Crowned and Dangerous (A Royal Spyness Mystery)

Royal Spyness Mysteries

HER ROYAL SPYN
ESS

A ROYAL PAIN

ROY
AL FLUSH

ROYAL BLOOD

NAUGHTY IN NICE

THE
TWELVE CLUES OF CHR
ISTMAS

HEIRS AND GRA
CES

QUEEN OF HEARTS

MALICE AT THE PALACE

CROWNED AND DANGERO
US

Constable Evans Mysteries

EVANS ABOVE

EVAN
HELP US

EVANLY CHOI
RS

EVAN AND ELLE

EVA
N CAN WAIT

EVANS TO
BETSY

EVAN ONLY KNOW
S

EVAN’S GATE

EVAN B
LESSED

Anthologies

A ROYAL THRE
ESOME

Specials

MASKED BALL A
T BROXLEY MANOR

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

Copyright © 2016 by Janet Quin-Harkin.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Bowen, Rhys, author.

Title: Crowned and dangerous : a royal spyness mystery / Rhys Bowen.

Description: First edition. | New York : Berkley Prime Crime, 2016. | Series: A royal spyness mystery ; 10

Identifiers: LCCN 2016008628 (print) | LCCN 2016014878 (ebook) | ISBN 9780425283486 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780698410244 ()

Subjects: LCSH: Aristocracy (Social class)—England—Fiction. |

Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Historical. | FICTION /

Mystery & Detective / Women Sleuths. | FICTION / Mystery & Detective /

General. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

Classification: LCC PR6052.O848 C76 2016 (print) | LCC PR6052.O848 (ebook) |

DDC 823/.914—dc23

LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016008628

FIRST EDITION
: August 2016

Cover illustration by John Mattos.

Cover design by Rita Frangie.

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.

This book is dedicated to my dear friend Barbara Peters,
owner of the Poisoned Pen bookstore in Scottsdale and champion of all things mystery. Thank you, Barbara, for your help, encouragement, friendship and lunches at the wine bar!

Thanks also to my wonderful team of agents, Meg Ruley and Christina Hogrebe, and to Jackie Cantor and Danielle Dill and all at Berkley and Penguin.
You are the best.

As always, thank you to John for his brutal
editing!

D
ARKEST
NIGHT
, T
HURSDAY
, N
OVEMBER
29, 1934

In an Armstrong Siddeley motorcar with the Honorable Darcy O’Mara, heading northward.

No idea where we are going, but Darcy is beside me so that’s all right.

I was in a motorcar, sitting beside Darcy, and we were driving northward, out of London. He had whisked me away earlier that day, after we had both attended Princess Marina’s wedding to the Duke of Kent. I first thought I was being taken for a romantic dinner. Then, as we left the streets of London behind, I began to suspect it may not be a dinner we were going to but a hotel in a naughty place like Brighton. But we were heading north, not south, and I couldn’t think of any naughty places to the north of London. Surely nobody goes to the industrial grime of the Midlands to be naughty? I suppose in a way I was relieved. Much as I wanted to spend the night with Darcy, and heaven knows we had waited long enough, there was also that element of worry about the consequences.

Darcy was being enigmatic, driving with a rather smug grin on
his face and not answering my questions. Eventually I told myself that we were probably going to a house party somewhere in the country, given by one of his numerous friends, which would be quite an acceptable thing to do, if not as exciting as a night at a hotel in Brighton, signed in as Mr. and Mrs. Smith. But as the lights of London vanished and we were driving into complete darkness I couldn’t stand it a minute longer.

“Darcy, where on earth are we going?” I demanded.

He was still staring straight ahead of him into the night. “Gretna Green,” he replied.

“Gretna Green? Are you serious?” The words came out as squeaks. “But that’s in Scotland. And it’s where people go when—”

“When they elope to get married. Quite right.”

I glanced at his profile. He still had that satisfied smile on his face. “I know you too well, Georgie,” he replied. “You’re altogether too respectable. You’ve inherited too much from your great-grandmother.” (Who, in case you don’t know, was Queen Victoria.) “You don’t want to take that next step with me until there is a ring on your finger and I respect that. So I aim to remedy the situation. If we drive all night then by tomorrow you will be Mrs. Darcy O’Mara and I can take you to bed with a clear conscience.”

“Golly,” I replied. Not exactly the most sophisticated of answers, I know, but I was taken by surprise. I found myself grinning too. Mrs. Darcy O’Mara. Not quite as lofty as Lady Georgiana Rannoch, but infinitely more satisfying. I couldn’t wait to see my sister-in-law Fig’s face when I returned to London and waved my ringed finger at her. The thought of Fig led me to a more practical consideration. Darcy was a young man of no fixed abode. He had an impeccable pedigree. He had grown up, like me, in a castle. He would inherit a title one day. But, also like me, he was penniless. He lived by his wits and accepted clandestine assignments he wouldn’t talk about. He slept on friends’ couches or looked after their London houses while they were away on their yachts or on the Riviera. That sort of
life was fine for a single man, but I could hardly share a couch at a bachelor friend’s establishment, could I?

Tentatively I broached this matter. “So, Darcy, if I’m not being too inquisitive, where had you planned for us to live?”

“I hadn’t,” he said. “You’ll go back to your brother and I’ll go wherever I am offered an assignment. I’m saving any money I earn and when I have enough to establish us in a suitably proper form of residence, then we’ll announce our marriage. Gretna Green is just to make sure that if anything untoward happened and you found yourself”—he paused and coughed—“in the family way, we could then wave our marriage certificate at them and all would be well and your honor would be intact.”

I had to laugh at this. Actually I think I giggled, nervously, but these were such heady topics to be talking about with a man.

“So how long do you think it might take, until we can afford a place of our own?” I asked.

“Not too long, I hope.” He sighed. “If only my father hadn’t lost all his money and had to sell the castle and the racing stable, we could have moved into my ancestral home. You would have liked Kilhenny Castle. It’s less wild and remote than Castle Rannoch. Quite civilized, in fact.”

“Your father still lives in the lodge, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, and he’s paid to run the racing stable by the American who bought the whole shebang. He’s now the hired help on an estate our family has owned for centuries. I can’t go near the place. Too painful.” He paused again. “Not that my father would want to see me anyway. He doesn’t like me very much.”

“He doesn’t approve of your lifestyle?”

Darcy snorted. “He’s hardly in a position not to approve, is he? I wasn’t the one who sold the family heritage. No, it’s simpler than that. He has never forgiven me for staying alive.”

“What?” I looked up at him sharply. His mouth was set in a hard line.

“When the Spanish flu reached us in 1920 I was away at prep school in England. My mother and my two little brothers caught it and died. My school was so freezing cold and miserable that not even the flu could survive there, so I survived. My father once said, when he was in his cups, that whenever he looks at me he is reminded that my mother died and I lived.”

“Hardly your fault,” I said angrily.

“My father never was the most rational of men. Always had a terrible temper and always carried grudges. But let’s not talk about him. We’re about to embark upon an adventure and to hell with our families.”

“That’s right,” I said, covering his hand on the steering wheel with my own. “Since they don’t support us, then it’s none of their business whether we get married or not.”

Lights sped by us from the other direction, illuminating the interior of our car for an instant before plunging us into darkness again. I was picturing telling my family that Darcy and I had married. My brother, Binky, would be happy for me. Fig would not approve because Darcy was penniless and also a Roman Catholic and . . .

“Golly!” I said again, sitting bolt upright in my seat. Darcy turned to look at me. “I can’t marry you, Darcy,” I said. “I’d completely forgotten, but I’m not allowed to. I’m still in the line of succession to the throne and we’re not allowed to marry a Catholic.”

“I thought we agreed you could just renounce your claim to the throne and then all would be well,” he said. He looked at me with a half smile on his face. “Unless, of course, you’d rather give up the chance to marry me just in case you become queen someday.”

I chuckled. “Since I’m currently thirty-fifth in line it would have to be another visit of the Black Death to wipe out those between me and the throne,” I said. “And who would ever want to be queen? Of course I want to marry you, but I think it has to be done officially. I have to petition the king and I believe it has to go through
Parliament. So we’d better turn around and go back before we go too far.”

Darcy shook his head. “I’m not turning around. We’re going to Scotland and we’re going to get married. We won’t tell anybody, and in due course you can approach your royal kin and ask permission to marry me. Then we can have a proper wedding at a suitable church with veil and bridesmaids and nobody but us need ever know that we were married already.”

“Can one do that?” I asked.

“Who is to know?”

“What if the king and queen refuse my request?”

“Why would they? And if they did, then I’d renounce my religion if it was the only way to marry you.”

A lump came into my throat. “Darcy, I’d never ask you to do that. Your religion means a lot to you.”

“I agree that my family did fight for it for many hundreds of years, but as I say, if it’s the only way to marry you, then so be it. Becoming an Anglican wouldn’t be so bad . . . just a watered-down form of being a Catholic.”

I laughed now, with relief. Darcy loved me so much that he was willing to give up anything for me. I can’t tell you how wonderful that felt.

We drove on.
It was becoming really cold. I found a rug on the backseat and tucked it around my knees. Then it started to rain, a hard-driving sleety sort of rain that peppered the windscreen. Darcy swore under his breath as he peered closer, trying to see where we were going.

“We could find somewhere to spend the night if this is going to continue,” I said. “It’s no fun for you driving in these conditions.”

“No, we’ll keep going,” he said. “It will pass.”

But it didn’t. One by one, signposts to the Midland cities came
and went. We stopped for a meat pie and beer at a pub in the middle of nowhere. A big fire roared in the grate and I looked at it longingly as we rushed through the rain back to our motorcar.

By the time we reached Yorkshire the rain had turned to snow—a heavy wet snow that stuck to the windscreen wipers and started to pile up as it was pushed from side to side. No other traffic seemed to be crazy enough to be on the road.

“We should stop,” I said. “This is becoming dangerous.”

“It’s a good solid motor,” Darcy replied. “It should handle the conditions all right.”

“I don’t want to skid and find myself upside down in a ditch,” I said.

We passed by roads leading to the cities of Leeds, then York, although no sign of them could be seen. We seemed to be driving through bleak hills with little sign of human habitation. We might have been in the middle of nowhere. Suddenly Darcy jammed on the brakes and I felt the rear of the motor sliding sideways. I think I screamed. Darcy fought to right us. We spun around. Headlights flashed crazily onto trees and snow. Then, miraculously, we stopped sliding. I opened my eyes to find us facing the wrong way.