A palace. A freaking palace.
Holyrood, which was indeed a freaking palace at the end of the Royal Mile, seemed to serve as more tourist trap than actual functioning home of an aristocrat, but apparently it was also used for meetings when lowly commoners showed up claiming to be secret heirs to dukedoms. Portia wondered if this weren’t some form of intimidation; Thabiso had told her he usually met with Scottish peerage at the Royal Scots Club and had only been to Holyrood for events and parties. Or maybe they were going to be dragged into a secret torture chamber on the premises. Good thing she’d packed her bear spray.
After being mistaken for tourists and twice told they had to pay to enter, they’d eventually been led to the private wing of the palace, reserved for the usage of the duke and the royal family when they visited Scotland.
“Ms. Hobbs? Mr. McKenzie? Please, follow me,” the butler who met them at the entrance to the private wing said.
Portia had been to homes with household staff—nannies, cleaning women, and serving staff—but seeing a real-life Jeeves reminded her that there was wealth and there was aristocracy. Even a poor duke or earl was accustomed to a certain lifestyle, and that lifestyle included butlers who sneered at guests without the decency to have titles in front of their names, or absurd wealth to make up for the lack of it.
Having worked in museums, Portia felt appropriately awed as they passed through the halls. Nearly every item, from artwork, to furniture, to molding, could have been put on display in the main touristic area.
Her phone vibrated in her purse and she was certain it was Nya or Ledi responding to the OMG I’m going to ruin everything and also if you don’t hear from me in an hour have Thabiso send the SWAT team freak-out messages she’d sent to their group that morning, Scotland time. She let the vibrations comfort her. She wasn’t alone. She was with Tavish. She had her friends. She could do this.
They could do this.
They entered a lavish sitting room where a man and two women sat in uncomfortable-looking chairs before a fireplace. The walls were covered in rich, floral-patterned wallpaper and large oil paintings of white dudes at various stages of life and facial hair manscaping trends.
The man, who was sitting in the most ornate chair, turned his head in their direction, and that was when Portia realized that the largest, and newest, portrait, which dominated the space above the fireplace, was him.
The two women had been in deep conversation, but then they both stood. The younger woman gave a friendly smile and adjusted the lacey collar of her dress, which looked like Duchess of York cosplay gone wrong. The slightly older woman stepped forward, a neutral expression on her face and delicate white gloves on her hands, indicating that she was above general drudgery.
“Thank you so very much for coming. We spoke on the phone. I’m Francis Baker, secretary to His Grace, David Dudgeon, the Duke of Edinburgh,” she said, gesturing to the man before the fireplace. He was an average-looking dude in an ugly but expensive suit, and he stared at Portia and Tavish like they were a strange substance spilled on the last open seat in a crowded subway car. He didn’t bother to stand, and looked away dismissively before Ms. Baker was even done with the introduction.
Portia had planned to be gracious, inoffensive, bland. To simply usher Tav through the meeting. But if that was how David wanted to play it, she could do genteel bitchiness, too.
“Hello, I’m Portia Hobbs, assistant to His Actual Grace, Tavish McKenzie, the Duke of Edinburgh,” Portia responded, gesturing toward Tav. David curled his lip in response.
“I’m Leslie, David’s sister,” the other woman said. She curtsied as well, and then glanced back and forth between Tavish and David. Little worry lines creased the space between her dark brows, though she tried to smile.
“Pleased to meet you,” Tavish said, walking over to the seat. He reached out to shake David’s hand and the man simply regarded him for a moment, then grabbed Tav’s hand and began executing some strange maneuver that didn’t resemble a handshake at all. If he had tried it on a weaker man, perhaps he would have taken him off guard and shaken him like a rag doll. Instead, Tavish stood unmoved as David gritted his teeth and tugged harder.
“You okay, mate?” Tavish asked, laughter in his voice.
“I’m not your mate,” David said, releasing his grip and wiping his hand on the leg of his pants as he sank back down into his seat.
“That’s right. You’re his cousin,” Portia said. “Distant cousin.”
“Supposedly,” David muttered.
“Shall we be seated?” Ms. Baker asked so politely that of course it wasn’t a request but a demand.
Portia and Tavish took their seats, the sound of the crackling fireplace exacerbating the tension in the air.
“Before we begin,” David said, and then looked at Ms. Baker. She reluctantly pulled out a plastic case and opened it to reveal a small glass tube and some cotton swabs.
“No point in beating around the bush,” David said. “It’s a paternity test. If you’d be so kind as to swab your mouth.”
Tav stiffened and Portia laid her hand on his knee.
“Mr. McKenzie, excuse me, His Grace, would be happy to take the test.” Tav’s knee flexed beneath her hand and she squeezed a bit. “I’m assuming you took one as well? After all, your claim to the title is much more tenuous.”
Portia took great satisfaction at the way David’s mouth opened and shut silently for a few seconds before slamming into a thin blanched line.
“My family’s bloodline is pure and undiluted,” he said after gathering his composure, barely able to look at Portia. “I didn’t have anything to prove.”
“Given the noted high rate of adultery and other unsavory behavior in the aristocratic ranks, a DNA test should have been carried out if that’s so important to you, but we’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.” Portia took the cotton swab from Francis and turned to Tavish. “Open your mouth please.”
Tavish’s brow furrowed. “I’m no—”
“Your Grace, do you really not want to do this? It’s the fastest way to make sure that certain people know their place—and yours. But you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
He gave a reluctant nod and took the swab, swiping quickly in his mouth and then dropping it into Francis’s gloved, outstretched hand.
Portia glanced at Tavish, who glared at the floor. David was trying to be insulting, but only because he was already fighting a losing battle.
Portia whipped her head in the direction of their hosts. “Now, we were invited for what I assumed would be tea and a discussion of the new and exciting discovery of Mr. McKenzie’s lineage. Yet we haven’t even been offered refreshment. Is this some modern form of hospitality or is Mr. Dudgeon always so rude to guests?”
Leslie gasped and David frowned, but Ms. Baker jumped up from her seat.
“I’ll see to it,” she said, hurrying away with her sample.
Portia hoped having an American remind them of the rules of respectability would rightfully shame them.
“Well, we’re not in the habit of offering refreshment to possible charlatans,” David said, dashing Portia’s hopes for civility.
“Mr. McKenzie?” Leslie cut in. “You make weaponry?”
“I do. Bodotria Armory makes some of the finest swords in modern Scotland.”
“Replicas, I suppose,” David said.
“No, they’re very real,” Tavish said.
“And very sharp,” Portia added. She felt something on her knee and realized Tavish was now giving her the same message she had given him earlier.
Easy there.
She doubted he’d felt the same shocking heat spread through his body at her touch, though.
“Who exactly are you again, Ms. Hobbs?” David was looking at her with that same skeptical look people often gave her when she exerted her knowledge, or ability to speak properly, in their presence. The problem was, she didn’t exactly know the answer to the question anymore. Apprentice? Consultant? Squire?
Woman blushing wildly and inappropriately at her employer’s touch?
The door opened and the tinkling of a cart being wheeled in echoed through the room.
The liveried server placed out the saucers and teacups and teaspoons, the tray of sandwiches, the silver teakettle. Mundane objects that suddenly felt like a gauntlet.
The day before, Tav had done nearly everything wrong—poured milk into his cup before adding the tea, clanged his spoon around the cup like he was a toastmaster, speared the petite sandwiches with a fork. Portia didn’t care, but she didn’t want to give David anything to feel smug about.
Leslie took on the role of hostess, pouring the tea into the delicate china cups, passing the sugar.
“It’s Darjeeling,” she said. “A present from the Queen herself.”
Tav made a polite sound. “Ah, so that means technically I paid for it. With my taxes. Grand.”
Portia nudged him with her knee and he shot her a devious look. She was really regretting her suit suggestion because it fit him all too well. He was sexy enough sweaty and covered in shaved metal, but in a finely tailored suit and poking fun at annoying aristocrats?
Tavish then added a dollop of milk to his tea and stirred delicately, moving his spoon up and down in a straight line—the lesson that stirring in circles was just not done had taken.
He did fine, though there was a stiffness to his movements. She could almost hear him repeating six to twelve, six to twelve as she’d instructed him, in the way a person who wasn’t skilled at dance mentally rehashed one and two and three and four instead of moving naturally to the music.
“Scone?” Leslie asked.
Tavish took one and almost picked up his knife to cut it, then seemed to remember that was a no-no.
“So exactly how did your mother meet the former duke?” David asked with insinuation in his voice. “He did seem rather susceptible to the charms of commoners, but he had other, more tawdry, inclinations people say.”
Tavish ripped his scone in half, which was the proper technique but executed with maybe a bit more force than necessary.
“She was working as a translator for his refugee organization, one that she received help from when she arrived here from Chile,” Tavish said as he spread clotted cream over his pastry. Portia hadn’t been aware that cream could be spread in a threatening manner, but it most definitely could.
“And she thought that scheming her way into becoming a duchess was a perfectly reasonable step up from migrant?” David asked, sipping his tea.
“Sorry to ruin your little fiction, but she had no interest in his wealth. She turned down his proposal once she saw how detestable the aristocracy was.”
“Ah. I suppose the apple can fall far from the tree then,” David said.
Tav had picked up his saucer and been about to take a sip of the tea, but he lowered it back to the table, his expression terrifying. Portia remembered that though she didn’t call him maestro, Tav was one, and spent much of his downtime studying ways to kill a man quickly and efficiently in battle.
His gaze went up to the mantel, to the sword that was hung in a place of honor beneath David’s portrait.
He was on his feet in an instant, rushing for the weapon.
“Tavish!” Portia stood and hurried after him.
“Oh my,” Leslie said, her hand flying to her chest.
David jumped up and ran behind one of the large chairs, putting it between himself and Tavish.
“What are you doing?” Portia tried not to let the panic come through in her voice as Tavish took down the sword and stared at it.
“I made this.” The fury was gone from his face. He looked stunned. “This was one of the first pieces I sold when I opened the armory. It was a special request, made to replicate one from the buyer’s family line.”
He turned it in his hands, ran his finger over the ornately sculpted quillon. It had a unicorn etched into each side, similar to those she had seen in images of the dukedom’s crest.
“Your father must have . . .” Portia stopped. That truth meant so many things. His father had known about his business. He may have even communicated with Tavish himself. She couldn’t imagine what he was feeling, no matter how adamantly he claimed he didn’t care about his biological father.
He laughed ruefully. “I remember receiving a letter afterward, thanking me for my fine craftsmanship. And I made several more pieces for the buyer over the years. They ordered products regularly to sell in their shop, you know.”
He placed the sword back on its mount. “I guess now I know why some of my orders stopped coming in,” he said quietly.
He turned then, and his brows raised as he took in David, who stood clutching his chair like a shield.
“Did you think I was going to run you through?” Tav asked. His tone was amused. “If I was, that chair wouldn’t have stopped me. Like she said, my swords are sharp, mate.”
David straightened and adjusted his jacket.
“One never knows with someone like you,” he said.
“Someone like me?” Tav squared his shoulders. “And what exactly am I like? I met you less than fifteen minutes ago, though I guess that was enough time to get your number. But you’d best not think you have mine.”
“More tea?” Leslie stood, thrusting the teapot around as if a sip of piping hot Darjeeling was the key to world peace.
“That would be wonderful, thank you,” Portia said, tugging discreetly at Tav’s sleeve. He kept his gaze on David as he navigated his way to his seat.
The door to the parlor opened and Ms. Baker rushed over to David. She leant close to his ear and whispered something, then stood beside his chair.
“I’m guessing this is the Maury moment?” Portia asked. She sipped her tea.
“Maury?” Leslie asked.
“It’s a talk show where women go on and get paternity tests done, dear,” Francis said. “Quite amusing. And yes, the Duke of Edinburgh was indeed the father.”
Portia choked back an inappropriate laugh. It was true. This whole wild situation was real and she had gotten Tavish into this.
“How much do you want then?” David asked, steepling his hands before him. When Tavish didn’t answer, David made a sound of irritation. “To go away. How much do you want to go away?”
“Are you trying to buy me off?” He didn’t sound angry about it, and Portia realized this might work out perfectly. Tavish needed money and didn’t really want the aggravation and duties of the title. A payoff wasn’t exactly legit, but it would solve one problem and prevent others. Tav might find it much preferable to a life spent dealing with men like David, and Portia wouldn’t judge him in the slightest.
“Of course I am,” David said. “Come now, do you have the slightest idea what being a member of the peerage entails?”
Tavish shifted uncomfortably. “I’m a fast learner.”
David scoffed. “There are things that can’t be learned, Mr. McKenzie. For example, you look good in a suit and can drink your tea without slurping, but do you know how to give a formal toast? Do you know the events for the season—which is already in swing, I’ll have you know—the dress code for each event, the strategic social and business import of each event?” David’s nostrils flared. “And that’s just the beginning. I’ve trained my entire life for this role, waited and watched and prepared. I’m from this world, and I understand what’s expected of me and what the people I represent need.”
Tav was nodding along, and David could have shut up, but he didn’t. Apparently, he was just getting started.
“I know what they don’t need, too. As if this country isn’t dealing with enough trash washing up on our shores. Just imagining the insult of the Queen having to share Holyrood with you in a few weeks makes me ill. Of you presenting her with the crown jewels and standing by her side at the garden party. Atrocious. I can’t allow some bastard of a refugee whore to sweep in and undo everything I’ve worked for!” David’s mouth snapped shut, as if he hadn’t meant to let out all that bile but it had spewed forth of its own accord.
Portia jumped to her feet.
“Mr. Dudgeon—”
Tav’s gentle grip around her arm stopped her. He stood so that he was beside her.
“I regret that I’m going to have to turn down any offer you make,” he said calmly. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyers to get the process of turning over the title and all it entails to its rightful owner—me. We have another engagement, so we’ll be leaving. Thank you for the hospitality.”
He looked down at Portia. “Shall we go?”
She didn’t know the etiquette for basically saying “fuck you” and flouncing, so she executed her most ostentatious curtsy in David’s direction.
“Enjoy the rest of your afternoon,” she said with a bat of her eyelashes, then she and Tav strode toward the door and out into the hallway.
“Are you okay?” she asked, placing her hand on his lower back. He stiffened, but then sighed and relaxed just before she was about to pull away.
There was a loud crash from the room they’d exited, echoing down the hall.
“Better than Davey, I suppose.”
“I thought maybe you’d take the money. You said you weren’t sure you even wanted this.”
“I did consider it. It would have been a huge payday with no work required from me. But then I saw the look on his face when he said refugee. Now I know where I’ve seen this git’s face before.” Tavish sneered. “He’s been in the papers putting pressure on MPs to come down harsher on migrants. Trying to get them to cut back on legal immigration, too.”
“He can’t make them do anything though, right? It’s all talk?” She was pretty sure the Duke of Edinburgh had no voting powers. It was a royal dukedom, but like much of the Monarchy, the power was symbolic.
“No. But he can present himself as the face of Scotland and pressure the people who do. He can get in all the papers with all the historical weight a title like ‘Royal Duke’ holds. He can talk to the bloody Queen. If I can stop one man who thinks about other humans that way from holding any kind of power, I have to.”
The only sound after that was the sound of their shoes tapping on the buffed tile floors, and the little voice in her head reminding her that she was in way over her head. They kept walking even when they got out of the palace, past stores and down cobblestone streets. They’d gone a couple of blocks before Tavish had even realized it.
“Thank you,” he finally said as they waited for their SuperLift. He even managed a grin. “I know Davey was scared I was gonna run him through, but I think you were the one giving that serious thought.”
“Eh, I’m always down to stab horrible men,” she said. “No need to thank me.”
“I forgot, you’re the vigilante-slash-spiritual man killer,” he said with a short, unamused laugh. “Aye, that’s about right.”
She was wavering on offended but then he looked at her, heat and something else in his gaze. “After the display David put on, I’ll remind you I’m hardier than average. We’re in this together, so don’t worry too much about killing my spirit. I’ve a feeling it’s a pretty good match for yours.”
She couldn’t think of anything to say to that so instead she just blinked up at him.
“Portia?” An apple-cheeked woman called out from the car that had pulled up. “Are you waiting for a SuperLift?”
“I call passenger seat this time if it’s another numpty two-door,” Tav said and strode toward the car, displaying once again just how good he looked in a suit.
Way, way over her head.