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

by Melanie Summers

  Ben pulls in behind the palace, and I get out, not waiting for him to open the door. I thank him and Ollie, then jog up the steps. Inside, my legs wobble under the weight of what has just happened. I start for the vault to return the ring but end up back in my apartment instead, sitting on the couch, staring at it while Dexter nudges me for some pets.

  “Now what, Dexter?”

  ****

  It’s been two weeks since we’ve seen or spoken with each other. I told myself I wouldn’t beg, and I haven’t. But now I’m starting to question the sanity of that declaration. I mean, if a little begging is the difference between a lifetime of love and spending the rest of it without her, maybe I should swallow my pride…

  I stare at my mobile phone. Hmm. Still no messages from her. I push the button on my intercom, and Vincent answers.

  “I need you to send me a test text.”

  “Again, sir?”

  “Yes, again. There’s definitely something wrong with my phone.”

  Vincent clears his throat. “Perhaps you should just try calling her.”

  “What? Do you think this has something to do with…no, no. I’m just very certain this phone isn’t receiving all incoming messages,” I say, my face burning with humiliation.

  My cell makes a loud ping, and I look down to see a text from Vincent.

  If you say so, Prince Arthur.

  “Did you get it?” Vincent asks.

  “No, nothing. See?”

  “Are you quite certain? I distinctly heard a ping,” he says. “Perhaps I could order a lovely bouquet of roses to send her? Or some chocolates from Bernard Thebault’s shop?”

  “Oh, just got the text now. That will be all, thank you.”

  ****

  Shock. That’s the way to call her bluff. I’ll tell her we need to announce the cancellation of the wedding, and she’ll come running back.

  Text from Me to Tessa: I need to speak with you.

  Her: You can call me now. Everyone else has gone for lunch so the office is empty.

  I dial her number and hold the phone to my ear, my heart in my throat as I wait for her to pick up.

  “Hi.” Her voice gives nothing away.

  “Hi, how’ve you been?”

  “Surviving. You?”

  “Same.” I swallow the urge to launch into a ten-minute monologue on how much I miss her. “I was wondering if we could meet somewhere. We need to sort out how to handle the break-up in the media.”

  “Oh. Right,” she says. “I don’t think meeting in person is such a good idea. Can we do it over the phone?”

  “Of course.” But then I can’t look at your lovely face again.

  “I guess we need to draft up some sort of official statement about canceling the wedding.”

  Dammit. That didn’t work at all. She’s the one who brought it up. “Yes. I could have Vincent do it…if it’s too difficult.”

  “Maybe that would be for the best. I’m sure he’ll know just how to phrase it.”

  “He will.”

  “Just promise me one thing.”

  “Anything.”

  “No mention of ‘conscious uncoupling,’” she says with a hint of a joke in her voice.

  I smile, and for a moment it feels like we’re us again. “Are you quite sure? I was thinking of calling Gwyneth to help find the most obnoxious phrase possible.”

  Tessa laughs, and the sound nearly breaks me.

  “Is there anything else?”

  “Yes.” Let’s get back together and have a palace full of children and live happily ever after. “Shall I have someone drop off Chester at your house? He misses you terribly.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “He used the little blue rocks on the bottom of his bowl to spell out your name.”

  Tessa rewards me with another loud laugh. Hope ripples through me until she speaks again. “Would you mind keeping him? Or maybe Troy could take him. I’m afraid Mr. Whiskers will turn him into a snack.”

  “He can stay here. I just didn’t want to get sued for custody.”

  No laugh. That might have been offside. I said I wouldn’t beg, but hearing her voice is too much. I have to try. “Tess, this doesn’t have to be—”

  “My workmates are just getting back,” she says. “So, if there’s nothing else, I should let you go.”

  “Righto. Nothing else.” Except that I won’t ever stop loving you.

  ****

  “Your Highness, I’m afraid Baz is here,” Vincent says.

  “Who?” I look up from the paragraph I’ve been reading over and over.

  “Sebastian. The wedding planner.”

  “Oh Christ. What does he want?”

  “It seems Ms. Sharpe won’t return his team’s correspondence. He’s quite annoyed, actually.”

  Sighing, I put my pen down. “Show him in.”

  Vincent nods and starts to leave, then stops. “Is there anything I should know, Your Highness? About the wedding?”

  I pick up my pen and look back down at the agreement. “Oh, yes. It’s off.”

  There is a long pause before Vincent says, “Very good, sir.” His tone doesn’t match his words.

  A moment later, Baz rushes into my office. “Why does he always wreak of Parmesan?”

  “I hadn’t noticed.” I gesture for him to take a seat.

  He sits down and gives me a skeptical look.

  “You needed to see me?”

  “When you’ve been in the business for as long as I have, you develop a nose for trouble. Small things others wouldn’t notice that don’t escape your attention.”

  “The wedding is off.”

  “Off as in postponed, or off as in it’s never going to happen?”

  “The second one.”

  “And you didn’t think maybe I should know?”

  “I was hoping for a different result.”

  “And that isn’t going to happen?”

  “I’m afraid not, so if there’s nothing else, I really have a lot of work this morning. I can have Vincent show you out.”

  “So, I’ll start the dismantling process?”

  “Sure, whatever you want to call it.”

  “Are you making an official statement, or should I?”

  “I’ll take care of it. For now, say nothing.”

  He gets up and shakes his head. “Can’t say I’m surprised. Marrying down only works if it’s one or two rungs on the ladder. Not if you have to climb down a mountain to find your bride.”

  The look on my face sends him scurrying out the door, leaving me alone with this awful feeling that has followed me everywhere. I stand and walk to the window, staring out at the city across the river. Somewhere over there is the woman I love, and the fact that I don’t know where she is, what she’s doing, or how she’s feeling might very well kill me.

  Unable to take being in my office for another minute, I decide to go for a nice, long run. As I pass by Vincent’s desk, I stop.

  “Cancel my next two hours. I need to get out for a while.”

  “Very good, Your Highness.”

  I pick up a gold-plated paperweight on his desk and fiddle with it, trying to force the words out of my mouth. “Also, I’ll need you to draft up an official statement canceling the wedding.”

  He freezes for the slightest moment, then quickly recovers, saying, “Yes, of course. I’ll have it for you when you get back.”

  “Excellent. Thank you.” I place the paperweight back down and walk away without looking at him.

  ****

  I seat myself at the conference table and put my phone on my lap so I can keep an eye on the Twitter feed. Damien sits directly across from me, Vincent to my left, my father at the head of the table. Several other assistants and advisors fill the other chairs. My father, who is drinking tea for once, has a sip, then turns to Damien, who is too busy on his phone to notice the glare he’s getting.

  My
phone buzzes, and I see it’s a shitty tweet from @IHateTessa. It’s been days since The Countess of Catastrophes has done anything stupid. Let’s see how long she can keep up this streak. #BrookeIsBetter

  Father clears his throat, and Damien snaps to attention. “Yes, let’s get started. We need to discuss the many objections to this agreement with Spain. It’s imperative we find a way to offset…”

  His words float to the background as I think of a retort. Trying to be as subtle as possible, I type: @IHateTessa At least she knows how to have fun. You probably haven’t left your mother’s basement in years. #TessaIsTops

  I press the tweet button, then return my attention to my father, who is saying, “…if we give a tax break to the wool exporters, we’ll have to offer one to the…

  Ping. The sound comes from Damien’s phone. He immediately looks down, shakes his head, and starts to type.

  I watch for a moment as he finishes whatever he’s typing, then feel my phone buzz. Looking down I see a tweet: @WeLoveTessa Oh, yes, she’s accomplished so much. Her idiocy has caused serious problems for the wool exporters. Likely that the gov’t will have to provide tax breaks now.

  That twatwaffle! He is so getting fired. I stare him down for a moment, then type one word: Busted and press tweet.

  Damien’s phone pings, and he looks down at it, his face blanching. When he looks back up at me, I run my tongue over my teeth while I think of what to do with him.

  My father, who has clearly figured out that some of the students aren’t paying attention in class, says, “I’m trying to run a kingdom here, so if you two wouldn’t mind not fucking around, it would be greatly appreciated.”

  Ignoring my father, I stare at Damien, then say, “Give me your phone now.”

  “I will not.”

  “You will. That is property of the Royal Family.”

  “Arthur, he doesn’t have to give it to you. It’s enough that he shuts it off for the rest of the meeting,” Father says. He then turns to Damien. “Honestly, I’d expect this kind of malarkey from one of Arthur’s staff, but not you.”

  “Hand it over. Now.” I stretch my arm out, but Damien clutches his phone to his chest.

  “Arthur, what is this about?” my father asks.

  “It’s him. He’s @IHateTessa.”

  “Don’t be absurd. Damien’s been in my employ for over twenty years. He would never do something so foolish.”

  “But he did, and he is.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Hand him the bloody phone, Damien, so you can prove him wrong and we can get this bloody meeting over with.”

  Damien sighs and looks at my father. “There’s no point. He’s right.”

  Holy shit, I’m right! I don’t know whether to be happy I’ve solved the mystery or leap over the table and choke the life out of him. I glance at my father, whose mouth is hanging agape in a most un-regal way. “Why would you?”

  “I thought you wanted me to, Your Majesty. You said it yourself, ‘She’ll bring down the monarchy with her ridiculous antics.’ I couldn’t allow that. I thought if there was enough public pressure, the prince would call it off. Or perhaps Ms. Sharpe would have the sense to do it, but it would seem her lack of shame knows no bounds.”

  I turn to Ollie. “Please strip Damien of his keys and security passes and escort him out of the palace immediately.”

  Ollie walks over and stands behind Damien’s chair. Damien looks at my father. “You can’t let him do this. I was only trying to protect the family.”

  My father shakes his head. “I never meant for you to do anything like this. Do you know what kind of scandal you’d have brought on the family if the media caught wind of this?”

  “I didn’t think anyone would find out, Your Majesty. And no one would have, had your son not been doing the exact same thing.”

  “It’s entirely different,” I say, feeling more than a little sheepish. “I was defending the future queen.”

  “Arthur, you’ve been engaged in his insanity?” Father asks.

  “I have, although I’m not proud of it.”

  Shaking his head, he says, “I’m going to have to live forever, because I think it’ll take that long for you to grow up.” He nods at Ollie. “Please escort Damien out.”

  “Wait,” I say, holding up my hand. “I need to know who you got the photos from.”

  Damien glares at me. “I’m not inclined to say.”

  My father raises one eyebrow. “Then I’m not inclined to give you a good reference.”

  Damien closes his eyes for a moment, then says, “Lady Beddingfield.”

  “Brooke?!” I ask, my gut twisting with betrayal.

  “Her mother. Dr. Beddingfield had no idea.”

  I won’t go into this bit because Damien starts to plead, and it’s all rather pathetic. Instead, I’ll skip forward a bit to when Vincent and I return to my office after the meeting.

  “Will there be anything else, Your Highness?”

  “No, thank you, Vincent. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “If I may ask…all the trips to the washroom?”

  “Tweeting. Told you there was nothing wrong with my prostate.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, Your Highness.”

  ****

  “Your Highness, wake up.”

  A waft of bleu cheese and coffee causes me to wince. I groan and roll over, remembering this is the day we’ll officially announce that the wedding is off, which will undoubtedly spark a frenzy of media speculation and a flurry of celebratory tweets from the IHateTessa people. Let the unending humiliation begin. “I’m not going to work out today, Vincent. Please tell Ollie not to wait for me.”

  “I’m afraid you need to get up, Your Highness. It’s your grandmum.” Something in his tone brings me to life. I sit up without warning my dehydrated, hungover brain, and it pounds in defiance.

  “What happened?”

  “She’s been taken to the hospital. It’s her heart.”

  I get up and rub my eyes, not caring that I’m nude in front of Vincent. He’s seen it before. He turns and sets the tray on the night table, then pours me a coffee while I hurry to the en suite to wash up. “Is it serious?”

  What a daft question. Of course, it’s serious. She’s been taken to the bloody hospital. She never goes near a hospital if she can help it. Gran says it’s the best place to get really ill.

  “We don’t have much information yet, but she’s in stable condition.”

  Two minutes later, I’m in a suit, knowing I’ll be expected to look and act the part of the future ruler. Strong. Stoic. In control. None of which I feel at the moment.

  Vincent hands me the mug and two Advil.

  “How did you know I’m hungover?”

  “The empty beer bottles lined up on your coffee table.”

  “Right. Thanks for the pick-me-up.”

  “Of course. Princess Arabella is also dressing. She’ll meet you at the front entrance so you can ride over together.”

  I nod and hurry off. “Is Troy here yet?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Will you—”

  “Yes. I’ll watch Dexter until he arrives.”

  “Thank you. Not sure what I’d do without you.”

  The entire ride to the hospital is a blur. Arabella fights tears and stares out the window while my brain pounds, not letting words of comfort and hope through to my tongue. All I really want to do is call Tessa so she can be by my side right now. I’ve never needed anyone more than I do her, now.

  Arabella clears her throat. “Will Tessa meet us there?”

  I shake my head. “Things are not exactly good between us at the moment.”

  I stare out the window but can feel her eyes on me.

  “Define ‘not exactly good.’”

  “The ring is sitting at the bottom of Chester’s fish bowl right now.”

  “Oh, Arthur. Should I be sorry for you or angry with y
ou?”

  “Both.”

  The car stops behind the hospital, and Ollie gets out, along with Bellford, Arabella’s guard, who is now back on duty, having recovered from his Ibiza arse injury. They get out, and Ollie goes inside while Bellford opens the back door for us. One of my grandmother’s attendants meets us and walks us to the cardiac and stroke ward without a word of information or comfort. We’re taken to an empty hospital room and told that Gran is having tests done. Arabella takes my hand. I squeeze hers to let her know I’m here for her before I lead her to the only chair in the room and gesture for her to take a seat. I stand next to her, waiting and hoping.

  In a lot of ways, Gran has been more of a parent to us than our own father. She’s always there with a snarky comment and some sage advice, but praise, too. And love. So much love.

  We wait in silence for what could be five minutes or two hours. Finally, the door swings open and Gran is wheeled in on a bed. She looks so pale, I can almost see through her skin. Her hands are bruised and have IV needles bandaged to them. She opens her eyes and purses her lips when she sees us. “Oh, for God’s sake. Don’t look so distraught. It’s just a mild heart attack.”

  After the orderly parks her bed and leaves, Arabella breaks down in loud sobs as she stands and hurries to Gran’s side. I go with her and brush my hand along Gran’s cheek. “You’re cold. Let me call for more blankets.”

  I push the call button on the wall.

  “Thank you.” Her voice is weak, and she closes her eyes for another moment. “Arabella, really, dear. You need to pull it together, child. There’s a very handsome doctor I want you to meet, and you mustn’t have a blotchy, puffy face.”

  Arabella lets out a surprised laugh. “Okay. I’ll stop. It’s just that you look so small and fragile.”