Page 12 of The Unlikely Spare

His scowl had only deepened when he’d heard about my initial encounter with Prince Nicholas, and he’d had some terse words to Officer Tyrone Davis, who’d been on duty at the time. Davis had responded with an unnecessarily detailed account of the prince’s “exceptional balance during the incident,” which only made Cavendish’s scowl deeper.

It’s not exactly the beginning I needed to incorporate myself inconspicuously into the team.

My eyes wander around the room now. Officer Nia Blake is standing a few paces back from Cavendish. She’s got street smarts written all over her, and there seems to be an undercurrent of steel in her that reminds me of the best detectives I’ve worked with.

Officer Jaz Singh leans casually against the bookcase, seemingly relaxed but positioned with perfect sightlines to both exits. I know from his profile that he’s fluent in multiple languages, and when he offered me coffee this morning, he asked what neighborhood in Belfast I was from, as if cataloging accents comes as natural as breathing.

Officer MacLeod stands by the window. She’s got that no-nonsense Highland pragmatism about her, greeting me this morning with the comment, “Hope you packed sensible shoes for tramping about in mud.”

Meanwhile, Officer Peter Malcolm clutches his tablet tightly, scrolling through what I’m guessing is a meticulously annotated security protocol that accounts for every possible scenario shortof alien invasion. When I’d attempted to strike up a conversation at breakfast, he’d launched into a fifteen-minute monologue about the statistical probability of explosive devices concealed in ceremonial swords during state functions, complete with percentages calculated to two decimal places.

The youngest of the team, Davis, hovers near the edge of the briefing like an eager puppy not sure if he’s allowed on the furniture. The lad practically vibrates with energy, his hand constantly checking his earpiece like he’s afraid he’ll miss the call to action.

If there’s a traitor among Nicholas’s security team, they’re definitely not wearing a convenient name badge announcing their terrorist sympathies.

Nevertheless, I make mental notes on each protection officer to add to my file tonight. Dominant hand. Micro-expressions that occur when certain topics arise. Who defers to whom in conversation. Coffee preferences that might indicate late nights or early mornings elsewhere. The quality of their shoes versus their salary grade.

You never know which small detail might turn out to be important.

“Right, let’s discuss deployment.” Cavendish stares at the map’s contours like he’s planning a military campaign rather than babysitting aristocrats with shotguns. “We’ll need coverage at all key positions along the shooting line.”

“I’ve color-coded the estate into risk quadrants,” Officer Malcolm announces, tapping his tablet. “Red zones indicate areas with poor visibility, yellow for potential public access points, and green for secure zones with optimal sightlines.”

Lord What’s-His-Name nods approvingly. “Capital preparation. My grandfather always said, ‘proper planning prevents pheasant pandemonium.’” He chuckles at his own wit.

None of the protection team cracks a smile. It makes me like them more.

“Will His Royal Highness be carrying today?” Blake asks.

“The prince has informed me he does not intend to shoot,” Cavendish replies. “But obviously that doesn’t change the risks from the other members of the hunting party. Officer O’Connell, you’ll shadow His Royal Highness directly. It would be good if you didn’t manhandle him again.”

So it appears yesterday’s incident is not going to be forgotten. In fact, I can tell from the glances shooting between team members that it’s already been discussed behind my back.

Shit.

I’m used to being the reliable one in a team, not the liability.

Joining the police force had given me structure in my life at a time when I desperately needed it, when I was an eighteen-year-old eejit with no parents and a younger brother who needed me to have my shit together. And I’d been headhunted to Scotland Yard because I was good at my job. In both forces, my colleagues had trusted me to have their backs.

“The guns will be transported separately and distributed at the shooting positions,” Officer Singh adds.

All this palaver for blasting birds out of the sky. The aristocracy is really a peculiar breed, spending small fortunes all to get inferior meat to what they could buy frozen at Tesco.

An hour later, we’re standing in a field, the horizon broken only by ancient oaks.

Prince Nicholas stands apart from the main group. While his relatives are decked out in tweed jackets and plus fours, he’s opted for a sleek charcoal field jacket and dark corduroy trousers.

The Prince is even better-looking in person than he is in photos. He’s beautiful in a careless way, his ink-black hair curling against his forehead, framing a face that belongs oncurrency. And his eyes… Christ, they’re something else. Blue isn’t the right word. They’re the color of the winter ocean, cold and impossibly deep, rimmed with thick dark lashes.

Even if I were straight, which I definitely am not, I think I would still notice how incredibly good-looking he is.

It’s a pity the personality doesn’t match the packaging.

Because my brief interaction with Prince Nicholas yesterday reinforced exactly what I expected. Entitled and arrogant, someone who’s spent his entire life being told he’s special simply for existing.

I’d barely managed the required “Your Royal Highness” without it sticking in my throat, that Belfast stubborn streak making me want to call him “mate,” just to watch him flinch.

Deference doesn’t come naturally when you were raised to view the Crown as occupiers rather than overlords.