The Crowns Vengeance Read online

  The Crowns Vengeance

  Andrew Clawson

  © 2012 Andrew Clawson All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. The character, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imaginations and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design and illustration by Brandi Doane McCann

  Contents

  Dedication

  Also by Andrew Clawson

  Praise for A Patriot’s Betrayal

  Praise for The Crowns Vengeance

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Epilogue:

  Author’s note

  Acknowledgements

  Excerpt from Dark Tides Rising

  About the Author

  Dedication

  For my grandparents

  Also by Andrew Clawson

  A Patriot’s Betrayal

  Dark Tides Rising

  Read an excerpt of Andrew’s next novel, Dark Tides Rising, at the end of this story.

  Visit Andrew’s website for more information and purchase details.

  http://andrewclawson.com

  Praise for A Patriot’s Betrayal

  "A Patriot's Betrayal had me hooked from the first page!" - Felicia Tatum, White Aura and Scarred Hearts series

  "The characters were well developed and authentically true to life. The story was incredible, realistic, and historically intriguing." - Amazon reviewer

  "The mystery and suspense had me so intrigued that I had to keep reading." - Amazon reviewer

  Praise for The Crowns Vengeance

  Moments of sheer intensity make it hard to put this book down. - Amazon reviewer

  This one is just as exciting and fast paced as the first, with new adventures flying at the couple in every turn. - Felicia Tatum, White Aura and Scarred Hearts series

  Be sure you set aside enough time to finish this one, you'll not want to put this one down until you read the last page. - Amazon reviewer

  Epigraph

  Nothing is so secure as that money will not defeat it

  ~ ~ ~

  Philip Dormer Stanhope, 4th Earl of Chesterfield

  Prologue

  London, England

  October 31, 1781

  Footsteps echoed off towering stone walls as a solitary figure strode through the cavernous hall. Ahead, framed by a roaring fire, a portly man sat at an enormous desk, chin held heavily in the palm of one hand. White curls draped across a wrinkled skull to cover each ear, the powdered wig a brilliant white in the flickering light cast by dozens of candles.

  None of this assembled warmth penetrated the gloom that hung heavily around the rotund figure. In the midst of an unprecedented crisis, he longed for a ray of hope to brighten his perilous situation.

  “I bring news from the latest ship.”

  The seated man stared downward as a deep sigh escaped his lips.

  “Our messengers bear distressing reports, my liege. Cornwallis has surrendered.”

  Time stood still as the diminutive man rose. Though short in stature, his presence exploded throughout the room.

  “That is not possible.” Spittle flew through the air. “These, these commoners could not have defeated us. There must be some mistake.”

  “Alas, sire, it is true. Cornwallis capitulated to the rebels only days ago. His entire army is lost.”

  George III, King of Great Britain and Ireland, stood in silence, words having failed him. From behind the thick walls of Buckingham Palace, George III had little notion of his armies’ precarious foothold in America. Unaccustomed to American ferocity, the proud English desire to fight for king and country had steadily eroded, until the most recent defeat.

  Eight thousand of England’s finest men had laid down their arms and surrendered.

  The notion was unthinkable.

  However, Lord Ramsey Fawkes, Third Earl of Wroxton, did not dwell on the defeat. As one of the king’s closest advisors, he had long practiced the fine art of diplomacy with his liege lord, carefully crafting his statements to manipulate the sovereign, though the foolhardy little man was quite incapable of recognizing this skillful deceit.

  “Your majesty, there is yet a chance for us to secure victory.”

  King George focused on the earl, his eyes pleading.

  Fawkes felt nothing but disgust. Resplendent in his citrine cloak cut from the finest silk, an imposing ceremonial sword on his hip, the divine leader of the most powerful nation on earth was helpless. Exactly as Fawkes had known he would be.

  “There is little to be done with the colonies, Your Majesty. In your great wisdom, you will no doubt see fit to forgo our direct assaults on those wretched lands in favor of a more subtle approach.”

  “Such as?”

  Lord Fawkes glanced around. They were alone in the king’s massive study, free from any prying ears.

  He leaned in and described his plan to King George, whose eyes first clouded with confusion, before the light of understanding dawned.

  After a brief pause, King George voiced his approval.

  “We shall bring those colonists to their knees. Prepare your man to depart at once. The necessary funds are at your disposal.”

  “As you command, Your Majesty.”

  Fawkes bowed deeply before turning on his heel.

  Now that his ridiculous excuse for a king had agreed to fund the operation, it was only a matter of time before the glory of England was restored, the rebellious colonists crushed beneath the fearsome weight of St. George’s Cross.

  Chapter 1

  London, England

  Present Day

  A never-ending line of motorcars crawled down the street, headlights shining rheumily in the evening gloom. Soot-stained clouds overhead stopped any sunlight from reaching the dry street, dusty and dirty beneath a yellowish haze cast by omnipresent streetlamps. Should a fog have rolled in, one wouldn’t have been remiss to expect a horse-drawn carriage to appear from within the golden gl
ow. All in all, it was a typical London evening, pedestrians and commuters alike moving slowly through the humid summer air.

  Inside his office at No. 11 Downing Street, The Right Honorable Roland Francis Sutton leaned back in his desk chair and stretched his palms skyward. An entire day’s worth of tension tingled past his elbows, dozens of bureaucratic nightmares evaporating like the morning dew.

  As chancellor of the exchequer, one had to know how to relax in order to survive. Tasked with overseeing the world’s sixth largest economy, Sir Roland directly affected the finances of nearly sixty-three million citizens.

  Unsurprisingly, some of these people didn’t like him.

  He’d spent the day in meetings with his junior ministers, offering advice when necessary, allowing them to chart their own course more often. Regardless of what decisions he made, what policies were passed or which taxes were lowered, there was nothing to be done about the constant vitriolic displeasure to which he was routinely subjected.

  Today had been no exception, and it was with great enthusiasm that Her Majesty’s faithful servant traitorously poured two fingers of Mr. Jack Daniels’s finest Single Barrel whiskey into a crystal tumbler, the velvety smooth amber liquid clinging to its vessel, aromatic waves of charred oak and flowery vanilla warming his senses.

  After allowing a moment for the blend to settle, he savored one sip.

  Ahhh.

  A marvelous slow burn rolled down his throat. A dinner appointment with his wife was on the books tonight, and he relished the idea of spending several carefree hours in her company.

  Sir Roland had assumed his position less than a year ago, a promotion that surprised him more than anyone. After the retirement of his predecessor, Roland had assumed, like most of the world, that another junior minister, Colin Moore, would be chosen as successor. The prime minister’s call had come as a complete and total shock. His wife and family had been ecstatic, as had he, initially.

  Looking back, he’d never quite shaken the image of the previous minister leaving office on his last day. He’d walked out, carrying a single photo of his family, and never looked happier.

  Right now, Roland knew why.

  He was honored, of course, to serve queen and country, though in private, he felt this to be the most thankless job on earth. Just as in physics, there were laws in the world of economics. The most basic was that when one person profited, another person did not. Every day men, businesses, lobbyists, and other sovereign governments cursed his name, only to praise his policies the next. He had little to do with any of it, being as beholden to the whims of a free market as any man. Certainly he could influence events in small ways, but as for pulling the strings like a puppeteer, that just wasn’t possible.

  But enough of this. He had a dinner to enjoy.

  A million-dollar view jumped through the tinted office windows. St. James Park Lake to his rear, the Thames in front. A cornucopia of English pride surrounded him.

  As Roland threw back his glass and drained the delicious American whiskey, a flash of red blinked into existence, sparkling rays distorted across the crystal tumbler. It came from straight across Downing Street, on the roof of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office.

  His eyes narrowed. No one should be up there.

  The last sound Sir Roland ever heard was the soft tinkle of breaking glass as a sniper’s bullet ripped through the window in front of him.

  Chapter 2

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  All around, drunken students shouted, a semester’s worth of tension and angst lifted from their shoulders. It was the end of finals week, and the young men and women at the University of Pennsylvania were letting their hair down.

  Summer was nearly upon University City, home to Benjamin Franklin’s famed institution, bright sunlight warming all who partied beneath a cloudless blue sky. Shapely legs demurely covered by low-cut sundresses offered teasing glimpses of the feminine mystique, a welcome respite from the winter wardrobes still fresh in each young scholar’s mind. Fraternity men worked the crowd, full of liquid courage and youthful bravado.

  Erika Carr strode confidently through campus, fully aware of the attention her tall, lithe frame demanded as she passed. Effortlessly beautiful, she too had taken advantage of the breezy summer weather and dressed accordingly. College men stood helpless in her wake.

  A rush of cool air sent tingling goose bumps across Erika’s flesh when she entered the history department’s main office building.

  Situated in the middle of Penn’s campus, just across the Schuylkill River from downtown Philadelphia, the ancient mysteries of civilization thrummed with a vibrant intensity in College Hall. This building may have been over a hundred years old, but it was populated by scholars with an intense thirst for knowledge, of whom Erika was a proud member.

  Overhead lights flashed on when she entered her office, the cool leather of her desk chair crackling as she sat down.

  Eyes wide with anticipation, Erika opened the metallic suitcase on her desk. Inside was the artifact she had been waiting for all week. As the recipient of a federal grant to document recently unearthed personal effects of Alexander Hamilton, Erika’s mind raced with anticipation as she finally laid eyes on the documents.

  The sharp trill of her desk phone intruded.

  “Erika Carr.”

  “Hey.”

  One word, and Erika’s heart fluttered.

  On the line was Parker Chase, the man with whom she had recently reunited after a year of separation. Prior to that, they had spent nearly eight years together. Parker was calling from his office in Pittsburgh, where he plied his trade as a financial advisor.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “Up to my eyeballs in work. You wouldn’t believe how demanding rich people can be.”

  Sarcasm oozed through the phone. His job invited stress on a daily basis.

  “Who would have thought? Not to change the subject, but guess what? I just received the Hamilton artifacts.”

  “That’s wonderful. Are you working with anyone else on the project?”

  “No, this one’s my baby. I’m going to start my study immediately, try to have a preliminary report drawn up within two weeks.”

  “Think you can spare a few hours this weekend? You only have me for three days, so don’t waste them.”

  He was coming into town for the weekend and staying with her before a meeting on Monday.

  “I’ll see what I can do. Be careful driving.”

  Before hanging up, Parker promised to call her that night. As she clicked off, Erika couldn’t wipe the smile from her lips, anticipation already building for their weekend. After the events of the past few months, she’d realized how badly she missed him and was determined to treasure every day they spent together.

  On her desk were two framed pictures. One was of her and Parker standing on the football field after his last collegiate game. White jersey covered in dirt, beads of sweat running through his eye black, they stood arm in arm, faces shining.

  The second photograph was of Parker’s recently deceased uncle, who had also been her colleague until his murder.

  Joseph Chase had been a star in Penn’s history department, internationally renowned for his work on America’s battle for independence. Brilliant and personable, Joe had been there for her whenever she needed anything. Less than a year ago he had been shot to death, murdered by a group of men intent on protecting a centuries-old secret. She and Parker had become embroiled in the conspiracy, forced to run for their lives.

  The shiny metal suitcase on her desk opened to reveal a wooden box, worn and warped from the passage of time. Originally a soft shade of chestnut brown, years of exposure to the elements had darkened the container until it was nearly black. However, in a testament to the eroding standards of modern craftsmanship, this two-hundred-year-old box had protected the paper documents contained inside from any type of water damage whatsoever.

  Erika leaned over the box, now brightly illum
inated under a powerful observation lamp attached to her desk. Teeth clenched, she forced the rusted metal hinges open to reveal an astonishing piece of history.

  Several months ago, an estate sale had been planned in the suburbs of New York City, and during a routine inventory of the items, a wooden chest had been found. Inside was the box she now held, donated for study by the deceased homeowner’s estate.

  While the wooden contraption alone wasn’t extraordinary, what made this box special was the cache of paperwork inside.

  This little gem contained a collection of Alexander Hamilton’s personal correspondence, hidden for centuries inside an innocuous book.

  A rush of excitement flooded Erika’s system as the first letter flipped open, thick paper crackling softly under her touch. Perfect lines of elegant script covered the page, a product of Hamilton’s university education, while the small letters which utilized every available space hinted at his humble upbringing in which waste was not tolerated and resources were scarce.

  Erika ran a practiced eye over the artifact, scribbling notes as she went. The sun fell from its lofty perch as she worked until shadows crept up the walls and her stomach rumbled in protest. A dozen letters were spread out on a table to her rear, each one summarized in her notes. Every piece was unique and insightful in its own way, offering a previously unseen glimpse into the mind of America’s first Treasury secretary. The majority of the artifacts were personal correspondence, relative mainly to Hamilton’s personal life. However, her heart had skipped a beat when she unfolded an official letter from Thomas Jefferson, written on Jefferson’s personal stationary. Mundane contents aside, it was still an amazing treasure.

  The constant stream of people walking by her open office door had dwindled to a trickle, most of the department personnel now gone for the night. Classes were over, and it was a dedicated professor who spent much leisure time in his or her office. Erika cast an eye to the rapidly diminishing sunlight, thoughts of catching the day’s final warming rays gaining momentum.