The Royal Arrangement: Prequel to The Rebel Queen

by Jeana E. Mann

  “Take off your sunglasses.” I slide across the seat until my leg touches hers. When she doesn’t react, I ease the frames down her nose and tuck them into my breast pocket. “That’s better.” She lifts her gaze to mine, slowly, like she’s afraid I’ll see her thoughts. I run a finger along the side of her face. “Is this the thing you spoke of yesterday?”

  “You can’t tell a soul. Promise me.” Desperation rings in her words.

  “I promise.” I pull one of her hands into mine and run a thumb over the ridge of her knuckles. She’s offering me a wealth of information on a silver platter. Only a fool would turn it away. “Whatever we talk about stays inside this car. You have my word.”

  “I saw Father with Lavender on the night she died. We fought about it. I threatened to tell Mom. He said he’d end it. The next day she was dead.” Deep furrows form across her brow. “I have to go to the police, don’t I?”

  It takes a few seconds for the meaning of her confession to sink in. Don McElroy framed Roman for the murder to get him under control. I exhale and let my head fall back against the seat. Things have gotten much too complicated, but matters might be turning in my favor. A murder investigation and subsequent indictment would keep Don busy—too busy to interfere in Androvian business. “That’s your decision to make, but if you do, you have to be prepared for the consequences.”

  “No one will believe it.” Her voice is soft and remorseful. “But I can’t let Rourke and Roman suffer for something my father did.”

  “Let’s walk through what will happen.” I find her other hand and pull both of them onto the tops of my thighs. The concern in her eyes makes my heart squeeze. A woman with less compassion—a woman like Kitty—wouldn’t care about her best friend’s welfare or the repercussions to the nation. But Everly isn’t any woman. “You call the police and tell them the whole story. If they believe you and the evidence supports your theory, they’ll set Roman free and pick up your father. If they don’t, Roman goes to prison, and your father walks away. Either way, he’s going to be very angry with you.”

  “I know. I’ve thought about this from every angle, but I don’t see another option.”

  Watching the pain on her face starts a war inside me. I have Roman’s alibi. My statement, combined with Everly’s knowledge, would be enough to free Roman and put Don McElroy in the hot seat. If I come forward, Androvia will suffer, and I’m not quite sure any woman is worth the welfare of my subjects.

  “This is me.” She tugs her hands free, gathers her purse, and slides toward the door as the car comes to a stop in front of her office. The worry in her blue eyes slices through my chest.

  “Nothing is going to happen right away. Take tonight and think about it.” I tilt her face up to mine, wishing I could break my rule and kiss her.

  “I will.” Our gazes meet. A small smile curves her lips, one that doesn’t reach her eyes. She cups my cheek in her hand. The softness of her palm resurrects the sleeping giant inside my trousers. “Thank you for everything, Your Highness.”

  The driver opens the door. The sounds of the city flood into the car; honking horns, the hum of traffic, occasional shouts. I let her go, the contracts still in my lap. The door thuds closed behind her. I make the driver wait until she’s safely in the building before we leave. Once the car is in motion, I rip the folder in half and toss it aside. Shasta was right. This relationship isn’t going to work out for either of us.

  13

  HENRY

  * * *

  The phone rings a few minutes before the butler comes in to wake me for the day. I clutch my dick in my hand, my head swimming with fantasies of Everly. It’s been over thirty-six hours since the last time I saw her and less than a minute since I last thought about her. Darkness blankets the hotel suite. The caller ID flashes with a name that chills my insides. Rupert, Chief Minister of the Inner Cabinet, would only call me at this hour for one reason. Before I answer, I draw in a last, steadying breath. Once I respond, my world changes forever.

  “What’s going on?” As I speak, I swing my legs to the floor. The soft fibers of the Turkish rug tickle the bottoms of my feet. I dig my toes into the plushness and wait for my uncle’s reply.

  “It’s your father. I’m sorry, Henry. He’s dead.”

  Shock knocks the grogginess from my brain. “Pardon?” Is this some kind of nightmare? I wait for the pain to sink in, but it never arrives. It's hard to grieve over a father known for his cruelty and greed. Instead, I feel guilty for not caring enough and shame for my lack of devastation. I'm a horrible son. “How? Do you know what happened?”

  “A sniper picked him off the deck of his yacht. His mistress is fine but shaken. She’s being questioned now. You need to come home right away.”

  Memories of my father play on a loop through my head. When I was a child, I craved his approval. He had seemed larger than life back then, a boisterous but handsome man with limitless power at his disposal. As an adult, I loathed his narcissism. Despite our differences, I never wished an untimely death for him. I’m filled with sorrow for the loss of his life and the knowledge that we’ll never have the opportunity to reconcile.

  “Henry? Are you there?”

  “Yes. Of course.” I jump to my feet, searching for my trousers and a shirt. “Did they catch the shooter?”

  “No. Whoever did it was a professional. No witnesses. No leads. We’re working with Greek officials, but they aren't cooperative.”

  “How’s Mother?” Not surprisingly, she couldn’t be bothered to deliver the news herself. We’ve never spoken on the phone before—not when my youngest sister died of leukemia, not when I graduated from university, not ever.

  “She’s as well as can be expected under the circumstances.” He pauses. Delicate innuendo thickens the silence, allowing me to read between the lines. In other words, she’s wallowing in the bottom of a wine glass. “You need to get here as soon as possible. We need to make funeral arrangements, notify dignitaries and the royal court. Plans need to be made for your coronation.”

  The royal countdown clock begins to tick, marking the last precious seconds of my freedom. I’m not prepared. I thought I had years, not days. McElroy’s conversation echoes through my head. That bastard. In my heart, I know he’s responsible for Father’s death. I shove a hand through my hair, trying to steady my nerves. “I need to tie up loose ends here, then I’ll be on my way. A day or two at the max.”

  “Time is of the essence. Until you’re home, the throne is vulnerable. Whoever did this has a political agenda. I warned your father to be careful, but he refused to listen.” He inhales a delicate breath. “Shall I contact Lady Clayton for you?”

  “No. Not yet.” The steel vise of my birthright tightens its hold on me. No more late-night parties. No more Devil’s Playground. No more Everly. Her loss bothers me more than anything. Just when our relationship was becoming interesting. Regrets are pointless. This is my destiny. I’ve trained my entire life for this honor. Seven generations of Von Stratton men have sat upon the Androvian throne. Now, it’s my turn.

  “Don’t wait too long, Henry.” Rupert’s voice lacks sympathy. No one likes Lady Clayton. No one but my mother, Don McElroy, and him. Unfortunately for me, she ticks all the boxes for a king’s consort: pedigreed, connected, Catholic, and wealthy.

  “I won’t.” Numbness blankets my emotions. Our engagement might have ended, but the business deal between us didn’t. She’s still the only candidate approved by the court for royal consort.

  “We’ll wait to hear back from you then.” Rupert ends the call, taking my hopes for the future along with him.

  Resignation mingles with dread and forms a knot in the pit of my gut. I scroll through the address book on my phone for Kitty’s number. My thumb hovers over the call button. The cheating bitch will be ecstatic to hear from me. Even though I know I have to do it, I can't quite make myself follow through.

  Once daylight arrives, my team scurries around the hotel suite, packing and planni
ng, canceling personal appearances and social engagements. They’re invisible to me. Most of them have worked with me for a decade. When I claim the throne, there will be even more of them.

  “Are you okay, Your Highness?” One of the aids pauses from folding my underwear to check on me.

  “Yes. Carry on.” But I’m not okay. I’m bloody terrible. My grief has transformed into anger. My hands shake with the force of it. Don McElroy will pay for this brutal crime if it’s the last thing I ever do. I’ll use every resource at my disposal to seek my revenge.

  “Your tea, sir.” A woman in hotel livery places a silver tray on the coffee table. I wave her away. The tea in America is hideous. I haven’t gotten a good cup since I arrived. It’s one of the few things I dislike about the United States—that and the lack of real football, or soccer as they call it here. She whisks the tray out of my sight.

  At the moment, I don’t have time to chase down a killer. I have to find a wife. ASAP. As King Gustav’s only son, my wife must bring political and financial gain to court. When Kitty took Nicky into her bed, I abandoned the notion of marrying for love. My mind drifts to Everly—my beautiful, redheaded obsession. Marriage to her would be heaven compared to Kitty.

  “Can I get you something else, sir?” Another person waits patiently in front of me. “Fruit? Toast? Coffee?”

  “Nothing.” On this, my final day of freedom, I’d like nothing better than to barricade myself in this hotel with a bottle of scotch and Everly, but I have business deals to close, arrangements to make, and a funeral to attend. I wave him aside then change my mind. “Wait. Can someone get me an aspirin?”

  My head throbs while my thumb hovers over the call button on the phone for the tenth time today. The man bustles away to grant my request. I rub my temples. I’d have someone else place the call to free up my precious time; however, something inside me balks at proposing marriage through a team of litigators. As I wait, I can’t help remembering the first time I proposed to her—the flowers, the candlelight, the music. That was before I understood who she was and that she didn’t really love me. She loved the Crown Prince of Androvia: his yacht, the castle, and perks of royalty. Not me.

  I toss the phone aside. The butler returns, offering two caplets and a glass of water on a tiny serving tray. I place the aspirin in my mouth and gulp down the water.

  “Pardon me, sir. I’ve spoken with your pilot. The royal jet is on standby for whenever you’re ready to leave.” Shasta’s voice comes from my elbow. I jump.

  “Good lord, Shasta. Make a noise or something when you enter the room. I hate it when you sneak up on me like that.” My frustration boils over, spilling onto her. “If it happens again, I’m going to put a bell on you.”

  “It’s my ninja skills, Your Highness.” Although her face remains impassive, amusement flickers in her eyes. “They’re undeniable.”

  Despite the ache in my chest and a burning desire for revenge, the corners of my mouth tug upward. “Come and sit with me. Would you like some toast or tea?”

  “No, thank you.” Her eyes brim with sympathy. “Sir, may I speak frankly?” The soles of her flat shoes move noiselessly over the thick rug as she approaches.

  “Go ahead.” With two fingers, I rub the deep grooves between my eyebrows.

  “Call Lady Clayton. The sooner, the better. Then you can move on with your plans.” She smooths a hand over the bun at the nape of her neck. “Delaying the inevitable will only prolong the pain. Rip the bandage off, sir.”

  “Would you marry someone you don’t like?” I study her face. The lines around her eyes are deeper than when we first met ten years ago. Otherwise, she looks the same. Medium height, thick glasses, sensible shoes.

  “I’m not the Crown Prince of Androvia,” she replies dryly. “If I were going to inherit a kingdom, I wouldn’t hesitate.” When I don’t smile, she clears her throat. “But no, sir, I wouldn’t. You, however, don’t have that luxury.”

  Once I’m king, I’ll abolish the antiquated laws regarding marriage and divorce. My children—the ones I’m destined to sire with Lady Clayton—will never have to deal with such foolishness. Except I can’t fathom the idea of taking that snobbish bitch into my bed—for crown or for country. The thought sickens my stomach.

  I drop my head into my hands and groan. “I can’t do it, Shaz.”

  “You can, and you will.” Her hand squeezes my shoulder, one of the few times she’s ever touched me. “Think of the consequences if you don’t.”

  “How can I forget?” I’m the only son amid a half dozen sisters. If I abdicate, the crown goes to my uncle Rupert, a bastard more ruthless than my father. Androvia would be lost to another tyrant. No matter how much I despise Lady Clayton, I can’t sacrifice my subjects.

  “You’re a good man. I hate to see you throw your life away on Lady Clayton. That woman will only bring you grief. But I don’t see a way out of this.”

  I place my hand over hers. “God knows we’ve been through a lot together. We’ll get through this too.” Emotion constricts the walls of my throat. She held my hand during my appendicitis, rescued me from drunkenness after the end of my engagement, and always supported my choices, no matter how controversial. “If there were someone else—anyone else—to consider, I would.” Desperation weighs heavily on my shoulders. “I thought I had more time.”

  “I know it’s a long shot, but—” She places the envelope containing the investigative report on Everly in front of me. Our eyes meet. “Perhaps you’re not looking at all the options.”

  14

  HENRY

  Upon my entrance to the conference room, everyone stands. The place is quiet except for the shuffling of feet and the clearing of throats. I’ve known most of these people for years, some of them since childhood. They travel everywhere with me and are my most trusted advisors. The legs of my chair scrape across the polished tile floor as I find my seat at the head of the table. “Shasta, you start.”

  “I ran an extensive battery of checks on Ms. McElroy, like you requested.” She frowns at her tablet, forehead puckering.

  “Go on.”

  “She’s absolutely clean. No arrests, no financial problems, no legal issues. She’s philanthropic and has extensive media training. And her mother is a cousin to the Queen of England which makes her of royal blood.” Shasta removes her glasses and rubs the space between her eyes. “On paper, she’s perfect.”

  I can’t believe that fuck Nicky let her slide through his fingers. His loss, however, is my gain. “Excellent.” I turn to my second assistant. “Richard, did you find a same-day marriage state?”

  “Um, yes, Your Highness. Connecticut. There’s a reliable, discreet Justice of the Peace who can take you in tomorrow.” The overhead lights glare off his balding head.

  “Wonderful. Make the necessary arrangements.” A dozen pairs of eyes stare at me in shock. I stare back at them. No one has the balls to question my announcement—no one but Shasta. Her gaze remains locked on my face.

  “And what about Lady Clayton, sir?” The calmness in her voice contrasts with the panic in her eyes.

  “What about her?” Lady Clayton’s nonexistent feelings are at the bottom of my growing list of concerns.

  “By now she’s heard of your father’s death. She’ll be anticipating your call.” Shasta’s practicality wears on my need to set the wheels of progress in motion, but I know it comes from a place of genuine concern for my welfare. “We don’t want to cause an international incident. At the very least, you owe her a heads up. And speaking of your mother, she isn’t going to like this.”

  Mother’s fits of temper are legendary among the palace staff. She’ll blow her perfectly coiffed top when she hears the news, an added perk of eloping with Everly. Nothing amuses me more than making her lose control.

  I dismiss Shasta’s objections with a wave of my hand and focus on the next assistant. “Janet, take care of the wedding band. Make it understated, tasteful, and elegant. Ms. McElroy can choose some
thing more suitable from the royal vaults when we return. Harriet, I want a full media blitz following the ceremony. Once the word is out to the public, it’ll be more difficult for Mother to object.”

  Harriet bobs her head. “Certainly. I’ll call in a few paparazzi to leak wedding photos. And, if I may suggest, it would be best if this appears to be a longstanding secret romance. We can say that Ms. McElroy’s affair with Nikolay was a ploy to hide your relationship from the press.”

  “I like it.” Although Harriet’s the newest addition to my entourage, she brings a decade of experience with a Hollywood movie studio to court. She’s been a genius at hiding or leaking related events to the tabloids when beneficial.

  “Sir, I believe we have a problem.” Shasta frowns at her tablet, grabs the remote control on the conference table, and clicks on the flat-screen telly mounted to the wall at the end of the room.

  “Now what?” The boundaries of my patience are being stretched to the limit. Now that I have a plan, I’m eager to get on with it.

  A female reporter speaks from a Manhattan sidewalk crowded with onlookers. “In a shocking twist of events, former Vice President Don McElroy has been implicated in the murder of event organizer, Lavender Cunningham. These telling photos were taken hours before her death and corroborated by his daughter, socialite Everly McElroy.” Grainy pictures show a smiling Don standing alongside the now-deceased woman, his big hand parked squarely on her ass.

  I inch toward the edge of my chair to catch the rest of the news spot. The journalist runs through the McElroy family’s background. A powerful man. Lust and betrayal. I pity Everly. This is a media goldmine. The bloodthirsty buzzards will milk this incident to the fullest. Best of all, she’ll be desperate for a shoulder to lean on. A smile spreads across my face. I happen to have very broad shoulders.