Murder at the Royal Wedding

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Buckingham Palace



Henrietta Fox wore a stylish, Alexander McQueen silk dress with a drape neckline and the tallest stilettos she could find. Still Guy Royce towered above her in his morning dress and topper. On the Palace forecourt they posed for the posse of photographers who fussed and cajoled the couple, demanding endless poses.

From among them Chaz called. “Over here, Foxy. One more, princess.”

“Smile, Henri, smile!”

“Give us another one!”

She gave them a ready grin and graciously waved a hand, hoping her Philip Treacy hat wouldn’t fall over her eyes. She called out apologetically.

“Sorry, pals I really have to go, now. I’ve been invited inside–”

Chaz interrupted. “–for a change! Hope they make you a Duchess, Foxy.”

She laughed and linked arms with Guy Royce who held her still, looking into her eyes.

In unison the cameramen began chanting.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!

Guy leaned into her and their lips met softly. Twenty flashguns exploded as the press corps got their shot. The couple gave a shy smile, walking toward the Investiture Hall where they patiently waited. With a grand gesture the flunky swung open the double doors. Guy Royce gave her a wide smile and reached a hand deep into Henrietta’s cleavage.

He pulled out the miniature Lumix camera by its cord and slipped it into a pocket in his morning coat. He admonished her with a grin.

“Not this time, Henri. Not this time.”

They moved forward to meet the Queen and the Duchess of Cornwall.


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