The Tudor Plot: A Cotton Malone Novella by Steve Berry

triple string of pearls encircling her neck. Her face cast a tired expression, but she sat straight in the chair, which appeared to take effort. Apparently, the medical reports on the extent of the Parkinson’s were to be believed.
    “Please, my lords, be comfortable and let us talk for a few moments,” the queen said.
    Prince James stood behind his wife, a stump of a man whose Scottish ancestry showed in his every word and action. Some likened him to John Brown, the Scotsman who consoled the first Victoria in the latter part of the 19th century after her husband, the first Albert, died. Both were stubborn, determined men, but unlike Brown, James was extremely popular and the press treated him with deference. As far as anyone knew—and Yourstone had delved deeply—he’d always been monogamous. His only fault was a passion for horse racing, something he and Victoria shared.
    “I appreciate your appearance on short notice,” the queen said. “Ordinarily, I would not concern myself with what someone may say about myself or my family. I have lived a long life and learned that one cannot be queen and have a sensitive nature. But I require counsel and hope you might oblige me by offering some.”
    Yourstone watched Victoria closely. Though ill, she was still the woman of three decades ago who’d charmed the nation with her civility and poise.
    “My lord Yourstone.”
    The sound of his name caught him by surprise.
    His gaze found the queen.
    “I listened earlier in gratitude at your defense of the Crown. But I also caught your warnings. I am sorry my son places us all in such difficult positions.”
    “I, too, am a father and understand the anguish children can sometimes cause.”
    “Yet neither of our sons is a child. They are grown men who should know how to conduct themselves.”
    “And, by the grace of God, my son has matured into a fine man. He makes your daughter quite happy.”
    “For which my husband and I are grateful.”
    Yourstone caught James’ stare as the Scotsman stood behind his wife. Though the queen had ignored his coy slight, the prince had not. No appreciation cast from his stern expression.
    “Tell me, Lord Yourstone,” Victoria said, “does Lord Bryce’s attempt to abolish the monarchy stand any chance of passage?”
    “There are many in the Commons who feel abolition would be a sign of progress. Similar to when the House of Lords was modified a few years ago. Many felt that change would be viewed favorably.”
    His reminder, he knew, would fuel resentment in the men who sat around the table. A change to a Labour government had brought a call for reform to the House of Lords. Its 1,000-plus membership, heavily dependent on family for position, had evolved into an anachronism. So most of the hereditary seats were abolished and the Lords’ membership reduced to a workable number. Victoria had wholeheartedly supported the change, one of those rare occasions when she interjected herself into the political process, and many of the gentry harbored ill will for her interference.
    “That does not answer my question,” Victoria said, her voice suddenly sharp. Apparently, she had sensed both jabs. “Does Lord Bryce’s move
possess
political strength?”
    “I believe it does.”
    “Explain yourself,” James said.
    The prince’s deep baritone seemed to shake the walls.
    Yourstone cautioned himself to remain calm. Appearances were everything. Especially now. “Richard has inflicted enormous damage. You certainly realize that. The ministers are tired of him. The people are tired of him. I’m sorry, but his becoming king would be viewed as a national disgrace. The people speak of him and your father as one.”
    He realized that he was openly insulting Victoria’s father, but James had asked for an explanation.
    “My father had no desire to be king,” Victoria said. “But he did his duty to the day he died.”
    “That is not enough anymore. Your father ruled at a time when the press was