Page 14 of The Unlikely Heir

The other thing that surprised me was how my body reacted to shaking Callum’s hand. A fission of energy shot up my arm, and it felt like every cell in my body had tingled. It was as if my body wanted to ensure I knew I was touching an attractive man. But I’m not about to share that titbit with Toby now.

“What’s he like?” Toby asks.

I struggle to put my thoughts into words as I stand, gathering my folder of notes. I only met Callum for a few minutes. But he definitely left a lasting impression.

“Different,” I say finally.

Toby raises an eyebrow. “In what way?”

“Different from anything the monarchy has had before. And the Firm wants business as usual.”

Toby opens the door for me, and I lead the way out.

“Do they think the British public isn’t going to twig that they’ve subbed out a cardigan-wearing fifty-year-old quintessential British toff for a twenty-five-year-old Californian? That no one will blink an eye that instead of the usual inbred pompous nobles, the royal assembly line has suddenly started churning out Ken dolls?” Toby asks as he falls into step beside me.

“I think they’re hoping the introduction of Prince Callum will distract from the misdeeds of everyone else,” I say.

I think of Callum’s joke about circus acts, but it actually cuts close to the truth. The royal family are performers. The taxpayer funds them, so we think that entitles us to a front-row seat in the soap opera of their personal lives.

The tabloids rely on the royal family as clickbait. There’s been some pushback over the years when newspapers have been found to completely fabricate stories just to generate sales.

Although, currently, they needn’t invent stories. There are enough salacious details of the royal family’s misdeeds to fill countless newspapers.

The disgraced royals have been released on bail and sent to undisclosed locations around the country, and journalists are currently engaged in the biggest game of cat and mouse the country has ever seen, trying to track down their locations and get photos of the princes and princesses doing their own dishes and taking out the rubbish.

Which I have no doubt they are doing. The queen assured me in our weekly meeting that all her family members caught up in the scandal will be living simple, austere lives as they await their day in court.

“The palace must be chomping at the bit to get Callum in front of the public and change the narrative,” Toby says.

“There’s apparently going to be a press conference introducing him today,” I reply as we step outside, where a car motorcade awaits us.

It seems ridiculous to be driven from Downing Street to Westminster, a distance of just over a thousand feet, but all our documents need to go by car for security reasons, and it’s not worth splitting my security detail.

Instead, Toby and I slot into the back of a black Jaguar.

I quickly scan the briefing notes for today’s session as the car glides around the corner and into the entrance of the Houses of Parliament.

As we pull up, a swarm of journalists and photographers wait to capture my arrival.

The car door opens, and Toby and I step out, the brisk London air greeting me. Flashbulbs flicker as I make my way up the steps, my security detail close behind. With a friendly nod to the guards, we enter the building and stride towards the chamber.

“See you later,” I say to Toby when we enter the House of Commons. He heads towards the backbenches because, unusually for the chief of staff, Toby is also an elected MP. It isn’t completely unprecedented, though, and when it came time to choose my right-hand man, I couldn’t imagine having anyone but my most loyal friend by my side.

I head towards the front benches, getting my usual blast of adrenaline from being inside the electric atmosphere of Parliament, where the vaulted ceilings echo with whispers as MPs settle onto the green leather benches.

As the Speaker of the House calls the session to order, a hush falls over the chamber.

The parliamentary session begins with prayers and oral questions, but then at noon, because it’s Wednesday, it’s Prime Minister’s Questions.

“We now come to Prime Minister’s Questions,” the speaker announces.

Harry Matheson stands. “Question one, Prime Minister.”

I’m on my feet to complete my usual introduction to Prime Minister’s Questions. The peculiar ritual that involves me listing my official engagements for the day before answering questions.

“Mr. Speaker, this morning I had meetings with ministerial colleagues and others in addition to my duties in this house. I shall have further such meetings later today.”

“Opposition leader, Harry Matheson.” The Speaker of the House calls for Harry.