Page 152 of The Royal Art of Revenge

“I don’t doubt it,” he says dryly. “Anything you want me to do?”

“Yeah. Get her proof of Rosalyn’s prior affair with William.”

Alex pauses. “You mean of Jasmine’s parentage, right?”

“If that’s the evidence you happen to come across.” I smile tightly. “Whatever you find, make sure it hits harder than anything Rosalyn can come up with.”

“Sounds like fun.” He gets up with a smirk. “I’ll see what I can find out and come back tomorrow.”

I nod once and turn my attention back to Harriet. Seeing he’s getting no more out of me tonight, Alec heads for the door and makes his escape. The door clicks shut behind him, and I cradle Hattie’s head to my chest, kissing the top of her head.

De-legitimatise her?

In favour of her illegitimate daughter? Who stands no chance at marrying me?

How fucking delusional are they? When will they give up? Why won’t they give up?

Anger sparks across my skin.

She fucking wishes.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE – HATTIE

The classic ‘breaking news’ music rings through the room, followed by the newsreaders’ stoic tone. “Sensational news has broken overnight that Harriet Sinclair, the future Crown Princess, may not be who she says she is. The story was published online by the St Peters Herald, who claim to have evidence that supports the fact she is not the biological daughter of William and the late Francesca Sinclair. Erika Greene is outside the Royal Palace in St Peters. Erika, what can you tell us about this shocking news?”

“Well, Cassandra, not much I’m afraid. The Herald have said they won’t be sharing their alleged evidence publicly until they’ve received a reply from the Palace, but everything seems to be in lockdown here. All requests for a statement have been refused or ignored, and it’s not just us. Many other news stations and journalists are camped outside waiting to hear something, but nobody can get a response. It’s radio silent.”

I sip my green tea from my bed and stretch out my legs, circling my ankles to wake up my feet. Across the room on the sofa, Rowan peels an orange. Outside, a bird sings its little song from its perch on a vibrantly blossoming tree.

Objectively speaking, it’s the perfect early spring morning.

“Do we have any idea where this allegation has come from?”

“None, as of yet,” Erika replies to the newsreader in the studio. “As I said, the Herald are keeping their cards close to their chest. Rumour has it they didn’t want to publish the story until there was a response from the Palace, but their hand was forced when another paper got hold of the story.”

“Do we have any idea who they’re claiming the crown-princess-in-waiting really is?”

“No. Nothing more than she isn’t Harriet Sinclair. Of course, she went missing when she was seven years old, and her disappearance was extensively covered due to her mother’s close friendship with Her Majesty the Queen. A body was found and identified as her a couple of years later, and her family believed her to be buried. Although, sources close to her say Francesca Sinclair refused to accept it and died believing her daughter was still alive. Without exhuming the body of that child and conducting a DNA test, there’s no way to know if it is for sure Harriet Sinclair.”

“What about the Sinclair family? Have they responded to any requests for comment?”

“None. Much like the Palace, the Sinclair family and those closest to them have refused to speak to the media. There have been some off-the-record comments from sources claiming to be close to them about how Rosalyn and Jasmine Sinclair apparently had their reservations when Harriet quietly reappeared two years ago, and her surprise engagement to Crown Prince Finley forced them to revisit the possibility of her true identity. There’s a good chance this could be the results of those concerns.”

“Thank you, Erika. We’ll keep in touch and update you throughout the day,” the newsreader says as the camera pans back to the studio. “NBAC will continue to reach out to the Royal Palace, and as soon as we get a response, we will share with you both live and across our social media. One can only imagine the chaos brewing within the Palace this morning.”

“Chaos?” Rowan asks, pausing with his orange segment held up to the light to check for a pip. “The only chaos I see is outside.”

“I can’t even say that. It’s quite peaceful from our vantage point,” I say from the bed, cradling my cup. “But I do think it’ll find us momentarily.”

“Yes,” he says slowly, lowering his segment and biting into it, apparently satisfied with its lack of pips. He chews, then says, “Her Majesty has been rather incensed since His Royal Highness informed her of this last night.”

“Then I’m glad I slept through it all.” I set my cup down on the nightstand. “Why did you get sent in here anyway?”

“Her Majesty thought you might be in shock if you woke up to the news, and since the Crown Prince is attending to matters with her, she sent me to make sure you weren’t alone.”

“Oh. That’s sweet of her.” I pause. “I was expecting something, though. I did tell Rosalyn to try me last night, after all.”

Rowan sighs. “You know we could make it all go away in a matter of seconds by releasing the DNA test and having the doctor give a statement.”