Page 53 of Wicked Queen

“Water, please,” I asked the attendant.

“And I’m the one who’s causing trouble?” Sarah’s voice cut through the air. She leaned against the bar, sucking the olive off a toothpick before dropping it back into her martini glass. “I’m having friends over this evening.”

“Use a state room,” I ordered her. At least she wouldn’t be out on the town. There would be no press to catch her acting out inside Buckingham. I studied her for a moment, taking in her black dress and blood red lips. “Why are you dressed for a funeral?”

“Good afternoon to you, too,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It’s a protest.”

“Of what?” I asked.

“Inhumane treatment.” She smirked as she studied Clara, who was sipping her water with wary eyes.

“Did you thank Clara for taking care of you last night?” I asked. Next to me, Clara flinched, placing a hand on my arm. I ignored it. “My pregnant wife shouldn’t have to put you to bed at three o’clock in the morning.”

“I didn’t,” Sarah said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “I wouldn’t want to mess up her plan to replace me.”

“What are you talking about?” I pressed a palm to my forehead, feeling the beginnings of a headache.

“She told me the truth. That’s it her job to keep the crown from passing to me.” Sarah moved a little, angling her head so that her hair swung like a curtain between us and the rest of the world. “But she’s wrong about one thing: a Royal cunt already stole the throne.”

Clara’s grip on my arm tightened, but I was too shocked to respond. As Sarah sashayed out to watch the next dressage competitor, I started after her, but Clara stopped me. “Let her go.”

“She called you—”

“Exactly what I called her earlier,” she said calmly.

My gaze which had been following my sister pivoted to my wife.

“I had to get her away from Anders somehow,” she said with a shrug.

“Colourful choice,” I muttered. “Come on.”

“We can’t leave,” she said as I led her out of the tent.

“I want you to rest—away from half the aristocracy. We won’t go far.” The equestrian events were being held on an estate on the outskirts of London.

I watched Clara carefully as we walked the slight distance to the property’s Tudor-Gothic estate, Bingham House.

Opening the front door, I held it for my wife, who surveyed me with dancing eyes.

“You act like you own the place,” she said.

“I probably do,” I told her. “Or it’s in trust or something.”

“Do you think we should be here?” she asked, glancing around as though we might get caught.

“I suspect no one will challenge me on our presence,” I said dryly, pointing to a King’s Trust placard hanging by the door.

“That’s your problem. No one challenges you.”

“That isn’t true.” I backed her against a wall, dipping my mouth to her ear. “You do.”

“Let’s not get caught shagging by the maintenance staff.” She ducked away from me, but I caught her hand and dragged her into a parlour.

“I will stop trying to get in your knickers if you promise to rest.” I guided her to a sofa that was far too ornamental to be much use. “This will have to do. I don’t think anyone’s redecorated this place since the Victorian era. Of course, there might be a bedroom.”

“What happened to staying out of my knickers?”

“You can’t blame a man for trying, Poppet.” I sat on the sofa, swinging one leg up and patted the space between my legs.