Page 167 of The Unlikely Spare

“You had the state dinner. Duty calls.” His thumb traces my jaw. “Besides, some things need to be done alone.”

The opening of the door has us stepping apart, Eoin automatically checking his weapon while I smooth my jacket.

Just two men reuniting, nothing to see here.

Except it’s so much more than that.

After a disciplinary hearing, Eoin had been officially dismissed from Scotland Yard despite me using every ounce of royal influence I’d never wanted to wield. The press had broken the story of my relationship with my protection officer, so there was no way Eoin could continue to work for the Metropolitan Police.

But then, a week after Eoin’s dismissal, we’d had an unexpected visitor arrive at the palace for an off-the-record meeting. It was Henry Stewart, the head of MI6. And it transpired that he had a proposition for us.

“I’ve been reading through the reports of what happened in New Zealand, and it looks like you two worked well together,” he’d said. “O’Connell has the undercover training and experience. Your Royal Highness has access to circles we could never penetrate.”

And just like that, we became MI6’s most unlikely intelligence assets.

The spare heir and the former detective, using my royal duties as cover for intelligence gathering among the elite.

Turns out, people will confess to extraordinary crimes over champagne if they think you’re too posh to understand the implications.

Right now, it isn’t any of our potential leads at the door, but rather Singh, his expression world-weary.

It is fair to say that I probably rank high among the more challenging principals that RaSP has to protect.

“Just checking the threat level in here hasn’t exceeded acceptable parameters.” Singh scans the room.

“Thank you, Singh, but we’ve got it in hand,” Eoin replies.

“How reassuring. I’ll notify the crisis management team to remain on standby,” he says drily.

“Just update Cavendish,” I suggest innocently. “Assuming he’s not busy demonstrating defensive positions again. Those training exercises I walked in on you two practicing in Windsor Castle did seem quite absorbing.”

Singh’s cheeks flush. “That was just standard training procedures, sir. Now, if you’ve finished up here, shall we return to the main hall?”

“Sure, let’s go,” I say cheerfully.

I leave the meeting room first, Singh following me like the good protection officer he is. When I return to the museum hall, I spot Lord Pemberton himself holding court near the bar, his face achieving that particular shade of puce that only comes from excessive port consumption.

“Your Royal Highness!” he booms, waving me over. “Just telling Ashworth here about my new shipping ventures. Expanding into Southeast Asia, you know. Lots of opportunity there.”

“How fascinating,” I say, accepting the drink he presses into my hand. “Do tell me more.”

Twenty minutes later, I’ve got enough half-drunk admissions to warrant a full investigation. Across the room, Eoin is innocently chatting with other guests, but I catch him watching, that little satisfied smile playing at his lips.

This is our peculiar brand of public service now. I play the harmless spare, all charm and champagne, while Eoin works the shadows. Together, we’ve exposed trafficking rings hidden in charity organizations, money laundering through art auctions, and a particularly nasty weapons deal masquerading as agricultural exports.

It’s dangerous. It’s exhilarating.

It’s also an acknowledgment that the same element of recklessness that my father had, that drove him to ruin, pulses through me too. But where my father let it consume him, drowning in scandal and excess until it killed him, I’ve found a different outlet. The thrill-seeking remains, but now it serves something greater than my own gratification.

As Eoin once said to me, we figure out who we are one choice at a time.

Working for MI6 has also given me something I never expected—purpose. Real, tangible purpose that uses every skill I’ve developed over years of reading people, navigating complex social situations, and weaponizing the very privileges that once felt like golden shackles.

And I get to do it alongside the man I love.

The evening winds down eventually. I make my excuses, cite an early morning engagement, and head for the exit. Eoin’s already there, holding my coat.

We maintain our professional charade until we’re in the back of the car, privacy screen up, London sliding past the windows in streams of light.