Through her, Yourstone possessed a direct line into the prince’s innermost thoughts and fears, and it had been easy to manipulate both.
“We are less than twelve hours from completion,” he said in a hushed tone, though there was no one who could possibly overhear them. His town house was empty, save for them. He employed a house staff, but only during certain hours, and none lived on the premises.
“My precious mother could die at any time. The bloody doctors can’t say anything for sure. If that happens and we are still where we are now, this whole thing is over.”
“I’m aware of the risks.”
“So has the deal been made?”
He nodded. “Our South African friend has assured me it will be done.”
She moved closer to the hearth. The fire he’d started earlier had burned down. The charmeuse of her gown shimmered with every step. He wondered what possessed his son to leave a woman of such beauty alone.
She noticed his gaze on her.
“Can the father succeed where the son is lacking?”
Wisps of light hair draped her forehead like fringes from a shawl. This woman knew how to arouse him. It had been that way since the beginning of their association. His son was sterile, a fact only he knew since he’d paid the doctor who’d administered the test to lie about the results. Then he’d had the doctor killed. The same fate had found the publisher of the Globe, who’d somehow pieced together what was happening and made contact with the palace. Thankfully, another spy had alerted him and that problem had been quickly solved. For his plan to work, not only must Eleanor assume the throne as queen, but there had to be an heir to follow.
Normandy. Blois. Plantagenet. Lancaster. York. Tudor. Stuart. Hanover. Saxe-Coburg.
Each family had ruled.
The next royal house would be named Yourstone.
“I assure you, I can accomplish the required task.” He did not use her title with any measure of respect, but that did not seem to faze her.
“I wonder how the son wholly failed to acquire what the father clearly possesses. Nature can be so cruel.”
He tabled his empty glass.
“I assume the country will soon be reading more about Richard and the perky Lady Bryce,” she said.
“For the next several days.”
“I watched Lord Bryce and you earlier on the television and I have to ask. Your comments to the press. Were they needed? Surely Mum and Father are now questioning your loyalty.”
Which might explain the presence of a certain American agent named Cotton Malone. “Let them.”
“Maybe the stress will finally claim Mum’s heart.”
“Not yet, my dear. We need another day.”
“That’s the problem, Nigel. We have no idea how much time she has left.”
“This can only move so fast. Timing is everything.”
She returned her empty glass to the cabinet and headed for the door. “Thankfully, this is your problem. I have enough to handle with Mum and Dickie. Are you coming up?”
Her lack of clothing had, of course, been an invitation. Eleanor and his son usually resided at the royal Clarence House while in London. But they also, on occasion, made use of Yourstone’s London flat. Yourstone’s wife had been dead five years, so the opportunities this woman presented were irresistible. But he wasn’t going to let her know it was that easy.
“Leave the latch open. If I decide to come up.”
She stopped at the door and turned, a cunning grin on her lips.
“Don’t take too long.”
Yourstone rose from the bed, stepped into his trousers, then donned his shirt. He slipped his arms through the braces and adjusted their silken lengths. Eleanor lay naked atop pearl-colored sheets. It pleased him that he was able to satisfy such a beautiful woman.
“It’s my time,” she said. “I’ve become quite apt at predicting ovulation.”
“Hopefully, what just happened will be sufficient to produce a Yourstone heir.”
He zipped his pants and cuffed his shirtsleeves.
Supposedly, she’d been a virgin when married, but he wondered. A woman of such passion could hardly have learned all she knew from someone so inept as his son. Yourstone had taken many mistresses. They’d come from all stations of life and varied in race and color. Eleanor was every bit their equal, more so in some respects.
She rolled over on her side.
Except for her short blond mane and eyebrows, there was not a hair on her body. Her skin had the look and feel of polished alabaster. No blemish disturbed its sheen. It was said that her mother, Victoria, had once been blessed with the same creamy patina.