Royal Escape

Susan Froetschel

Prologue

The venerable stone office block was quiet, its hallways dark, with patches of streetlight coming through the graceful arched windows. The only hint of movement came with shadows. First one, than another, both moved slowly toward the one office with the open door. The streets of the financial district were quiet at midnight and so too were the esteemed law offices of Wilson & Haggert. The clerical help had left sharply at six, and most of the legal professionals followed not long afterward. A group of custodians took over for about two hours to sweep, collect shredded trash, and polish exquisite wood and beveled glass. Derrick Wilson had asked the custodians to leave his massive corner office for another day and they happily obliged. After ten, the sound of vacuums and soft chatter had vanished.

The shadows merged, as two men padded, shoeless, on plush oriental rugs toward Wilson’s office. There, with the lights turned low, the lone solicitor leaned back in his chair, his legs propped comfortably on the old mahogany desk. Holding a crystal goblet of red wine, his drink of choice for any celebration, he studied the scene beyond his window. A smile lingered on his lips. The call had come in late. He had worked hard for his most famous client – and together, they had won. Again.

Years ago, Wilson had met Elena, Princess of Wales, at a formal dinner party at the start of the Christmas season. The woman was gracious, tall, lovely – more a listener than a speaker and yet the center of attraction in every room she entered. Most amazing was how her poise seemed so effortless. He had moved close enough to study her cobalt blue eyes – intense in their ability to convey kindness, enthusiasm, concern, curiosity, every feeling connected with virtue. She had sensed his interest and walked over to him after the dinner, while couples were dancing, and asked about his job. He was a solicitor. One who specialized in divorce, he added a tad sheepishly. He was among the best in Great Britain, but what did that matter in a roomful of artists, academics, politicians, and other celebrities? But Elena had been intrigued, and after glancing furtively at the small groups of people standing near, she leaned toward him.

"Do you help the women more or the men?" she inquired, with soft voice and direct gaze. She did not want to be overheard.

"I represent men more often than not," Wilson responded quietly. "I may have helped a few women along the way."

"Ah, so you're intimate with all the flaws made by the other side, the women," she teased, in a sly way that suggested the two were already confidantes. "And tell me, what's the most common mistake women make when pursuing a divorce?"

He thought a moment. "Thinking that a man might change. Thinking that he only cares about the money."

"And what should a woman do to protect her interests?"

He shrugged. "Monitor her behavior. Keep quiet about what she really wants. And as soon as she suspects trouble, keep a journal – selective, of course, about everything that's gone wrong with the marriage. You'd be surprised. One tends to forget the details – dates, witnesses to the little cruelties, both physical and verbal."

She dipped her chin, tilted her head and lifted her long lashes as she murmured her thanks and moved on to talk with others in the crowd. The pose, an odd combination of mischief and modesty, had been caught in thousands of photographs over the years, but remained enchantingly fresh and natural in person. Sixteen months later, Elena called and asked Wilson to initiate procedures for a separation. She also handed over a journal that began the night of the dinner party, with a vivid description of her husband dancing six times with his mistress, later following the cloying woman into a small room, with a posted guard ordered by the host. The two remained in there, away from other guests, for more than forty minutes. Other entries were more troubling. Reconciliation was impossible, and divorce negotiations began.

The family was not happy, but Elena got what she wanted, with credit largely due to her meticulous journal and her own public generosity. Rather than monthly payments of alimony, she negotiated a lump settlement of nearly seventy million pounds. She did not get custody – that would never happen for an outsider to the royal family – but she had veto power over the children's schools and was guaranteed a majority of their leisure time. To save the children embarrassment, the palace permitted Elena to retain her title. No other woman could be the Princess of Wales during Elena's lifetime. And after the death of her mother-in-law and husband, she would be known as the Queen Mother.

Wilson did not think much of royalty, but he could understand why Elena had earned the right to remain a woman of influence in the world.

Throughout the separation, Elena and her husband had few disagreements over custody – appropriate times for delivery of the children, adjustments due to vacations, palace visits coming out of the mother's time or the father's. Wilson admired Elena for how she had listened closely to the reasons and tried to base decisions solely on the best interests of the children. She did not resort to threats of releasing the contents of the journal – not until the most recent disputes over Elena's financial status. Strangely enough, the bitter arguments did not emerge with the separation or the divorce negotiations. Instead, controversy began after Elena had announced her intention to begin her own private trust fund for charities, separate from the trust funds established by the royal family and her husband, the Prince of Wales. She explained to Derrick her need to emphasize issues of importance for her and her children. The palace objected, accusing Elena of manipulation, corruption, and obsession with money. Lawyers for the queen retaliated, demanding more time with the two boys and expecting Elena to sacrifice additional weekends. Derrick had responded by forwarding a sample of entries from the journal and financial statements that showed her charitable work to be far more lucrative than that of all other members of the royal family combined. It wasn't Elena's idea, but Derrick insisted on his own that her work be separated from that of other family members.

He chuckled remembering the look of horror on the barrister's face after reading the selections. Elena had offered to start her charity trust with a portion of her own divorce settlement and not depend on money from the prince's trust. The palace had insisted on wording the announcement. After months of negotiations, documents clarifying the settlement, severing Elena's work and funding from the palace, would be filed in court the following day.

A sharp noise came from the hallway. Wilson left his desk and paused by the doorway. He waited a moment, but the sound was not repeated, and he was annoyed by his imagination. Nothing was waiting for him in the hallway, the same way nothing was waiting for him at his home. Still, it was long past time for Wilson to hop into his Jaguar and head for his lonely estate in Oxfordshire, about fifty miles west of London. Weary, Wilson wished he didn't have to drive. He should install a simple lavatory and single bed in some extra space near his office. The image, the simplicity of having no home, repeated itself in his mind hundreds of times since his own divorce. But thinking was easier than doing – and the call to the appropriate contractor was never made. Maybe next week. Because in truth, he didn't want to admit that his office was his one true home.

Wilson sighed, drained the remaining wine in his glass, and switched on his small desk lamp, rubbed his eyes from the sudden burst of light, and gathered the papers and journal. He headed for his fireproof wall safe, located behind a set of massive bookcases along the far wall and entered the combination that only he and his personal secretary knew.

As the door to the safe popped open, a shape emerged from the shadows and an arm slipped around his neck. Wilson gasped and twisted in alarm. The prowler was clothed completely in black, even his face covered with a black nylon stocking. The man tightened his grip, while another man crept silently from the hallway and headed for the desk. He shoved papers about and swore, before heading to the safe. Wilson noted that the man ignored an envelope of cash, a package of bonds, and some jewelry. Finally, the man dropped to his knees and searched through the pile that Wilson had dropped in surprise. "This is it," said a young male voice. He waved the journal. "I found it!"

"The original?" asked his fellow intruder, not loosening his grip on Wilson.

"You can't take that!" Wilson cried out. "Why, that's not worth anything!"

"That's what you think," said the man as he placed the small book covered in pastel silk into his small pack. Then he extracted a syringe and approached Wilson slowly….

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