Jayne stepped out of her limo and stood in the bleary morning light. “God, I hate Scotland.”
“Weather’s coming in soon, ma’am,” said the driver, holding the door for her.
Jayne followed his gaze to the west at the low gray clouds on the horizon. “When isn’t it? I’d almost forgotten how fucking damp it is here.” She ran fingers through her thick, golden hair. “This is just going to ruin my hair.”
Jayne marched across the cobbled street, her high heels clicking on the ancient stones. She paused, realizing she’d forgotten the king. “Come along, Your Majesty, or we’ll miss our brunch.”
The boy-king exited the car and pretended to ignore the driver, failing miserably. “Th-thank you,” he stammered. “I’m ever so hungry.”
She waited as he rushed to her side. “They have a lovely chicken basquaise here, sire.”
“Shouldn’t you call me something else…” he whispered close, peering around. “At least while we’re in public? It feels risky…”
Jayne lowered her couture sunglasses and peered over the enormous rims at the deserted streets around them. “Who, pray tell, is going to hear me?” she asked, making no effort to lower her voice. “Look around, sire, we’re all alone on the street.” She stared at him for a moment. “The driver won’t say anything, because he knows I’ll have his family killed. Slowly.” The king paled even more, and she sighed. “Oh, very well. Let’s say you’re my…”
“Son?” he offered, leaning forward, hopeful for her approval.
She recoiled as if slapped. “God no,” Jayne blurted. Recollecting herself and adjusting the light sable trimmed coat she wore, Jayne tried again. “How about…nephew?”
“N-nephew?”
She held his gaze until he blinked. No son of mine would be so spineless.
“Oh. I…well, yes…I s-suppose so,” he muttered looking at the ground, which he suddenly found fascinating.
She pushed the sunglasses back up her nose and smiled brightly. “Yes, that’ll do nicely.”
The driver walked past them and held the restaurant’s VIP door open. “Enjoy your meal, sire—madam.”
“Come along, dear nephew,” she cooed. “The Shadowbook is known for its fine dining, but not for its gracious reservation policy. They’ll boot us in a heartbeat if we aren’t prompt,” she said, utilizing her best British accent.
The king goggled at her as they stepped inside the darkened interior of the exclusive restaurant. Despite the recent ban on foot traffic, vehicle traffic, and tourists, the Shadowbook—perched high atop the Royal Mile within spitting distance of Edinburgh Castle—remained just as busy as ever. She hated taking the risk of bringing him here, despite her outward nonchalance, but felt the king was far safer at her side than left to his own devices—even under McTavish’s capable care—in Normandy. It would be a quick trip, if all went well, regardless.
“Everyone who’s anyone at this summit will be eating here at some point,” Jayne whispered conspiratorially. “They’ve made considerable exceptions for the U.N. delegates.”
“Oh?” asked the boy-king.
“Indeed. They’ve free rein of the town, you see, where the commoners are essentially under house arrest for the time being.”
“Yes, I see,” the king lied, staring in wide-eyed amazement. The slightly claustrophobic restaurant was packed. The polite rumble of conversation rippled and eddied around them, a stray laugh here and there mixed with the clinking of silverware to create a rather congenial background hum.
The restaurant’s close confines and secluded side rooms were all luxuriously paneled in dark, gloriously carved Victorian mahogany and walnut, rippled with minute details of fantastical creatures and magic taken from Scotland’s colorful history. Warm, well-appointed booths and matching chairs lined every table. Crackling fires in large stone hearths built into the walls of the main floor cast a warm glowing light across the entire space. Bustling servers in liveried uniforms carried shiny platters of food and drink in a constant flow of polite efficiency.
Before they’d had time to catch their bearings, the maître d’ fell upon them, hands behind his back. “Good morning, madam, young sir,” said the handsome man with a chiseled jaw and the confident posture of one who took pride in his position. “Welcome to the Shadowbook. You have reservations, I presume?”
Jayne removed her sunglasses and opened the snap enclosure on her jeweled handbag, dropping them in. She glanced up and read the maître d’s burnished nickel nameplate. “Indeed we do, Pierre. I thought you didn’t sound very Scottish.”
Pierre gave a slight bow and smiled. “Mais non, I hail from Rouen, madam.”
“Oui? Tres bien,” Jayne said, smiling. “I believe you shall find our reservation is under Claudine Seagrave.”
Pierre pulled a tablet from behind his back and quickly scanned the screen. “Ah, c’est bon. If you will follow me, I shall escort you to your table.”
Once seated at the corner booth well away from other patrons, the king leaned over the polished wood table and whispered, “This place is quite unbelievable…even in the midst of the summit and the attack, it’s as if nothing matters to them. I’ve heard of it, but Father never took me here…he said it was too…public.”
Jayne smiled. “Dear, the people in this room have little to fear from the likes of those who are causing all the trouble. These are some of the most well-connected and powerful people in the United Nations and the world.”
The king swallowed. “Then what are we doing here?”
Jayne laughed softly. “Having brunch, of course. Now, mind your manners, sire—here comes the table service.”
“Good morning, madam,” the waiter said to Jayne with a stiff bow. He pivoted and nodded to Louis. “Sir.” He handed over two menus and rattled off the list of specials for the day. After taking their drink orders—water for both and a mimosa for Jayne—he left them alone again.
“I still don’t understand how we got in here. I think that’s…” The boy king faltered. His eyes grew round. “Is that the Secretary General?”
Jayne looked up from her silverware and nodded. “Indeed. Don’t stare—his guards are watching. Swiss, you know.”
“This is very dangerous for me, Jayne…I shouldn’t have come…these people are hunting me. Some of them are responsible for my cousin’s death!”
“Relax, sire, no one will bother us here. I assure you, you’re quite safe with me.” She patted his hand under the table as the server returned carrying one of the silver trays, inscribed with runes around the edges.
Louis put on a brave show and thanked the server who dropped off their drinks, then took a sip of water, his hand trembling ever so slightly as he brought the glass of ice water to his lips. “Why? How can you keep me safe from…”
Jayne’s smile widened. “Because now that I control Reginald’s fortune, I’m the wealthiest woman on the planet.”
The king seemed to take that under advisement and picked at his spoon. “Isn’t…”
“Is it not what?” asked Jayne in her best schoolmarm’s voice.
The king cleared his throat. “Well…is it not a bit dangerous for you—us—to be flaunting wealth like this? Reginald’s wealth?”
Jayne sighed. The waiter had returned to take their orders. She shooed him away before replying. “In truth, it is, dear. Quite dangerous, really. But I have a plan.”
“Oh?”
“I’m going to invest in a legitimate business as to keep the finances separate. Several businesses actually.”
The discussion seemed to be alleviating the king’s initial nervousness. “Such as?”
Jayne interlaced her fingers on the table, deciding on exactly how much to divulge to the young fool. “Well, let me see. There are several munitions manufacturers that are suffering a bit from the economic chaos our Korean friends unleashed on the world. Oh, and then my favorite, the little-known subsidiary of Claspnote-Middelyn…they’re under hard times as well.”
“The aerospace company? Don’t they make jets and bombers for the Americans?” he whispered, leaning over the table.
Jayne nodded. “Indeed. However, lately it seems their advanced tactical drone division is faltering under poor management.”
“I take it by the smile on your face you…may have had something to do with that mismanagement?” the king asked, one eyebrow raised.
Jayne leaned back against the plush leather booth and regarded the future monarch. “My, my, aren’t we the observant one? Nicely done, Your Majesty.” She smiled as the boy flushed bright pink.
The waiter arrived again just as her phone began to vibrate in its garter belt sheath. Jayne giggled at the tickling sensation that rippled up her thigh and excused herself. “Be a dear and order for me, will you, dear nephew?”
“Oh, of course…Auntie.” The boy’s face reddened even further, if that were possible.
Jayne ignored the king as he stumbled through the menu, ordering bits of this and that, guessing what Jayne might want. She didn’t bother to tell him she wasn’t hungry, but one must keep up appearances.
“Hello?” she asked when she’d reached the edge of the booth and as much privacy as she could gather.
The rough voice on the other end of the line chuckled. “Listen to you. You sound…aristocratic.”
“Why, Trevor, dear! It’s so good to hear from you!” she gushed, nodding at the king. Play along, you little fool.
“Trevor? Terrible name,” the speaker on the other end of the line complained.
“What is it that you’re calling about, darling?” she asked, adding just the right amount of tightness to her voice to convey the real message: What the fuck is going on? You’re not supposed to contact me unless something goes wrong.
“Your senator went off the reservation. We are trying to lead him to the kill box—”
Jayne put a hand over the mic and glanced around, making sure the waiter had moved on. “What the fuck do you mean he went off the reservation?” she whispered urgently. “And what’s this about a kill box?”
“His driver’s good. They didn’t take the bait. And that woman you’re after—”
“Svea?”
“As you say. She is with them—in the lead car.”
Jayne’s blood ran cold. The traitorous bitch was with the senator. It was too good to be true. “Listen very carefully,” she murmured into the phone, leaning away from the obviously eavesdropping young king. “I want them alive—the senator and the woman. Do you understand me?”
“Da. But this makes things more…complicated.”
“Do you understand me?” Jayne continued, ignoring his words. “Gregor, if you harm a hair on either of their heads, I will make you my masterpiece. You will understand a new level of pain, heretofore unknown to mankind. Do I make myself clear?”
There was a long pause during which she heard his breathing increase. The man was scared shitless—and well he should be. When someone gets a personalized threat from Jayne Renolds…well, she had taken great pains throughout her long and bloody career to ensure that those who received the threats lived just long enough to tell someone else. Her reputation was legendary among the Council’s operative corps.
“Da. I understand.”
She straightened in her seat as the waiter returned with rolls and plates and a little stone crock of butter. “It was ever so good to hear from you, dear! You simply mustn’t wait so long to call next time!”
“But—”
“Ta-ta and do give my love to your charming sister,” Jayne said, and ended the call. She placed the phone on the table and stared at her mimosa.
“Is…is everything all right? I’d say by your eyes, you could kill that drink if it were alive.”
She looked at the boy-king and flashed a sudden, reassuring smile that he returned at once. “Why of course, darling. Auntie has everything under control.”
They enjoyed lunch and Jayne waited patiently for the maître d’ to return to her table and enquire about their dining experience. Eventually, when the king was working on the last of his smoked salmon topped oatcakes, the Frenchman appeared out of the shadows.
“Ah, Madam Seagrave. Young sir,” he said, nodding toward the king. “I trust everything was acceptable to you today?”
“Quite!” the king blurted around a mouthful of oatcake. He reddened and pulled his napkin to his face to dab at some crumbs.
Jayne held her anger in check and turned her smile on the Frenchman. “I do so enjoy dining here, Pierre.” Now it was time to put the real object of her coming here into motion. She stared into his gray eyes.
“Will you be sampling from our dessert menu today?” he asked conversationally. Shall I release the chemical?
Jayne cocked her head in the prearranged signal. “I think we shall. What would you recommend?” Yes. It’s time.
He nodded. “Our dark Belgian chocolate tart is a wonderful complement to your repast. It is also, if I may be so bold, my personal favorite, and served with orange marmalade ice cream.” It will be done.
“Thank you ever so much. This restaurant is truly remarkable.” You have done well and will be rewarded.
“Merci,” he replied with a deep bow.
“What’s this ganache tart he’s talking about? I didn’t see it on the menu…” the king pondered, picking at the remains of his brunch.
“Oh, it’s something Auntie had prepared, just for our special visit.”
The king looked at her, mid-chew. “Special?”
Jayne smiled as she looked around the crowded dining room, filled with the world’s political elite. “Indeed.”