Page 6 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

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 team was 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.

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 short of 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 on currency.

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.

The prince’s Aunt Cordelia, a woman who looks like she’s permanently smelling something unpleasant, sidles up to him. “Not shooting today, Nicholas? Your father never missed a hunt.”

His shoulders tense slightly.

“I prefer to enjoy nature without perforating it, Aunt Cordelia,” he replies with a smile. “Besides, someone needs to keep count of how many birds Uncle Rupert claims versus how many he actually hits.”

Cordelia is distracted from her conversation with Nicholas by the head gamekeeper calling attention to everyone to start the hunt.

The whole thing unfolds with the rigid precision you’d expect from people who’ve been shooting birds for centuries. Beaters line up at the woodland edge like soldiers, getting ready to drive the pheasants toward their doom.

The toffs are assigned their pegs—a fancy word for where they stand to shoot—arranged in an arc across the field where the birds will fly.

Because Nicholas isn’t shooting, he’s been given the task of handling the retrieving dogs, who are stationed off to the side of the shooting line.

I watch as Nicholas moves among the retrievers, then crouches to their level. A chocolate Labrador bounds over to him.

“Hello, you magnificent beast,” he murmurs, scratching behind her ears. The dog practically melts against him. “Ready for some work today?”

The dog responds with a soft whine.

Nicholas looks up and catches me watching him, those icy eyes narrowing.

I’m distracted from his stare by the sound of a whistle blast. It’s apparently the sign for the beaters to begin walking forward to flush the birds.

It’s like watching some ancient tribal ritual. The beaters’ sticks tap rhythmically against the bushes, causing pheasants to burst upward in panicked explosions against the pale November sky.

The first shot tears through the stillness and my muscles instinctively tense. I have to stop myself from dropping into a defensive crouch and reaching for my weapon.

My jaw clenches as more shots crack across the estate, each one setting my teeth on edge.

Some birds drop like stones. Others fight it, wings working frantically even as gravity wins, their bodies hitting the ground with soft thuds.

I watch a wounded bird drag itself through the undergrowth, leaving a trail of feathers that catch on the frozen grass.

“You don’t approve, O’Connell.” Nicholas’s voice carries over the gunfire.

I flick a quick glance at him. “Sorry, Your Royal Highness?”