Page 11 of The Unlikely Spare

“Well, Officer O’Connell, since we’ll be spending so much time together, perhaps we should get better acquainted.” I deliberately relax my stance and lift my chin, arching an eyebrow. “Tell me, what is your preferred topic of conversation? The weather? Your favorite flavor of protein shake? The optimal velocity for tackling innocent princes?”

Officer O’Connell gives me a cool look. “I prefer to focus on the job, sir.”

“The job of keeping me out of trouble? I hope you’ve been practicing your cardio.” I give him my most winning smile. “It’s practically an Olympic sport at this point.”

His face remains impassive. “My job is to keep you alive, sir, yes.”

“Between you and me, the real danger isn’t assassins. It’s death by small talk at charity luncheons. I once spent three hours discussing whether miniature horses know they’re miniature with the Duchess of Marlborough. I still have nightmares where tiny horses ask me existential questions.”

Still nothing. Not a single flicker.

“You know…” I step closer, lowering my voice conspiratorially. “Some people have been known to laugh at my jokes.”

“I’m not most people.” His gray eyes meet mine, utterly unmoved. “And this isn’t a cocktail party.”

“No, the cocktail party is about thirty feet that way,” I say, pointing. “Where my Uncle Bernard is no doubt regaling Lady Fortescue with the detailed history of every hunting trophy on the wall. By now, he’s probably reached the thrilling saga of the stuffed fox from 1987, the one he claims winked at him before he shot it.”

There’s not even a twitch of amusement on any part of this man’s face. Which is definitely not something I’m used to encountering.

This is like performing stand-up for a particularly judgmental statue.

Before I can attempt again, a voice slices through the corridor. “Nicholas, darling, you’re holding up the entire evening.”

The Duchess of Hereford, also known as my Aunt Cordelia, appears at the end of the hall, resplendent in pink silk and dripping in diamonds. Her gaze slides coolly over O’Connell before dismissing him entirely. “Everyone is waiting, and you know how Aunt Agatha gets when dinner is delayed.”

Aunt Agatha once threatened to have a footman beheaded for serving lukewarm soup. She was joking.

Probably.

“Coming,” I say to her before I turn back to my new protection officer.

“Well, it was certainly memorable to meet you, Officer O’Connell. I think we’re going to get along splendidly,” I say with a smile.

His expression doesn’t change, but something dangerous flickers in those dark depths. “I’m not here to get along with you, sir. I’m here to keep you alive.”

Well, that’s refreshingly honest. Most people pretend to like me for at least the first week. Though I suppose “keeping me alive” is a form of caring, in its own deeply impersonal, contractually obligated way.

Still, as I follow the duchess to dinner, I can’t help but wonder what it would be like if someone wanted to keep me around for reasons other than duty, succession, or a paycheck.

Will I ever actually know the answer to that question?

Chapter Four

Eoin

I’ve faced down gangsters in East London warehouses while carrying only a wire and my wits, infiltrated drug rings where one wrong word meant a shallow grave, and once had to defuse a hostage situation armed with nothing but a stapler and exceptional timing.

But standing in this paneled study while an aristocrat describes the proper etiquette for murdering birds might be the most surreal moment of my fucking career.

“The beaters shall move through the eastern copse first,” explains a Lord whose name I’ve already forgotten because it contained at least six syllables and two hyphens. “Weather conditions are absolutely perfect. Should be a splendid day.”

I’m sure the pheasants will be comforted that on their last day on earth, the sun is shining.

I flick a glance at Rick Cavendish, who is the leader of the team assigned to protect the prince. He’s standing at the head of the table, listening to Lord What’s-His-Name, his eyes on the map of the estate in front of him.

Cavendish and I didn’t have the best start to our professional relationship when we met last night. I discovered that the reason he hadn’t told Prince Nicholas about my addition to the teamwas that he’d spent half of yesterday on the phone challenging my appointment.

Obviously, he had no idea that it had been authorized at the highest level. And he certainly has no idea that I’m here to investigate his team, including him. As far as Cavendish knows, I’m just another protection officer foisted on him by bureaucrats who don’t understand field operations.