MILLS & BOON

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      For Linda Haywood, Alice Dean and Paula Mayeaux—and morning coffee on the Carnival Pride.

      Contents

      PROLOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

      COMING NEXT MONTH

      PROLOGUE

      God, do not save the queen!

      THE PEN WAS INDEED MIGHTIER than the sword. His fingers might work upon a typewriter, but the sentiment was the same.

      Giles Brandon felt his power as he worked in blessed silence. And thank the Lord, he was just coming to the end.

      By God, he was good.

      Giles pulled the final draft of his article from his typewriter, a self-satisfied smile on his lips. It might be said he was smirking, he thought, amused, but this was probably the best and most inflammatory piece he had done yet.

      He set the paper down, leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his chest for a moment, basking in his achievement and this moment of silence in which to savor his own talents. His London town house was one of the few set back from the busy street, so he didn’t have to deal with the sounds of the common man hurrying about on business, the clatter of hooves on the pavement that came with horse-drawn vehicles, or, by God, the growl and heave and obnoxious horn-tooting of the new-fangled automobiles now becoming more and more popular among the monied classes—and even those not quite so monied, as well. Thick damask drapes covered the windows, adding to the insulation. Indeed, he could hear nothing from the street.

      He lifted a hand whimsically. “Indeed,” he said aloud. “The pen is truly a far more lethal weapon than the sword.”

      Of course, there was no one to answer. He’d sent his wife—God bless her, the fortune she had brought him, and the fact that she was easily browbeaten by his genius—to her sister’s. Talent such as his demanded total concentration. He’d also given the skinny old bag of a housekeeper the night off. He was in his element now. Alone.

      He laughed and spoke aloud again. “Alone with my favorite companions, sheer intelligence and cunning—and myself.”

      Reverently, he picked up the typed sheet of his own brilliance. “This will have them all riled up in the streets.” He made a chortling sound. He wasn’t so sure he wanted to be in the midst of such upset himself, but he certainly enjoyed the concept of bringing it about. He had been mocked one time too many, his name had been left off one too many invitation lists when it had certainly deserved to be there.

      So now…those in power would pay.

      He read his headline out loud with dramatic intonation.

      “‘Has the Monarchy Resorted to Cold-blooded Murder?’”

      Yes, people would be grumbling in the streets. There was already suspicion brewing. Well, naturally. It was those who were campaigning to rid the country of the monarchy who had met such a sorry demise.

      If he weren’t so well mannered, he would certainly have rubbed his hands together in glee.

      He stood back from his chair and looked around, reveling in what he had accomplished. This incredible house—of course, it had come through his wife’s family, but no matter. His desk was the finest cherrywood. The lamp on his desk was a Tiffany. His carpet was rich and thick and from the Middle East. Yes, he had done well, and all because of the brilliance of his written word.

      Tomorrow, the article would run.

      And by mid-afternoon…

      “By George, I am…” For all of his dexterity with the English language, he could think of no other word. “Brilliant!”

      The sudden sound of clapping from just behind him startled him so badly that his heart skipped a beat. He swung around, stunned. He had been alone for hours, so who…?

      A figure stood at the rear of the room, right in the corner where the rows of bookshelves met, clapping not with enthusiasm but slowly, rhythmically, with…mockery.

      “You!” Giles said, his eyes narrowing with fury. He glanced at his office door. It remained closed, as it had been. The house was locked up; of that he was certain. The housekeeper knew he would have her ears if she ever dared leave without locking up.

      So…?

      “Brilliant, Giles, oh, yes, just brilliant,” the intruder said. “What are you doing here? How the hell did you get in?”

      The visitor shrugged, walking from the shadows into the pool of light cast by the lamp on the desk.

      Though Giles could now see his unwelcome caller—and could see no weapon—he felt a sudden sense of acute terror. It was impossible that anyone had gotten in. Impossible that they were alone in a vast world of shadow.

      He could not hear the world inside this haven of his…

      And no one could hear him.

      “I serve the greatest good of this country, and I do it well,” Giles flared.

      “You serve yourself, and you are an egotist,” replied the figure. A slow, wry smile touched cruel lips. “But you are about to perform a far greater service. After all, as you have written, we must all be willing to sacrifice.”

      Giles Brandon’s eyes widened.

      Only now did he see the weapon.

      “No!” he roared.

      “You will serve your country, and I promise you, your eulogy will be…brilliant.”

      Fight! he told himself.

      He was a big man.

      But, sadly, not an agile one.

      He was barely aware when his feeble attempts at defense were thwarted. He didn’t even feel the pain.

      He was aware of his own terrible scream…

      Thoughts, madly, insanely, rushed