The Prince and I: A Romantic Mystery (The Royal Biography Cozy Mystery Series Book 1) by Julie Sarff, The Hope Diamond, The Heir to Villa Buschi Page A
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having a belated 29th birthday party with a few dozen friends at Holyroodhouse, and I would like to invite you to stay over.”
Is the Prince really inviting me to Holyrood Palace? This is such wonderful news that suddenly I am a grown woman jumping on my bed, bobbing up and down among my dress shirts.
“Holyrood Palace -- I never thought in my wildest dreams I would get to see it.”
“See it, stay over in it, the whole bit. The dinner starts at nine, but if you get there early, I’ll show you around.”
“You’ll show me around?”
“Sure.”
“All of it?”
“Absolutely.”
“The Mary, Queen of Scotts’ chambers?”
“Of course, they are exactly as she left them and very ominous.”
“And the room of evil Lord Darnley,”
“Absolutely.”
“And the bed of Bonny Prince Charlie?”
“Ostrich plumes and all.”
I stop jumping. The story of Holyroodhouse is the story of the Stewart Dynasty. They call it the most romantic of His Majesty’s Palaces, but the castle is seldom used. It is old and crumbling, and from the pictures I have seen, it looks a little eerie.
“Like I said, I have about a dozen or so friends coming. You won’t mind sharing a room with my cousin Rose will you?”
“Actually I’d prefer it,” I reply quickly.
“Yeah, Holyroodhouse gets that reaction from people. It can be rather spooky. Not the kind of place you’d want to stay in by yourself. My brother Albert and I used to run into the apartments of Mary Queen of Scots at nigh whenever we could get away from Nanny Margery. We were good at stealing away from her. I remember hiding in Mary’s chambers behind a tapestry one night; my brother swore he saw the ghost of Bald Agnes. We tore out of there so fast, we ran right into Margery’s knees. I think we laughed so hard we fell down and rolled on the carpet. Nanny didn’t find it so funny. ”
“Hmm, poor Nanny Margery, you must have put her through her paces.”
“Yes, poor Nanny Margery,” he repeats and for some reason he sounds incredibly forlorn. I try changing the topic back to his party at Holyrood.
“What time should I be there?” I ask.
“Seven should be fine, gives me two hours to show you around before the guests show. Sorry, Lizzie, I’ve got to go. Have an appointment in Greenwich, and I’ll be late if I don’t get moving.”
I hang up the phone with a huge smile on my face. With lighting fast fingers, I dial my travel agent, who alters my ticket, changing my destination from London to Edinburgh.
Chapter 9
At eight o’clock the next morning, I have three boxes of Sean’s clothes piled in my Car to Go . Tatum left a message with her doorman Jerry, and he was good enough to allow me into their apartment. I spent a couple of hours shoving blazers, trousers, shirts, and socks into boxes.
I am making my way out of Tatum’s apartment, carrying a very heavy fourth box, with my bag slung over one shoulder, when a small, mousy man in 4B opens his door.
“Good morning,” he blathers, and glares at me with huge, owlish eyes. This must be the neighbor who mentioned the ménage. I have half a mind to set him straight, but why should I defend Tatum and Sean? I didn’t even attend Sean’s funeral. Meg told me it was very tasteful and that Tatum actually wore a small black hat with a veil, reminiscent of Jackie O.
“Good morning,” I reply to the nosy neighbor.
“Yet another woman coming out of that apartment,” he sighs mysteriously. I edge past him and ring for the elevator.
“You’re tall. Just like that other girl who came here all the time,” he murmurs, following me.
I have to hold my tongue. I stopped being a “girl” a while back. It’s such an archaic term for a woman in this day and age. I push the down arrow again and mumble, “Mmm.”
“That girl was always here, but only when Tatum was out.”
My head swivels. What did he say? If Tatum wasn’t home when the other woman was visiting then there
Is the Prince really inviting me to Holyrood Palace? This is such wonderful news that suddenly I am a grown woman jumping on my bed, bobbing up and down among my dress shirts.
“Holyrood Palace -- I never thought in my wildest dreams I would get to see it.”
“See it, stay over in it, the whole bit. The dinner starts at nine, but if you get there early, I’ll show you around.”
“You’ll show me around?”
“Sure.”
“All of it?”
“Absolutely.”
“The Mary, Queen of Scotts’ chambers?”
“Of course, they are exactly as she left them and very ominous.”
“And the room of evil Lord Darnley,”
“Absolutely.”
“And the bed of Bonny Prince Charlie?”
“Ostrich plumes and all.”
I stop jumping. The story of Holyroodhouse is the story of the Stewart Dynasty. They call it the most romantic of His Majesty’s Palaces, but the castle is seldom used. It is old and crumbling, and from the pictures I have seen, it looks a little eerie.
“Like I said, I have about a dozen or so friends coming. You won’t mind sharing a room with my cousin Rose will you?”
“Actually I’d prefer it,” I reply quickly.
“Yeah, Holyroodhouse gets that reaction from people. It can be rather spooky. Not the kind of place you’d want to stay in by yourself. My brother Albert and I used to run into the apartments of Mary Queen of Scots at nigh whenever we could get away from Nanny Margery. We were good at stealing away from her. I remember hiding in Mary’s chambers behind a tapestry one night; my brother swore he saw the ghost of Bald Agnes. We tore out of there so fast, we ran right into Margery’s knees. I think we laughed so hard we fell down and rolled on the carpet. Nanny didn’t find it so funny. ”
“Hmm, poor Nanny Margery, you must have put her through her paces.”
“Yes, poor Nanny Margery,” he repeats and for some reason he sounds incredibly forlorn. I try changing the topic back to his party at Holyrood.
“What time should I be there?” I ask.
“Seven should be fine, gives me two hours to show you around before the guests show. Sorry, Lizzie, I’ve got to go. Have an appointment in Greenwich, and I’ll be late if I don’t get moving.”
I hang up the phone with a huge smile on my face. With lighting fast fingers, I dial my travel agent, who alters my ticket, changing my destination from London to Edinburgh.
Chapter 9
At eight o’clock the next morning, I have three boxes of Sean’s clothes piled in my Car to Go . Tatum left a message with her doorman Jerry, and he was good enough to allow me into their apartment. I spent a couple of hours shoving blazers, trousers, shirts, and socks into boxes.
I am making my way out of Tatum’s apartment, carrying a very heavy fourth box, with my bag slung over one shoulder, when a small, mousy man in 4B opens his door.
“Good morning,” he blathers, and glares at me with huge, owlish eyes. This must be the neighbor who mentioned the ménage. I have half a mind to set him straight, but why should I defend Tatum and Sean? I didn’t even attend Sean’s funeral. Meg told me it was very tasteful and that Tatum actually wore a small black hat with a veil, reminiscent of Jackie O.
“Good morning,” I reply to the nosy neighbor.
“Yet another woman coming out of that apartment,” he sighs mysteriously. I edge past him and ring for the elevator.
“You’re tall. Just like that other girl who came here all the time,” he murmurs, following me.
I have to hold my tongue. I stopped being a “girl” a while back. It’s such an archaic term for a woman in this day and age. I push the down arrow again and mumble, “Mmm.”
“That girl was always here, but only when Tatum was out.”
My head swivels. What did he say? If Tatum wasn’t home when the other woman was visiting then there
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