Private Royals

Chapter 21

Not since the death of his beloved wife had the Duke of Aldershot felt so weary. The cancer that had taken his dear Elizabeth had been cruel and terrible, but at least he’d been able to comfort himself, however slightly, with the thought that it was a cruelty born of nature, and part of God’s holy plan. What was happening to his daughter, however, was of a malicious bearing that he could never comprehend.

His thoughts turning inevitably to the ransom, the Duke looked at the sheaf of papers on his desk, left there by the specialists that Jack Morgan had dispatched from Private. The documents outlined strategies and detailed lenders who could possibly aid the Duke in raising the staggering ransom fee of £30 million.

Thirty million. Even if he could raise it, the Duke knew the legacy of his family would end with the payment to the kidnapper. All of the properties and estates, built by generations of noble blood, lost at a stroke. Lost because of his daughter.

She was not innocent in this, the Duke reminded himself. She had courted disaster. Invited it into her home. Abbie had every right to grieve for her mother, but she was a royal and had failed the test when it came to acting like one.

No, she was not innocent.

His bones aching from weariness and anxiety, the Duke crossed his mahogany-clad office, coming to stand in front of a framed photograph that held pride of place in the centre of the wall.

It had been taken twenty-six years ago, and the Duke studied the lines of soldiers who stood and kneeled in ranks, many sporting moustaches, the younger Duke’s own nothing but a pathetic pencil line. It had been a dangerous time in Northern Ireland, and the Duke had revelled in the challenge. Standing beside him was Sergeant Aaron Shaw.

The Duke swallowed. Shaw had always been his man — solid, unflappable. It grieved him that his sergeant had survived the Troubles in Ireland, only to die protecting his daughter. The bond between officer and NCO could never have been described as friendship, but there was a deep-rooted respect and understanding born from comradeship. They had relied upon one another, and so, on learning of Shaw’s very likely passing, the Duke had imagined that he would be saddened.

He wasn’t. He was only angry. So many people had let him down.

The Duke moved to his desk, his sagging body almost disappearing into the depths of the high-backed chair as he sat. He was exhausted. He was finished.

Worse yet, his family was finished.

He heard a commotion in the corridor. He knew who it would be. He had expected him to arrive sooner and for the endgame to be played out, for the man’s coming could only mean one thing — the Duke was doomed.

And so was his daughter.