The Last Queen of England (48 page)

And it had worked, hadn’t it?

He looked over his shoulder at the church and wondered if it really had.
 
He scanned the area as he made his way back along Inigo Place to the gates and the main road beyond, and by the time he reached them he was laughing at himself for being so jumpy.
 
As he stepped across the threshold he popped a Hershey’s chocolate into his mouth and left all thoughts of heirs and ahnentafels behind him.
 
He was thinking about buying a new shirt and suit before lunch - thinking about Professor Jean Summer and how much he was looking forward to seeing her again.

Chapter Thirty-Two

S
he was waiting for him at the bar, gazing absently into the restaurant at nothing in particular, much as she had been at
Rules
restaurant the first time he’d seen her.
 
The black dress, patent heels and overly bright makeup she’d been wearing when Marcus introduced them had gone in favour of a simple dress, low heels and a cardigan.
 
She had her glasses on, hair tied up, and if she was wearing any makeup at all, it was subtle.
 
Tayte thought the look suited her perfectly.

Something else about her had changed, too.
 
It was something intangible that Tayte couldn’t put his finger on.
 
Perhaps it was because of everything they had been through in the past few days, or maybe it wasn’t her at all.
 
Maybe it was him.
 
He’d never felt protective of anyone in his life - never had to.
 
But he did right now, just looking at her.
 
He was already smiling when she saw him in his new tan suit.

Then she was smiling, too.

“I just got here a few minutes ago,” she said.
 
“Shall we have a drink first?”

“Sure,” Tayte said, wondering why he suddenly felt so nervous.

He put his briefcase down and sat on a stool beside her.
 
They ordered champagne cocktails and as Tayte settled he turned and took the place in.
 
It was an airy, modern interior with polished wood flooring and wire-framed chairs and tables.
 
His eyes were instantly drawn to the windows and the cityscape panorama beyond.

“Great view,” he said, picking out Nelson’s column, Big Ben and the apex of the London Eye.

“Shame about the rain,” Jean said, frowning.
 
“It’s much better on a clear day.”

Despite the grey backdrop and reduced visibility, Tayte thought it looked just fine.
 
They watched the barman make their cocktails and when he set them in front of them they looked at each other as they clinked glasses.

“Here’s to the end of a very eventful week,” Tayte said.

“And good riddance,” Jean added.

Tayte snorted.
 
“Amen to that.
 
So how’s Elliot?”

“Better than I’d expected.
 
He’s back with his father - a little sore, but he’ll mend.
 
We’re spending a few days together next week.”

“That’s great,” Tayte said.

Jean nodded.
 
“It’s too early to hope for much, but we’ll see.”
 
She paused.
 
“And what about you?
 
What did you get up to this morning?”
 
She laughed as she added, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you stayed in bed.”

Tayte laughed with her, considering his reply carefully.
 
Jean had every right to know the truth and he wanted to tell her everything he’d done in what he considered to be everyone’s best interest.
 
He wanted to explain how he’d seen what was possibly the only way out of their predicament while they were at St Paul’s in Shadwell, even though it had meant taking a risk as far as Elliot was concerned.
 
He didn’t think she would ever forgive him for that and he wouldn’t blame her.
 
It was something he would face up to someday, but he knew that to tell her everything now could put her life in danger again and that he would not do.
 
As for the current British monarchy, Tayte knew Marcus would have wanted no part in bringing something to light that might ultimately threaten such an institution, however great or small the impact might be, and neither did he.
 
He wasn’t usually one to leave the past unresolved if he could help it, but on this occasion he felt it was the right thing to do.

“I went to see Marcus’s wife Emmy before I came here,” he said.
 
“The funeral’s tomorrow at ten.
 
I thought I’d stay the rest of the week and fly home Sunday.”

He thought he saw Jean’s eyes open a little wider at hearing that, or maybe he just imagined it.
 
He wanted to see her again.
 
They hadn’t even sat down to lunch yet and he already knew it would not be enough.
 
Sure, he’d see her tomorrow at the funeral, but then what?
 

“I was just wondering,” he began.

He faltered.
 
What’s wrong with me?
 
Why can’t I just say it?

He knew why.
 
It was the perennial fear of rejection that had stalked him and taunted him since learning that his own mother hadn’t wanted him.

Why should Jean?
 
What if she says no?

He couldn’t ever recall feeling like this before.
 
Somehow he’d made it to forty and there he was stumbling over feelings that were entirely new to him.
 
He wasn’t sure he liked it, either.
 
It was so much easier to crawl back into his hole, wasn’t it?
 
But he felt light-headed to the point of being giddy and it wasn’t because of the champagne cocktail.

Even my palms are clammy.

“What is it?” Jean asked through her smile.

Tayte sat on his hands and cleared his throat.
 
He was going to do this.
 
He had to.

“I was just wondering,” he said.
 
He was blushing.
 
He could feel the heat in his cheeks.
 
“When will I see you again?” He rushed the words out and immediately thought that he’d had all his life to think of a good line for when it really mattered and all he could come up with was some damn song title.

“Do you want to see me again?”

Tayte smiled and nodded like a puppy in a pound waiting for someone to want him in return.
 
“We never got to see that show Marcus wanted to take us to, did we?”

“
Les
Mis
?”

Tayte nodded again.
 
His mouth was dry.
 
He swallowed hard.
 
“I was wondering if you’d care to see it on Saturday.
 
With me,” he added, like such a caveat might adversely affect her decision.

“Well, I don’t know.”

Tayte buried his face in his cocktail.
 
“Oh,” he said.
 
He took a sip that was more like a gulp.
 
“Sure, that’s okay,” he added.
 
“I just -”

Jean cut in.
 
“What I mean is, are you only asking me because Marcus would have liked it?”

“No,” Tayte said, quickly.
 
“Of course not.
 
I’m asking because
I’d
like it.”
 
He looked right into her eyes then and said, “I’d like it very much.”

Jean toyed with her glass, delaying her answer.
 
Then she smiled and said, “In that case I’d love to.”

Tayte knew he had a cheesy grin all over his face and he didn’t care.
 
“Great.
 
That’s really great.”
 

“But I’m afraid three’s a crowd,” Jean added, suddenly serious again.

“How do you mean?”

She looked at the floor and couldn’t keep a straight face as she said, “I mean, don’t even think about bringing that bloody briefcase.”

Epilogue

Two weeks later.

J
efferson Tayte had been out for a morning jog in DC’s Lincoln Park wearing brand new running shoes - the likes of which he hadn’t owned since college.
 
Ordinarily, he would have hit the shower as soon as he got back to his apartment, but today the morning mail delayed him.
 
On top of the usual pile of junk mail was an airmail letter from England and it had piqued his curiosity.
 
The postmark told him it was from London and as he took it into the kitchen with him and poured himself a coffee, it made him think about Jean again.

She was coming to visit him next month and he was looking forward to seeing her again more than he’d looked forward to anything in his life.
 
He kept telling himself that he’d bought his new running shoes because he’d made that promise to himself and because that was what people did when they turned forty, but he knew the real reason was because he’d met Jean.
 
He thought about her every time he put them on.

As well as exchanging emails every day, they telephoned one another regularly and through those conversations Tayte learnt of Fable’s death.
 
It had saddened him more than he would have thought such a casual acquaintance could.
 
A suspected heart attack is what Jean told him it said in the newspapers, but when Tayte had called New Scotland Yard he was told that the verdict was open and that no further information was available - at least not to him.

Fable’s death had made him think about Michel Levant.
 
His instincts still told him the Frenchman was somehow involved and he hadn’t ruled out the possibility that he was also partly responsible for his friend’s murder.
 
He knew there was unfinished business between them and he was in little doubt that their paths would cross again someday.
 
He had denied the heir hunter what was arguably the ultimate heir and he figured you couldn’t get the better of someone like Michel Levant without repercussions.
 
That suited Tayte just fine but he knew he’d have to watch his back.

He sipped his coffee and sat down with his letter.
 
The name at the top of the headed notepaper read,
Goldman, Goldman & Rose, Solicitors.
 
He scrunched his brow.

A law firm?
 

The letter was brief.
 
It was from the executors of the late Marcus Brown’s will and by the time Tayte had read it the colour had drained from his cheeks.
 
He went over the salient points again to be sure he’d read it right.

There’s a key to a safety deposit box waiting for me in London.
 
They’re only at liberty to discuss the matter further in person, but have been instructed to inform me that it concerns my family.

My family?

Acknowledgements

My continued thanks to all the online forum members who have supported me since I launched my debut book in 2011, and to those readers who have written to me and/or written reviews for my work.
 
It will always be very much appreciated.
 
I had written three books before I published In the Blood, each having taken about a year to write.  Since then I have been rewriting and shaping those stories to fit into this genealogical crime mystery series because each book was originally intended to be the first outing for Jefferson Tayte in the hope that one would be accepted by a traditional publisher.  Collectively, they are the result of seven years research, plotting and writing - The Last Queen of England perhaps being the most important to me as at the time I felt that it would be my last attempt at a writing career.  So, my sincere thanks to you for helping to make this possible.

Special thanks to Inspector Pat Rawle for continuing to help with my enquiries, to Kath Middleton,
Sherie
Sprague, Sue James, Karen Watkins, Susanne Meyers and Judith Allison for their help with editing and proofreading this book, and as always to my wife Karen, for so many reasons.

About the Author

Steve Robinson was born in coastal Kent, UK, and now lives near London on the Essex/Hertfordshire border. His passion for writing began at the age of sixteen when he was first published in a computer adventure magazine and he has been writing by way of a creative hobby ever since.
 
When a career in telecommunications ended in redundancy he began to write full time.
 
His debut novel
In the Blood
was the result, with
To the Grave
following a year later.