Page 66 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

Nicholas

One Year Later

The Natural History Museum’s Hintze Hall soars above us like a cathedral, the whale skeleton presiding over London’s elite with extreme indifference.

It’s not quite the most glamorous museum venue available in London, but I’m not high on the British Museum’s Christmas card list right now.

Especially after recently suggesting that perhaps “we’re keeping it safe for you” stops being convincing after two hundred years, and they could pioneer a new trend called reverse archaeology, where things mysteriously appear back in the countries they came from.

The Royal Foundation’s gala is in full swing, and I’m watching ambassadors and CEOs orbit each other like expensively dressed planets when Callum appears at my elbow looking distinctly frazzled.

“Are you all right?” I ask. “You look rather post-apocalyptic.”

“Georgia’s teething,” he replies as if this explains everything. Which, after six months of watching my brother transform from a normal, mostly competent heir into someone who discusses infant bowel movements at state dinners, it probably does.

“Again?” I ask. “Didn’t she just finish teething last month?”

“Apparently, they keep getting new teeth,” Oliver says, joining us with the glazed expression of a man who’s been averaging three hours of sleep per night. “Nobody warns you about that. The books all make it sound like teething happens once and then you’re done. Lies. All lies.”

Callum pulls out his phone, immediately swiping to photos. “Look at her this morning though. She grabbed Oliver’s tie during breakfast and?—”

“Refused to let go through an entire video conference with the Canadian prime minister,” Oliver finishes. “He was very understanding.”

They’re both exhausted, both complaining, and both utterly besotted. It’s sickeningly adorable.

Speaking of things that reduce grown men to cooing idiots, I spot Eoin across the museum hall in a perfectly tailored tuxedo.

He’s moving through the crowd with that particular purposefulness that comes from being hyperaware of every exit, every potential threat, every person who might be more than they seem.

The formal tuxedo highlights his broad shoulders, his auburn hair gleaming under the museum lights like burnished copper.

He catches my eye and changes direction, cutting through a cluster of diplomats like they’re not even there.

“Your Royal Highnesses,” he greets formally when he reaches us, then ruins it with a grin. “Christ, Callum, you look like death warmed over.”

“Teething,” Callum and Oliver say in unison.

“Again?” Eoin winces sympathetically. “Poor Georgia. Poor you.”

“Want to see the damage?” Callum’s already pulling up more photos. “This is her with Sophie the Giraffe?—”

And just like that, my boyfriend—partner, lover, co-conspirator in Grand Theft Auto, whatever we’re calling it this week—melts into a puddle of Irish goo. His entire face softens as he coos over pictures of my six-month-old niece drooling on rubber toys.

“Look at those cheeks.” He swipes through photos with the dedication of a man studying crime scene evidence. “Has she started crawling yet?”

“Nearly,” Oliver says. “She’s figured out how to go backward, which is definitely worse than not moving at all.”

“Yesterday she reversed herself under the sofa,” Callum adds.

I can’t help smiling as I watch Eoin absorb every detail about Georgia’s latest developmental milestones. The man who once infiltrated arms dealers in Belfast turns into complete mush around my niece. She had him wrapped around her chubby little fingers before she could even properly grab things.

We were at Sandringham for Christmas last week, and Eoin offered to get up with her in the morning so Oliver and Callum could have a lie-in.

When I stumbled out of bed, I discovered him in the small drawing room having a full conversation with her about the merits of different surveillance techniques while she drooled on his shoulder.

After Eoin has cooed over approximately seventeen photos of Georgia attempting to eat her own foot, he looks up at me and his expression shifts.

The shift is subtle enough that most would miss it, but I’ve become something of an expert in reading the topography of his face.

Now there’s that particular sharpness that means work, not pleasure.

“Excuse me,” I say smoothly. “I need to steal Eoin for a moment. Security briefing.”

Callum and Oliver exchange knowing looks.

“Security briefing,” Oliver repeats dryly. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“Better than ‘comprehensive threat assessment,’” Callum adds. “Remember that one? You disappeared for three hours at the Order of the Garter ceremony.”

“The threat was very thoroughly assessed,” I reply with dignity, already moving away. “Excuse us.”

Eoin follows me through the crowd, maintaining polite distance until we reach one of the museum’s private meeting rooms. I check it’s empty, then pull him inside.

To anyone watching, what happens next would look like a passionate reunion, with Eoin pressing me against the door, his body close enough that I can feel his heartbeat through the expensive fabric of his tux.

His lips brush my ear, and I suppress a shiver that has nothing to do with the intelligence he’s about to share.

“Lord Pemberton,” he murmurs, voice low and professional despite our position. “Three meetings with our friend from Hong Kong in the last week. Transfers matching our pattern.”

I turn my head slightly, my lips grazing his jaw as I respond. “The shipping contracts?”

“Being revised as we speak. Subdivided into smaller companies, harder to trace.”

To emphasize the illusion, I let my hands slide inside his jacket, feeling the concealed weapon at his hip, the wire running along his ribs. His breath hitches—method acting or genuine response, I’m not quite sure.

“Timeline?” I ask.

“Two weeks, maybe three. The Chinese are getting impatient.”

I pull back enough to meet his eyes. “Then we’d better work fast.”

His gaze holds mine, and for a moment, the professional facade cracks. His hand comes up to frame my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone.

“Missed you this week,” he admits quietly.

“Missed you too.” I lean into his touch. “How was Belfast?”

A shadow crosses his features. “Fine. Visited my parents’ graves. It would have been Da’s birthday.”

In the year since New Zealand, Eoin’s continued to keep contact with his extended family, who seem to have taken his relationship with me largely in their stride. But Malachy’s absence remains a wound that won’t quite heal.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come with you,” I say.

“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.