Page 80 of Wicked Queen

Chapter 24

Alexander

The numerous legislative measures Parliament had introduced to stop secret meetings and backdoor deals turned out to be a load of rubbish. I knew this as soon as I received a summons to White’s, the exclusive gentleman’s club. Established in the seventeenth century for the most upper of the upper classes, not much had changed. My father had registered me at birth, but I’d never stepped foot inside—until today.

That I was being called for a metaphorical spanking by the nine-member panel that had been called to examine my exercise of Royal Prerogative by a group of men keen to flaunt their own power had not escaped my attention.

We were stopped by a porter at the entrance asking for our membership names.

“Alexander, King of England, Most High and Noble,” I said flatly, unimpressed by the man’s dedication to appearances.

“And?”

“These are my men,” I said. Neither seemed ruffled by the pipsqueak, who didn’t seem to know when he was beat.

“Are they official guests? We will need to register them on the ledger,” he said.

“For fuck’s sake,” Smith grumbled next to me.

“Mr. Smith Price, Esquire,” I added.

“Norris, King’s advisor.” He tapped the book. “Two r’s, son.”

“We’re meeting Lord May.”

“You will want the Cigar Club. If you take the stairs, it will be on the left.” He pointed to the staircase occupying a good portion of the ground floor.

“Your Majesty,” Norris prompted under his breath. “There is a time to be impressed by the presence of a member. That time is now.”

“Y-y-your Majesty,” he tacked on weakly.

“You’re going to give that boy a heart attack,” I muttered to Norris as we took the stairs.

“It can’t be the first time someone has put him in his place, especially not here.” Smith took in his surroundings with the air of a man accustomed to both clandestine meetings and checking for the exits. Given the company he’d kept for most of his life, the behaviour was likely deeply engrained. It was yet another reason he was a valuable addition to my team.

None of us were terribly impressed by the opulent, if garish furnishings. It smacked a bit too much of old money, and I lived in a palace. A number of priceless portraits most likely listed as being in private collections hung on the walls, plaques heralding the generous benefactor loaning the piece. Antiques from the last four hundred years of existence were crammed into every nook and landing.

“It could use a woman’s touch,” Norris said under his breath, earning him a glare from a grumpy passerby.

“I think the fairer species is lucky they don’t have to put up with this,” Smith said.

White’s membership was notoriously men-only. Many other longstanding clubs in London had given in to the persuasions of the sexual revolution but here we were in the last bastion of sexism—and likely a number of other isms.

The Cigar Room had a no smoking sign prominently displayed on entry. It seemed even the misogynists had to heel to public health orders. That was fine with me. I couldn’t imagine coming home reeking of cigar fumes without Clara sending my suit to be burned.

The rest of the ensemble had already gathered, no doubt to discuss strategy and drink expensive Scotch: the two things most of them were particularly skilled at.

“Gentlemen.” I used the greeting loosely.

“You’ve brought friends.” May didn’t bother with hellos. He’d been a member of the House of Lords long enough to resent having to deal with the third king of his lifetime—and I suspected his least favourite.

“My council,” I explained.

“This is a rather private matter, hence why we asked to speak to you where discretion could be guaranteed.”

“You hold a higher opinion of your peers than I do.” I unbuttoned my jacket and took a seat. Both Smith and Norris followed suit, taking up places on either side of me.

I doubted I was in danger of anything more than character assassination by meeting with these men, but Norris had prepped Smith on expectations before we left. Only after I’d explained my rationale for asking the man to be present.