The Crown Jewels Boxed Set (A Crown Jewels Romantic Comedy Series)

by Melanie Summers

  “A little, but I’m sure you’ll see that the reasoning was sound,” I say.

  “And what would that be?” I can picture him looking over his reading glasses at me with disdain.

  “To turn her into a fan.”

  “So, how’s that going? Did you impress her knickers off yet?”

  “Not yet, but I will.”

  He sighs. “Do I need to come back and do it for you?”

  That thought makes me throw up in my mouth a little. “No need. Stay where you are…in Bali?”

  “Thailand.”

  “Whatever. It’s all under control.”

  “No, it’s not. You’ve let a snake into the hen house. I’m making arrangements to come home early.”

  Click.

  That went well, don’t you think?

  ***

  “I don’t know, Arthur. Just because I’m a woman, doesn’t mean I’d understand the likes of her.” Arabella is at her desk, going over seating arrangements for an upcoming People for Animals luncheon she’s hosting.

  I flop down into a chair opposite her. “Come on, help me out here, sis. For the good of the family…and your sad little homeless animals that you worry about so much.” I give her my best puppy dog eyes, knowing how well they work on her.

  She sighs and drops her shoulders. “Fine. I take it the usual crap didn’t work on her.”

  “Not even a little.”

  She sets down the sheet she’s holding and narrows her eyes at me. “You’re not going to like it.”

  “Father’s coming home, and I need to have this situation under control before he gets here.”

  “Oh,” she sighs. “All right. As much as I hate to admit it, Ms. Sharpe is smart and cunning. She’s well-educated politically. But beyond that, she’s a person who cares about other people. Not us, of course, because she can’t see us as human beings. We’re more like two-dimensional villains in a Bond movie to her, as unfair as that is.”

  “Okay, so…”

  “You,” she pauses and rolls her eyes, “are going to have to show her we’re human. Connect with her. You’ll have to be prepared to let her see the real you. Not the arrogant, cocky prince, but the serious and somewhat vulnerable man.”

  “Not possible. There really is nothing to me besides the arrogance and cockiness.”

  “Fine. Go ask Mr. Blue Cheese. Maybe he’ll know how to handle her.” She picks up her seating chart again and lifts it so I can’t see her face. “You’re coming to the luncheon on Sunday, right?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Bring her. And do your best to look affected.”

  “I’ll give it a whirl.” I get up, completely disappointed to be no further ahead than I was before I came in.

  “Arthur?”

  I turn and see Arabella staring up at me. “You really are so much more than you let on. I know it’s a huge risk to let anyone—especially her—see that side of you, but at this point I don’t think you’ve got any other choice.”

  “But I should at least try taking her horseback riding first, right?”

  Arabella laughs at my stupid joke. “Get out, you idiot.”

  TWELVE

  Things I Can’t Admit Out Loud

  Tessa

  It’s Sunday morning, and I finally have time to myself to think. The last several days have been so busy, I’ve barely had time to sleep, let alone record my observations with any type of accuracy. I follow Arthur through what is now one big, confusing blur of activities, dinners, meetings, and receptions. We rush from obligation to obligation, with his day being planned down to the minute. I try to blend into the background and watch Arthur at work, but it’s difficult. My fifteen minutes of Internet fame aren’t quite up yet, so I find myself fielding questions about the Shock Jogger by those who don’t realize that I’m also that awful Royal Watchdog woman. Those who do realize who I am either glare or make little comments under their breath about me.

  Speaking of glaring, I haven’t run into Arabella again, which has been a bit of a relief, quite frankly. Delicate, my arse! That girl is about as delicate as an elephant gun. More deadly, too. I haven’t seen the Princess Dowager either, which is sort of a shame really, since at least she was fun, even if she does only like me under false pretenses.

  Since our conversation in the kitchen the other morning, Arthur and I have managed to maintain a professional decorum, which is definitely what I want. I don’t want any confusion or unwanted feelings that will cause me to lose my objectivity. There’s a strange warm sensation when Arthur looks at me, but other than that, I’m doing rather well, if I do say so myself. Except when I find myself staring at him with my jaw hanging down, as happens more frequently than I’d care to admit. Like when I see him in a suit that I haven’t before (which is every day, really), or when he smiles, or when he’s concentrating and his eyebrows crinkle up just a bit, or when he’s laughing. I bet that’s why my mouth has been dry all the time.

  Note to self: keep lips together whilst in presence of Arthur to avoid dry mouth.

  Mavis, the housekeeper assigned to my room, has arranged for my breakfasts to be brought to me on the pretense of needing extra time to get ready in the morning. She also has stocked my room with snacks, leaving me no reason to leave my room in the middle of the night again. This allows me to avoid time alone with Arthur, which is for the best. It’s bad enough that I have the image of that ripped, sweaty body rolling around in my mind every time I shut my eyes. I can’t risk another similar sighting of what could very well be a body so amazing that it could be considered a mythological phenomenon. No one who hasn’t seen it would believe it exists. I tried to describe it to Nikki on the phone on Friday, but I could tell she couldn’t quite grasp the magnitude of the hotness. Now I know how frustrating it must be for those people who’ve seen the Loch Ness monster.

  So far, the family and their duties are very much what I expected. Charitable work that is done in the public eye and among people who also want credit for good deeds. This morning, the family has gone out to church, and I opted to stay back and get caught up on my work. Somehow, it would seem wrong for me to observe them when they are in a house of prayer.

  I’m sitting up in bed, tapping away on my laptop as the sun shines in my window. The weather has changed, almost overnight, and now brings the scents and sounds of spring. I’m planning to go for a quick run around the palace grounds, and then take a long bath before this afternoon gets busy again. I had a peek at tomorrow’s itinerary, and my feet hurt already just thinking about it. The endless standing and rushing around in heels almost has me pulling out my granny shoes again, but somehow the thought of wearing them in front of Arthur makes my stomach drop. Not that I care what he thinks of me, because I don’t.

  The questions from readers for the Royal Family are really piling up now. It seems that since I started this “Ask the Royals Anything” forum, I’m attracting a host of royal fans to the site. So, not my usual crowd, although my regulars are still there, thank God. Today’s questions are ridiculous, and I’m pretty sure, based on the time of posting, that most of them are from lonely, drunk women who were scouring the Internet for shirtless photos of Arthur last night.

  “What type of underwear does His Highness, Prince Arthur wear?” Nope.

  “What workout does Arthur do to stay in shape?” Okay, maybe.

  “How is Dexter and can we see some videos of him with the Prince?” Not exactly hard-hitting, but not a disaster.

  “What does Arthur sleep in? The nude? Boxer briefs?” I wonder…wait, no I don’t.

  “Why don’t you all just get jobs and stop sponging off all of us poor people?” Yes! This.

  “My name is Danni. I met Arabella at Tiffany’s once. I sold her a set of gold earrings. Does she remember me?”

  “How old is the Princess Dowager, and is she really dying? I heard she’s dying, but I’m not sure if that’s just a rumour or if it’s just because
she’s so old.” Poor taste.

  ***

  Mavis has just brought in my breakfast. I really have to say, I’m going to miss her, even though she doesn’t seem to like me, and I do feel guilty about allowing people to serve me while I lounge in bed. But damn, these crepes are to die for. They have the perfect amount of warm chocolate sauce drizzled along the tops so that you get a bit with every mouth-watering bite.

  Now to check my personal messages, which I have yet again been neglecting for days.

  Text from Lars: Tess, Nina says she still hasn’t heard back from you about that whole visit to the palace thing. Can you please call her as soon as possible? She’s going to end up going into labour early if she doesn’t hear soon.

  Text from Nikki: Has the wallpaper in your bathroom always been peeling at the top? I’m worried I’ve been having too many baths. It was peeling before I got here, yes?

  Voicemail from Daniel Fitzwilliam, owner of Wellbits: Ms. Sharpe, I have not yet received a reply to my three previous emails. Again, I need you to contact me immediately so we can find a way to mitigate the damage done by your video. If I don’t hear back from you, I will be forced to take legal action.

  Voicemail from Mum: Hello, Twinkle, it’s Mum. Call me about Sunday. I’m heading to the shop to get groceries, and I need to know how many people I’m cooking for. Oh, and Nina said not to get the boys Lego anything this year. Apparently, they’ve started leaving it in strategic spots around the house to catch robbers, and Lars almost broke his ankle when he stepped on some in the middle of the night last night. Oh, and none of that Moon Putty stuff either because they keep leaving it in their pockets and Nina’s had to have the repair man over twice to fix the washing mach—

  Text from Nikki: Does super glue work on walls?

  Voicemail from Dad: Tessa, I’m heading to The Frog and Keg tonight. Any word on those tractors?

  Text from Nikki: have sppr glued eyelshes to eylid. headng to hosptl.

  Voicemail from Mum: If you are coming for dinner on Sunday, can you pick up some of that cheese from that place I like? I thought I’d make a lovely fondue.

  Text from Nikki: Back from hospital. Wearing eye patch for the next three days but am happy have not gone blind. Googling way to remove super glued wallpaper from wall. Apparently, it bubbles if you use too much. Not to worry, though. I’ll have it fixed before you get home. I promise.

  ***

  Conversation via Facebook Messenger between myself and KingSlayer99…

  KingSlayer99: How’s it going at the palace? I can’t wait to see what you’ve got on them by now.

  Me: So far, I’m still searching for our silver bullet, but I know it’s here somewhere and you’ll be the first to know.

  KingSlayer99: It’s there, and if anyone can find it, it’s you, Tessa.

  Me: Let’s hope so. Failure is not an option. How’s your son’s earache? Is he feeling better?

  KingSlayer99: Much better, thank you. That warm olive oil treatment you suggested worked like a charm.

  Me: Glad to hear it. Don’t thank me. My mum’s the one who told me about it.

  KingSlayer99: But you passed it along. Very thoughtful of you. BTW, you won’t fail. Just make sure you don’t let those bastards lull you into thinking they’re decent people, because they’re NOT. I know you, and deep down, you’re too good a person to last long with a pack of liars like the Spoiled Family.

  Me: Fear not. I won’t be fooled. I know who they are.

  KingSlayer99: I have every faith that you will complete the mission on behalf of us all. I was thinking maybe after you finally take them down, we should celebrate. I could come to Valcourt when it’s my ex’s week with Quin. I’d like to take you for dinner to celebrate your success. You’re pretty much my biggest modern-day hero. You’re the most beautiful and intelligent woman – no – person to ever live in Avonia.

  Me: You’re too kind. Yes, a dinner would be grand. We should invite all the members of the Facebook group and make a night of it!

  KingSlayer99: That’s not exactly what I had in mind, but it sounds fun, too.

  Oh, dear…

  THIRTEEN

  Too Many Movies

  Arthur

  A knock at the door wakes Dexter from a dead sleep. He’s on my bed—I know it’s a little gross, you don’t have to tell me—and grunts in irritation at being disturbed. I, however, am not irritated at all. I am hopeful that the hand that did that knocking belongs to one Ms. Tessa Sharpe.

  I stride across the room and open the door, ready to say, “Is this a booty call?” but when I see who it is, my face falls.

  Damien stands before me with a large yellow envelope. “Sorry to call so late, Your Highness. The investigator has returned his report on Ms. Sharpe.”

  “Ah, thank you.” A twinge of guilt hits me. Now that I’ve gotten to know her a little, this seems somehow wrong. Especially after all the flirting and the fact that she’s not the completely evil witch that I thought she’d be. She’s a little bit goofy and vulnerable underneath that tough-girl act, and even though I shouldn’t, I like her. “Anything interesting?”

  “You’ll easily be able to maneuver her in the necessary direction with what he’s found out.”

  “Should it come to that.” I take the envelope. “Let’s hope it won’t.”

  “Anyone else have copies?”

  He pauses, and I can tell he’s trying to figure out what I’m about. “Do you mean, have I sent this to your father?”

  “No, I meant what I asked.” God, Damien, I’m not an idiot. You can’t lead me into one of your traps.

  “The investigator keeps records of everything. I took the liberty of copying it as well, just in case.” He gives me a mealy-mouthed smile. I stare at his chin for a second. Not one whisker. How?

  I walk across to the living room and flop down onto the couch. Damien sits across from me on an armchair.

  After a half-hour, I know everything there is to know about Tessa Adelaide Sharpe from her bra size (a very delightful 34C), first pet’s name (which I shall not share with you, as she probably still uses it for passwords), to every grade she’s ever gotten in school. There’s a particularly useful online dating profile that she filled out almost three years ago but then deleted. It holds the cheat codes to her heart.

  Tessa Sharpe

  Age: Twenty-five

  Occupation: Journalist at major newspaper

  Interests: I love photography, running (especially on the beach), yoga, reading, dancing the night away with friends, watching romantic comedies but they must be well-done and have an excellent plot. I also enjoy a good mystery book or film. My favourite music is pop, especially Pink and U2.

  People I dislike tend to: be lazy, overly critical, or sponge off others.

  People I like tend to: be kind, make their own way in the world, and work hard.

  Favourite Food: Jelly Babies – world’s best candy. And crisps, any flavour will do.

  Biggest dreams: To one day be an award-winning journalist or writer. To see the world. To find someone who will understand me and love me unconditionally.

  Biggest fears: Sometimes it feels as though the world is spinning too fast and that life is going to pass me by without me having really lived or enjoyed it.

  My dream date would include: Doing something active like rock-climbing, going for a long bike ride or hike, followed by great conversation over an unhurried, delicious meal. Then we could sip some wine while watching the sunset, and then who knows?

  What I’m looking for in a man: Someone fun, honest, caring, energetic, and hard-working to share my life with. It matters less to me that he makes a lot of money and more that he is passionate about his work. I am hoping to find a true partnership with a man who will be supportive of my dreams—even when I fail—and who will let me do the same for him.

  Huh. I don’t know whether to be impressed or skeptical. What woman really wants a man who is pass
ionate about his work but makes no money? I call bullshit. She also seems to have an obsession with finding a hard-working fellow, which makes me wonder if her father is a real deadbeat. The funniest part is the bit where she claims to dislike people who are ‘overly critical.’ Ding! Ding! Hypocrite alert! But none of that really matters in the end, does it? What matters is that I now have an excellent jumpstart on ‘Operation Impress the Knickers Off the Royal Watchdog.’

  I flip to the next page in the dossier that lists her former relationships.

  Damien is so excited that he looks like a five-year-old who has to pee. “She had a brief affair with Barrett Richfield when she was working for The Daily Times. Ended with him engaged to Helena Jones and Ms. Sharpe out on her arse.”

  The thought of her sleeping with a bottom feeder like Richfield makes my blood turn cold. “So, she quit when he dumped her?”

  “No. He fired her.” Damien is positively radiant right now, glowing like a spring bride.

  “Why didn’t she sue?”

  “Who knows? Couldn’t stomach the humiliation, maybe.”

  I shrug, pretending I’m not in the least affected by this infuriating story. Because I shouldn’t be, should I? “Not exactly usable information, is it?”

  “It wouldn’t be if it weren’t for the fact that she’s been trying to get on at another paper or news program since she was let go. But she’s been completely out of luck, which is our gain.” He rubs his little hands together. “There’s nothing easier than using someone’s dreams against them.”

  “Not against her. In our favour.” My heart drops. I really don’t want to do this, but all’s fair in love and war, right? Although, this is low, even for us. “Damien, I’d like to make sure that no one finds out about any of this.”

  “No one will. I’ll see to it.” He stands. “It would render her completely useless to us.”

  He leaves, and I sit staring at everything I need to both win her over and screw her over. I should be elated, but somehow having it in my hand makes me sick. Ruining her life like that, for my own gain. Although I really shouldn’t feel bad, since she has been trying to ruin mine for years now.