Page 10 of The Unlikely Spare

I’ve got a new protection officer? How did I not know this?

My security detail is something I’ve chafed against for the last few years.

Before my rapid accession in the succession line, I received no security protection unless I was attending royal events. But all that changed when I became second in line to the throne.

I currently have a team of six protection officers who provide twenty-four-seven armed security. It’s like I’m living inside a glass case labeledBreak Only In Case Of Constitutional Emergency.

Now it appears I can’t try to prevent a hundred pounds of decorative steel from falling without a protection officer intervening.

Around us, footmen are scrambling to collect parts of the suit of armor, casting terrified glances toward the doorway as if expecting the Dowager Duchess to materialize and demand explanations.

But my new protection officer, Eoin O’Connell, and I remain in a standoff in the middle of it all, staring at each other.

Or glaring might be the better word.

Because those gray eyes appear cold and assessing as they rake up and down.

“No one informed me of any security changes,” I say.

Impatience flickers in his eyes. “The reassignment was authorized by RaSP following a recent security assessment. I believe your principal protection officer was notified.”

“Yet I somehow wasn’t,” I say, matching him by scanning him up and down.

His dark suit is expertly tailored to disguise what I suspect is a service weapon beneath his left shoulder, the slight bulk of a shoulder holster barely visible. But I don’t want to focus on the way his jacket strains slightly across his broad shoulders, and how his collar frames a throat that—Christ, Nicholas, focus. I drag my eyes back to his face, which is somehow worse because now I’m noticing the cleft in his chin.

“And your first duty in your assignment is to tackle me in my ancestral home?” I try to regain control of the situation.

Annoyance flashes across his face before it’s swiftly contained. “My apologies, sir. I was reacting to a potential threat.”

“The suit of armor was empty. And here I was, under the impression my security detail should be able to distinguish between medieval décor and actual danger. Silly me.”

“The suit of armor was about to fall on you, sir,” he corrects, his accent sharpening slightly. “Which would have been considerably less harmless.”

I’m not used to being contradicted, especially not by staff who’ve just treated me like a sack of royal potatoes.

“I had it under control,” I inform him.

“Did you now?” One eyebrow lifts slightly. “Forgive me for misreading the situation, sir.”

The way he says “sir” should come with subtitles:I am calling you “sir” because protocol demands it, not because I believe you deserve the title.

“Next time, perhaps you might want to consider asking if I need rescuing before launching yourself at me?”

A muscle tics in his jaw. “I’ll make sure to request written permission next time Your Royal Highness is about to be crushed.”

I stare at him, momentarily speechless. Did my new security detail just sass me?

It’s not something I’ve encountered before. Even though I was only twelfth in line to the throne growing up, I’ve always been a prince. Deference is the standard treatment I receive.

Looking at his stony face, it appears this man definitely isn’t intimidated by my title or rank.

And there’s something rather unsettling about that.

Time for a new approach.

Charm.

I’ve always prided myself on being able to charm anyone, from stone-faced diplomats to the Queen’s most severe ladies-in-waiting. This hulking Irishman clearly needs a dose of the Prince Nicholas charm offensive. After all, if I can coax a grin from the Swedish ambassador during the great canapé disaster of 2023, surely I can crack this man’s armor.