“My job is of no consequence to me. Your wellbeing, however, is. You are not beyond a dressing down. I don’t care who you are. Do not do it again. Understand?”
I slowly move back, my proverbial tail between my legs. Well, that told me. “Understand,” I murmur, smiling a little on the inside. He was worried. About me. Not about the King and his wrath, but me. “Josh went shooting today with the King.”
“I am aware, ma’am.”
“He’s trying to get into his good books. Do you think he can?”
Damon’s eyes jump to the mirror, and I can tell he’s smiling. “I think he can,” he says, surprising me and filling me with a little hope. His eyes return to the road, and he indicates, taking a right. “But as soon as His Majesty finds out that he has a motive, the good book will be snapped shut, probably with Josh’s neck in it.”
I slump in my seat. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“You’re welcome.”
There’s a few beats of silence as I think about everything I heard earlier today. “I overheard the King on the telephone this morning.” I try to sound nonchalant, casually toying with my phone, but I can sense Damon’s cautious stare. “He mentioned the banker. I can only assume he’s still trying to reach me, as the King told the person he was speaking with to get rid of him.”
“I believe he is a problem and does need to be dealt with.”
I nod, accepting his reply, concluding that Damon is abreast on all things concerning the banker. “So one can assume that the King really doesn’t know about Josh and me, because surely he’d be ordering that problem be dealt with, too. Plus, he took Josh shooting.”
“One can assume.”
“So who vandalized Josh’s suite?”
“I believe that’s a matter for Mr. Jameson’s team, ma’am.”
I hum my agreement, though it doesn’t stop my mind racing or my fingers strumming the leather armrest. I believe my relationship with Josh is still under wraps. This is good, because, as Josh said, it will be much better for my father to hear it from me. To see how much I want this. To hear the pleading in my voice. Not that I expect it will make much difference, but I am so willing to try. How did Josh get on today? What has the banker been up to now to warrant such fury from the King? No, wait. He was angry before he mentioned Gerry Rush. The letters. What letters? Davenport wasn’t in on the call, and I could tell he really wanted to be. Neither was he included in the meeting that followed. What if the King hasn’t summoned me at all? What if Davenport is being sly, wanting information out of me about that call I overheard? And who the hell trashed Josh’s hotel room? I groan, another wave of tiredness coming over me. “Can you put some music on, please?” I ask Damon, hoping to drown out the questions sending my mind into a spin.
“Radio, ma’am?”
“How about a bit of Take That?” It’s out there before I can stop it, with no hope of being retracted. Damon’s eyes, now horrified, find me again. I smile, awkward, and sink into my seat, pushing back my laughter. “Don’t give up your day job.”
“Didn’t plan on it, ma’am. Unless you get me fired, of course.”
“Then I guess I should ensure you’re never fired.” I snicker, he scowls, and the car picks up speed, whisking me off to somewhere I really don’t want to be.
WHY ISN’T HE ANSWERING? I’M asking myself over and over with each attempt to reach Josh. I need to know how his jolly outing with my father went today.
This time when I arrive at Claringdon, Sid doesn’t regard me like a monster with four man-eating heads, because, of course, he is expecting me. He got the memo. But who sent the memo? My suspicions only mount when Davenport appears in the foyer. Since when does he deem my arrival at Claringdon worthy of his escort? He descends on me in long, even strides, his arms poker straight by his sides. “I’ll escort Her Royal Highness, thank you, Sid,” Davenport says, his voice, as always, leaving no room for argument.
“Sir.” Sid wastes no time skulking off, leaving me at the mercy of the King’s private secretary. I glare at him, my face low, my expression, I hope, telling him I know of his game. “After you.” He gestures toward the stairs.
“No, please, after you.” I smile sweetly, neither of us moving. It’s a glaring deadlock. I’m not budging. No way.
“Adeline?” Mother’s dulcet tone drifts between us, dissolving the tension a little. “Twice in one day? One will start to worry.”
“One has been summoned,” I purr, slowly dragging my hard stare off Davenport, but returning it the moment I catch a mild change in his persona. His always stiff posture seems to soften somewhat, and his cutting eyes grow nervous, fluttering between the Queen Consort and me.
“Whatever for this time?” Mother asks, ever exasperated, breaking my observing of Davenport.
“I guess I’ll find out soon.” I move toward her and link our arms, gently pulling her away from the listening ears of the major. She looks at me with questions in her tender eyes. “I heard Father speaking earlier about something,” I tell her. Her first reaction is her trained reaction: warning eyes on me, telling me that whatever I have heard, I shouldn’t speak of it, no matter what it is. But I ignore her and press on. “He was very mad.” I make sure I keep my voice low and quiet. “About some letters that he wants rid of.”
Mother stops and turns into me, her warning eyes now questioning. But she doesn’t question, just simply maintains her state of duty. “Adeline, you know it is not your place to pry into the King’s affairs.”
My teeth grind in natural frustration. Her reminder, although accurate, is laughable. No, it’s not my place, I learned that from a very early age, yet it is perfectly okay for the King to pry into my affairs. And he does. All the flaming time. “He said it was history. Said it would be a disaster if the letters made it into the public domain, that you would be very displeased.”
Her face is stoic, but there is something else there too, something I cannot quite read. And as infuriating as it is, I know I will get nothing from my mother if she knows something. And I have a feeling she does. “Like I said, it is not your place to pry in the King’s affairs.”
I close my eyes and pray for restraint. She knows something. When I mentioned letters, something changed in her. I admit defeat and swallow down my frustration, saying what I’m expected to say. “It’s probably nothing.”
“I expect so,” she agrees, smiling gently, her eyes wandering past my shoulder. I turn to find what has captured her attention, seeing Davenport. He clears his throat and gestures to the stairs. “Yes, yes,” I breathe, kissing mother’s cheek. I’m halfway up, Davenport on my tail, when my phone rings. I run the rest of the way, leaving the King’s private secretary knocked back by the gust of wind that my quick acceleration creates. “Josh,” I hiss down the line, moving around the landing to gain some distance from Davenport. “I’ve been trying to call you.”
“I know. I just came out of a meeting and picked up your calls. Everything okay?”
A meeting? He never mentioned a meeting. “Who were you meeting?”
“My publicist. You were right, I was wrong.” He sounds a little despondent.
“What do you mean? What happened?”
“What happened? I spent the day with the King of England. That’s what happened. Like I said, you were right and I was wrong. There’s not a fuckin’ chance in hell he’s going to give us his blessing.”
I flick my eyes across the landing, seeing Davenport waiting not so patiently for me at the top of the stairs, his foot tapping. “That bad?”
Josh laughs, but it is not a laugh of joy. It’s sarcastic. “Well, I was forced to listen to His Majesty and that David Sampson dick giving me every gory detail of your relationship with Haydon. Fuckin’ brilliant. Then I had the pleasure of listening to Haydon I’m-Perfect-For-Adeline Sampson reinforce it, with some added extras. Then I shot a few pretend birds and got an encore of all that torturous information. Did you know you will have two kids? One boy and one
girl. The boy will come first, followed quickly by a cute little girl. He doesn’t plan on giving you much of a break between the birth of your son and impregnating you again with a daughter.” He huffs his displeasure, while my eyes get gradually wider, alarmed. “I swear to God, Adeline, I was so close to turning my gun on that asshole and shooting something with a fuckin’ pulse. Pretend fuckin’ birds. Who the fuck shoots pretend fuckin’ birds?”
I bite my lip, trying to mentally choose my words carefully. I shouldn’t be surprised by the onslaught of information, and I’m not, not really, but what I am is mad. So mad that they discuss my story like it is already written. “Marvelous day, then,” I quip, at a loss for anything else to say. I hate this. My stomach is rolling with frustration and anger, knowing they’ve subjected Josh to that.
“I’ve just spoken to my PR team, here and in the States, and enlightened them on . . . well, on us.”
“You have?” I say a bit too loudly, causing Davenport’s eyebrow to rise, curiosity all over his face. I need to be careful.
“I have. We need to talk.”
I hate the fact that my back naturally stiffens and my panic increases. Have they advised him to abandon all hope? Have they convinced him I’m not worth the hassle? “What about?” I push my question out past my diminishing breathing, closing my eyes and turning away from Davenport in an attempt to hide the devastation creeping onto my features.
“Adeline?” Josh say quietly, his voice a little shaky. My dread rockets.
“Yes?” Please don’t say it, please don’t say it.
“I love you.”
“Oh, thank God.” I place my hand on the window frame before me and sag into it.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, it’s just . . . I thought that . . . I was afraid . . .” I shake my head, trying to toss all that negativity aside. “Never mind.”
“Don’t even think it.”
I half smile. “I’m sorry.” My apology is weak but sincere. “So what was discussed?”
“Me and you. About sharing our relationship with the world. Tactics. Strategy. That kind of thing.”
I’m in a relationship. It sounds so odd, but equally thrilling. “There’s a strategy? Like a plan?”
“It’s more preparations,” he says, assuring me. I can’t argue with that. Above everything, we need to be prepared, not only for the media frenzy, but for the backlash of the monarchy. “We’ll talk about it later.” Josh sounds determined, and I admire him for it. I think that perhaps spending all day with my kind of people, he’s grasped the gravity of our situation. But he is taking the bull by the horns, so to speak. Leading the way. It is a weight off my shoulders. I would take on my father on my own if I had to, but it makes the path ahead less daunting to know that Josh will be there to hold me up. “Where are you?” he asks.
“I’m at Claringdon. My father wants to see me.”
“What about?” The shift in his tone, from level to cautious, is distinct.
“I don’t know.”
He scoffs. “Probably to restrain you so that jerk can get a ring on your finger.”
“He’s not a jerk.” I feel the need to defend Haydon. He isn’t to blame for this mess.
“Or,” Josh goes on, his voice low, “it could be about a banker.”
I still, staring at the summer house nestled under some willow branches in the garden below. “What?”
“Oh, didn’t I mention that bit?” If I could see his face right now, it would be twisted in displeasure. “No?”
“No,” I squeak. He knows fine well he didn’t mention that part.
“Oh, yes. This Gerry Rush. He wants to see you. Or still wants to see you.” He pauses for a moment while I cringe. “I overheard a hushed conversation between the King and his advisors. Why didn’t you tell me about him?”
“I haven’t asked about your previous ex-lovers,” I retort indignantly, wondering if Gerry Rush is the reason I’m here. “What did you hear?”
“That you had an indiscretion. That he showed up at the polo match. He’s stalking you.”
“He is not stalking me.”
“He is stalking you.”
I don’t argue with him. It will only agitate him further. Looking over my shoulder, I see Davenport still waiting. “I had better go.”
“Call me when you’re done with King Shoot-a-Lot,’ he quips, and I laugh a little. “Oh, and Adeline?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t blurt out anything before we’ve spoken, no matter how tempting it might be to give him the proverbial middle finger. Do you hear me?”
“I’ve never given anyone the middle finger before,” I muse, looking at my hand. “I would love to give the King my first.”
“I want your first. Call me.” He hangs up, and I rest my shoulder on the frame, gazing out across the grounds, the sky as bright as my secret smile. He’s in my corner. He’s protecting me.
“Everything okay, ma’am?” Davenport asks. Not once in thirty years has he asked me that question.
“It will be,” I say, hoping I am right. My smile transforms into a scowl as I turn away from the window and stride across the huge landing to my father’s office, conjuring up every ounce of resilience I need.
Davenport taps and opens the door for me. “Her Royal Highness Princess Adeline,” he announces.
I immediately hate the scene before me. Hate it. The King is puffing away on a cigar, relaxed back in his big chair, and David and Sir Don are looking all cozy on the chesterfield, a tumbler of fine Scotch resting in their palms. Sir Don is twirling his glass casually and slowly, his gaze on that and that alone, regardless of the fact that I have just entered after being announced. And David? He’s relaxed back, looking self-important and cocky. What are they doing here?
“Your Majesty.” I bow my head with respect that I’m struggling hard to find, my middle finger twitching. I’d love to give David Sampson and Sir Don my second, right after thrusting my first at the King. “How was shooting this morning?”
“You’re leaving for Spain this evening.”
The bones in my neck crack when my head shoots up. “Pardon?”
“Spain. This evening.” His cigar breezes through the air, leaving a wave of swirling, putrid smoke in its wake. “Your mother’s family is eagerly awaiting your arrival.”
“I don’t understand. My trip to Madrid was scheduled for next month.”
“It’s been rescheduled. Kim has the details.” Turning his attention to David and Sir Don, he points to a document in his hand, shaking his head. “Constitutional nonsense. But it’s not like I can object. Imagine that. The King objecting his government’s plans.” He chuckles. “That would bamboozle the Eton boys, don’t you think?”
I ignore his attempt to dismiss me so easily. “What about Sabina’s husband’s funeral?” I step forward, digging through my scattered mind for more words of semi-reasonable refute. “Shouldn’t I be there? Haydon is depending on me.” I’ve just gone below the belt, and I have not a shred of remorse.
“Haydon will be traveling with you. You’ll be back in time for the funeral,” David pipes up, and my eyes widen.
Oh God, no.
There’s a brief silence, a look passing between the men. “It’s for your own good, Adeline,” my father says. “It’s time for you to take stock and think about your future with Haydon.”
“What?” Words, words I know I shouldn’t say, dance on the end of my tongue. Words about Josh. Words that will expose our relationship. I want to scream, but I quickly rein myself in, reminding myself of Josh’s warning. He and his team have a strategy. They’ve been preparing. Well, I hope that strategy involves keeping me off that plane this evening. “Why are you doing this?”
“I do not need to give you a reason. But you need to learn your place in this world.” My father is up from his desk, hands wedged into the wood. “It is to serve your country.”
I need to leave before my secrets come pouring out of me. All of t
hem. My jaw tight, aching from the tenseness, I pivot and storm out of his private office before I lose control of my mouth. I am not going to Spain. Not now, not ever.
I rush down the grand staircase and out of the door, desperate to escape the hell that is my life. Damon has the door held open for me when I arrive, as if he was fully expecting me to come running out. I drop into my seat and wait for him to get in the car. “The King is sending me to Spain,” I tell him, gazing out of the window. “With Haydon Sampson.”
“I’ve heard.”
I sigh, letting my body sink into the leather behind me, my mind ready to explode. “Home please, Damon.”
“Afraid not, ma’am.” Damon stops at the gates of Claringdon as they open, and instead of looking at me through the reflection of the mirror, he turns his big body in the seat, swallowing hard. “I have instructions to take you straight to the airport.”
“What?” I dive forward, narrowly missing Damon’s forehead with my own. “From whom?”
“His Royal Highness King Alfred of England.” He delivers my father’s full title, as if to serve as a reminder that his hands are tied. My heart sinks. I’ve been backed into a corner.
“What about my things? I need to pack.” When we get to Kellington, I’ll disappear. Hide. Scale the walls that are topped with glass shards if I have to. The King can’t fire Damon for being given the slip. I breathe out and retract that thought. That’s not true. The King can fire whoever he damn well pleases.
“Your luggage has been seen to.” Damon’s face is full of apologies, and my sinking heart plummets into my feet. “It’s in the car.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“Ma’am, I’m afraid you don’t have a choice, and neither do I.” He turns back in his seat and drives on, and with every precious second that passes, my anxiety grows, my flesh physically hurting from the chills spreading at a ferocious rate. And poor Damon. I can see he’s not happy about this unscheduled overseas trip.
“Damon, please, I . . .” My plea dies on my lips when a text drops, and I look down, my struggle for calm breaths getting the better of me.