Page 22 of The Unlikely Spare
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?”
