His own smile was gone.

Because Knight was on his way back in a hurry, and Morgan recognised the look on his friend’s face.

‘They need us at headquarters,’ Knight informed his boss. ‘Now.’

CHAPTER 3

WITH MORGAN ON his shoulder, Knight pushed open the door to his office in Private London’s headquarters.

Neither of them were surprised to see the grey-haired gentleman inside.

He stood at the window, looking out over the city, his hands clasped behind a bespoke tailored suit. His outward appearance suggested calm and confidence, even when standing alone inside a stranger’s office. It was an appearance that would fool almost anybody.

But Jack Morgan and Peter Knight were not just anybody, and they could see the tension in the man’s posture and hear his exaggerated breathing.

They knew who he was, of course – no one could waltz into Private, let alone Knight’s office, without the say-so of someone in a position of authority. Knight had granted his because his workspace was sterile, all files deeply encoded on drives that were unobtainable unless the man at the window had been a master hacker.

And he was not. He was the ageing Duke of Aldershot, and a member of the royal family.

‘Sir,’ Knight said simply, and the man turned towards them.

On the journey from Horse Guards, a quick Internet search had revealed the Duke to be sixty years old. However, with his red eyes and pale skin, the royal looked closer to a hundred.

‘Please, sir, take a seat,’ Knight offered, worried that the man was moments from collapse. Without a word, the Duke complied.

Morgan hung back by the door as Knight poured the Duke a glass of water and pulled his own chair forward so that he was at arm’s length from him.

‘I can get tea or coffee if you like, sir?’ Knight asked. The Duke shook his head and the water remained untouched, trembling in his hands.

‘Your Grace,’ Knight began, patiently, ‘we know who you are, and whatever the problem is, we can help you with it. Why are you here?’

Th

e Duke’s haunted eyes showed the first signs of life.

‘Abbie,’ he mumbled.

‘Your daughter?’ Knight asked, recognising her name from his Internet search on the Duke. ‘Is she in trouble?’

The Duke nodded slowly, a pair of tears racing down his pale cheeks. ‘Yes,’ he gasped.