Page 11 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

On the drive to Buckingham Palace, I stare out the window, watching London slide past in a blur of red buses and Christmas decorations that seem obscenely cheerful given my current mood.

The last time I received a summons this urgent, it was when my uncles, aunts, and cousins had all been caught out in a scandal that propelled me from twelfth in line to the throne to second.

But I’m fairly sure Callum hasn’t been misbehaving, unless his recent mishap of falling into the Thames during a boat christening ceremony and baptizing half the press corps in the process warrants a royal intervention.

There’s the usual throng of tourists gathered outside Buckingham Palace. Our motorcade procession attracts attention, with tourists turning toward us, their mobile phones raised.

O’Connell doesn’t say anything from his space next to me on the back seat, but his gray eyes remain vigilant, as if one of the pedestrians might suddenly produce a weapon and attack the car.

Or potentially, he’s expecting Queen Victoria to come alive from her massive marble memorial and attempt to smite me with her scepter for being a disappointing descendant.

The car slides through the gates of Buckingham Palace.

I emerge from the car into the courtyard where even the pigeons seem to stand at attention. The palace looms above us, all imposing stone and centuries of expectations pressing down like atmospheric pressure.

Inside, the world immediately changes to hushed voices and the particular silence that comes from carpets thick enough to swallow secrets.

Officer O’Connell follows two paces behind me, his footsteps nearly silent. What does he make of all this gilt-edged grandeur?

If he’s impressed, his face doesn’t show it.

The double doors to the Yellow Drawing Room open, and my anxiety spikes.

The Lord Chamberlain stands near the fireplace in somber conversation with Sir Clive Walsh, the Queen’s Private Secretary.

Rick Cavendish hovers near a side table while a woman I recognize as Lady Caroline Powell from the Foreign Office examines a porcelain figurine with interest. Raymond, my brother’s private secretary, is also here.

In the center of it all, looking remarkably at ease, is my half-brother Callum, also known as the Prince of Wales.

“Ah, Your Royal Highness,” the Lord Chamberlain says, giving a small bow. “Thank you for joining us on such short notice.”

“I came straight from judging gingerbread houses,” I reply. I nod in acknowledgment to everyone assembled. “You’ve rescued me from the very real danger of a sugar stupor.”

Callum grins broadly at me. At least I have one ally in the room.

And whatever this is about, it can’t be too catastrophic if he’s smiling.

“Nicholas.” He steps forward to give me a hug. “Good to see you.”

The Lord Chamberlain, Sir Fergus, clears his throat. “Perhaps we should all be seated.”

We arrange ourselves around the ornate table. Officer O’Connell positions himself by the door.

I hate that I’ve noted exactly where he is.

My security team used to be like those fish that clean sharks’ teeth in the documentary Callum once made me watch, silently performing their function without drawing attention to themselves. I don’t normally spend much time thinking about them.

But I definitely notice Officer O’Connell.

I hate that constantly being under Officer O’Connell’s gaze makes me feel self-conscious in a way I can’t explain.

It’s as if I’m performing on stage with a particularly unimpressed theater critic in the front row, noting every stumble and missed line.

“Your Royal Highness,” Sir Fergus begins, his hands steepled in front of him like he’s praying. “As you know, Her Majesty has been unwell these past weeks.”

“Yes, I spoke with her yesterday,” I say.

“And while Her Majesty is recovering, certain adjustments to the royal calendar have become necessary.”

Lady Powell from the Foreign Office leans forward. “The tour of Australia and New Zealand scheduled for next month is particularly important. With republican sentiment gaining traction in Australia, a strong royal presence is vital to reaffirm ties with the Commonwealth.”

I glance at Callum. “I thought that particular honor belonged to you?”

Callum shifts in his seat. “Oliver and I were supposed to be going. But with Grandmother’s health situation, I’m needed here.”

“The Prince of Wales will be required to step in for several key diplomatic meetings and state functions,” Sir Fergus explains. “Therefore, he must remain in the United Kingdom at this time.”

I begin to see where this is heading. “So you want me to go to Australia instead.”

“And New Zealand,” Lady Powell adds. “A four-week tour, covering major cities and several rural communities.”

“I’m pretty sure sending people to Australia was historically a punishment for stealing bread.” I quirk an eyebrow. “Have I committed some offense of which I’m unaware?”

Callum chuckles, but everyone else’s faces remain impassive. I shoot a glance at Officer O’Connell, and sure enough, he’s part of the unimpressed-by-my-wit majority.

What a surprise.

“This is a significant opportunity, Your Royal Highness,” Lady Powell presses on. “The Australian prime minister has specifically requested a senior royal presence. The public response to your visit could significantly impact relations with one of our most important allies.”

“And there’s another factor,” Raymond says hesitantly, glancing at Callum. “The coming months may involve…personal announcements from the Prince of Wales and the prince consort that will require their presence here.”

Ah. The surrogacy news. I understand now.

“So I shall be sent to the antipodes while my brother handles a media firestorm over how the family tree is expanding?”

“There are concerns about how certain segments of the public might respond to the surrogacy news,” Sir Fergus says delicately. “The palace feels that having the Prince of Wales in England to manage the situation would be prudent.”

“Well, I can’t say I’m entirely devastated about escaping the British winter for Australian beaches,” I say. “Although I was looking forward to spending Christmas at Sandringham and seeing what Oliver’s choice of Christmas jumper will be this year.”

“You would depart on December fifteenth and return January tenth,” Lady Powell supplies.

I glance over at Callum. He seems genuinely grateful, which softens my instinct to be difficult just so I can pretend I actually have some choice in the matter.

“The security arrangements will need to be adjusted,” Rick Cavendish interjects, speaking for the first time. “We’ll need to coordinate with local authorities and conduct advance reconnaissance.”

My security detail. Of course my protection team will come with me Down Under. Seven protection officers, all with Christmas plans utterly demolished because of this royal reshuffling. The thought sits uncomfortably in my stomach like a lump of poorly digested gingerbread.

I know Officer Blake had tickets for a West End show with her girlfriend. Officer Davis mentioned something about his parents visiting from Bristol.

I can’t help glancing at O’Connell now, who remains as expressive as a brick wall.

What am I pulling my newest shadow away from?

Does the stern Irishman have someone waiting for him at home?

Perhaps a wife who matches his stoicism, both of them communicating in a series of disapproving grunts across the dinner table.

Or maybe he has children, a whole brood of miniature O’Connell’s with permanent frowns, who spend Christmas morning unwrapping practical gifts like pocket-sized threat assessment manuals and tactical black turtlenecks.

What does the man do when he’s not busy silently judging me? It’s almost impossible to imagine him stringing up fairy lights or singing carols.

More likely, he stares intensely at his Christmas tree until it decorates itself out of sheer intimidation.

The Lord Chamberlain shuffles some papers. “The palace communications office will release an official statement tomorrow morning.”

“Well then,” I say, standing and buttoning my jacket, “I suppose I’d better brush up on my Australian slang and practice my koala-cuddling technique.”

“The full itinerary and briefing documents will be delivered to Kensington Palace this evening,” Raymond says.

“I appreciate you stepping in,” Callum says quietly in the shuffle as everyone also stands. “I know it’s not ideal timing.”

I flash him a grin. “I suppose I shall endure four weeks of sunshine and adoring crowds as my Christmas gift to you. Though I expect something spectacular in return.”

Callum’s face softens. “Thank you, Nicholas. Seriously.”

I wave away his gratitude. “Just make sure Grandmother actually rests. And try not to break the internet when you and Oliver announce your news.”

“We’ll try,” Callum replies.

As we exit the room, Officer O’Connell falls into step beside me, his expression unreadable.

“Looking forward to Australia, Officer O’Connell?” I can’t help but ask. “Although that Irish skin of yours is probably not the best match for the Australian sun, is it?”

“I’m sure I’ll survive,” he replies flatly.

“That’s the spirit,” I say cheerfully. “After all, if the wildlife doesn’t kill us, we’ll only have the intense proximity to each other to worry about.”

For a fleeting second, something like alarm passes across his stoic features, and I feel a small, petty thrill at having cracked that impenetrable facade.

The satisfaction evaporates as quickly as it came, replaced by that familiar tightness in my chest.

I’ve got to prepare for an upcoming tour of the antipodes. Four weeks representing the Crown, trying to convince the Australian and New Zealand public that they still want us while Grandmother recovers and Callum prepares for fatherhood.

I can’t let the Queen or my country down.