by Rachel Hauck
At lunch Cranston announced he was bringing down the King Titus chair in the afternoon. While he wasn’t officially a member of the Royal Trust, he had jurisdiction since the ancient piece was stored at Hadsby. And the less handling the better.
The idea of seeing it in person renewed Daffy’s energy. Enough to head down the bronze and gold double balustrade staircase for a quick peek. With the castle so quiet, now was the time.
She tiptoed over the marble floor to the library’s open doors and passed under the light from an etched glass dome to catch a glimpse of the chair.
The room was long and narrow, scattered with leather club chairs, thin-legged desks, and gilded floor lamps with broad shades. Where would Cranston have put the chair? And truly, the doors should be closed and locked.
“Beg pardon, but have you seen the prince?”
Daffy jerked around. “Hemstead, you scared me. The prince? No, I’ve not seen him. Is he lost?”
“He’s run off. I thought he’d be back by now.” The broad and muscled protection officer stepped into the room. “Do you need my help?”
“I was just sneaking in to see the King Titus.” Daffy lit the lamp on an end table and found the ancient chair situated in the front corner, hidden by the open door.
“The Titus?” Hemstead stiffened, arms folded. “Don’t see the fuss over a thousand-year-old chair, former royal throne or not. I’d rather see the prince. Give him a piece of my mind.”
“Check his apartment.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing? He’s gone to some pub, but I can’t remember what he said. I’ve never been here before.”
“Don’t look at me, I’ve not been here since I was a girl. Well, to ski but we were at the lodge.” She pointed to her foot. “Broke my ankle the last time.”
“Yeah, I don’t ski either.” Hemstead sighed and glanced out the window. “I’ve been to six places in New Hamlet, but no one had seen him. Do you think he’d stay in the old part? Don’t see the appeal there.”
“Maybe.”
With a harrumph, Hemstead said good night, his heavy exit echoing in the foyer.
Closing the left side door, Daffy faced the ancient, hand-carved chair. “Beautiful.”
Her intrigue over this artifact was an unexplainable curiosity. The wedding gowns and other textiles made sense, but an old chair? Once she joined the Royal Trust, heard the older members wax on about the first time they’d seen the former royal throne—made by the first king of Lauchtenland, Titus, after conquering the Normans—she knew she was somehow destined to be a part of its historic preservation. She’d be a part of the team that made sure it survived for the next generation.
She knelt to inspect the thick, square legs that held up the broad seat with intricate carvings. The arms were flat and wide. The ends were smooth and round where royal hands had rested for centuries. The tall back flared at the top like wings, and a carved crown was attached to the top. The trees the king cut to fashion the structure had been extinct for three hundred years. And the upholstery fabric was a rich purple that experts in the RT could not duplicate.
“You’re still working?”
The unexpected question caused Daffy to rise up. Prince Gus stood just at the threshold.
“I saw a light from the library and came down to see the Titus.” She tucked her tablet under her arm. “Hemstead was looking for you.”
Gus closed the other door, finger to his lips. “Shhh. I’ve been to the pub.”
Indeed, he had.
“Apparently not the ones where he looked.”
“It’s my secret place. The Belly of the Beast.” He wobbled from side to side. “But don’t tell.”
“How many pints did you down?”
“One.” He raised his chin and breathed deep. Brushed back his wavy locks.
“One? Plus…”
He held up one hand, fingers spread. Then two fingers, no three, on the other. “I think. Ernst kept talking while his sneaky little waitress filled my glass. One pint I said. Never thought they’d refill it seven”—he hiccupped—“eight times.”
“You should go to bed.”
“How mad was he?” The prince jammed his hands in his pockets as if to anchor himself. “Hemstead?”
“Six on a scale of ten.”
“I’ve been warned.” Gus saluted, then stepped toward the chair. “Hello, old Titus.”
“Have you seen it before, then?”
“Once. As a kid. I tried to sit in it. Mum came flying across the room, almost knocked over the American Ambassador, just as my trousers touched the seat. ‘Don’t sit down, Augustus. Don’t sit down.’” He swayed from side to side. “I’m talking too loud?”
“No, but you should sit down before you fall.”
Despite his current state, he was extraordinarily appealing, the look in his almond-shaped eyes a soft blue instead of the usual piercing hue. And he sported a fixed, saucy grin.
“Should I sit here?” Before she could answer, Gus plopped down in the Titus and slapped his hands on the broad arms. “Long live the House of Blue.” He sat back, crossing his legs, rubbing his hand over his beard as if he was about to make a royal decree when a soft crack snapped through the air.
“What was that?” Daffy said, stooping to see the leg joints.
“I’m not sure.” Gus wiggled in the chair side to side. “Do you still hear it?”
Daffy gasped, and for a moment, blacked out. Not really, but a crack in the Titus? Never was there a worthier blackout moment.
“Gus, stop moving.” She grabbed his wrist. “You’ll make it worse. Get up. Let me look.”
“Wait.” He pulled free. “Listen. Where is the sound coming from?” He raised up a few inches, walked the chair forward, and then sat back down. Daffy almost fainted. Again, not really. But what was he doing to her?
The chair moaned and squeaked as he jiggled in his seat. “Feels like the right side.”
“Gus… Your Royal Highness…as a representative of the Royal Trust I must insist you get out of that chair. Now.” Her deep voice was weak with anxiety. If he broke the Titus, it’d be her job. Sacked without a plea.
He leaned over the arm to see under the seat, still moving and listening. “As a member of the Royal Family, I insist I find the weakness in my ancestor’s throne.”
“As a member of the Royal Trust, I remind you that all artifacts are under our jurisdiction, not the House of Blue’s.”
“As a member of the royal family—House of Blue, as you say—I remind you that all royal departments and staff are subject to Her Majesty, the Queen, and thus so funded.”
Daffy clung to her tablet, eyes closed, inhaling, exhaling. Good grief. How was she caught up in such an absurd argument?
“As a member of the Royal Trust, I remind you the House of Blue, and thus the Royal Trust, are also funded by Parliament and the people of Lauchtenland. Now get out of that chair!”
Gus held up one hand. “Simmer down, lass. Give me a moment. I’ve fixed chairs before.” Again, he scooted the chair forward. But not with any care or concern. No, his senses were dulled by seven, eight pints. “There. Do you hear it?”
Rising up, Gus dropped down on the seat with force, then rocked against the chair’s back. Not once but twice. Three times.
The cracking was unmistakable. Like ice breaking during the first spring thaw. Just one fault on the surface and the whole blooming block shattered across the water.
“Gus—” But Daffy was too late. The right side legs splintered under his weight. The back broke away, pulling the rare purple fabric from the seat and kaboom! Prince Augustus Carwyn George Blue, along with the chair, landed in a heap on the hard, polished pinewood.
Chapter Ten
Gus
Next time he went to the Belly of the Beast—how fitting the name come morning time—he’d insist Ernst serve him no more than one pint. One. Not one glass filled many times over, thank you. Nevertheless, Ernst was an all-too-gracious host.
He’d avoided drink during the “great humiliations,” choosing to stifle his pain with ice cream, puffs, and pizza. Yet Ernst meant no harm. To him it was a crime for any man to sit long in his pub, catching up with his mates, and not raise a pint.
In the bathroom, Gus splashed his face with cold water and remembered he had a meeting with the wedding ball planners this morning.
But something nagged at him…something more than the dull ache over his left eye from too much ale. Something in his belly. Like a twisting regret.
Wandering into his living lounge where the blazing sun rudely splashed through the high windows, he collapsed on the couch with a sigh. What happened last night that…
He sat up. The Titus. Daffy. The crack. Carrying the splintered chair up the Grand Stairs. Oh no. Oh no. The twisting regret became a clear reality. He’d broken the chair.
“Your Highness?” He turned at the knock on his door. Hemstead. “Gym. Ten minutes.”
Gus toppled over and landed face first on a brocade cushion. Why did he ask his protection officer to act as his trainer?
Even worse, he’d have to face Hemstead and deal with the consequences of leaving him behind. Then face Daffy and the problem—no, disaster—of the chair.
“Sir?”
“On my way.” Gus paused at the snack station on his kitchen island. Better not. It’d only come up after the first set of Hemstead’s mountain climbers.
As expected, the former special forces officer put the prince through a brutal workout, as if penalizing him for disappearing last night. It took all Gus had to remain upright. When Hem released him, he stumbled back to his apartment, showered, and blended a protein shake.
He felt surprisingly renewed and focused enough for the planning meeting. But first, he had to find Daffy. Down the back stairs to the servants’ hall, he inquired of Cranston.
“Have you seen Miss Caron?”
“I imagine she’s in the Grand Gallery. With the dresses.”
“Of course. If you’ll excuse me.”
“Your Royal Highness, I wanted to apologize for not locking the Queen’s Library door last night. I remembered in the middle of the night and came down straightaway.” Cranston smiled. “She’s locked and secure now.”
“Yes, no worry.” Gus braced for more. Like how Cranston looked for the Titus but it was not in its corner. “Anything else?”
“No, sir. Should there be?”
“No. All good here. Thank you, Cranston.”
He took the stairs two at a time. They must repair that chair. He found Daffy in the gallery hoisting a monstrous gown over a mannequin. “Careful of the sleeves, Lucy.”
He hid behind a wide column until they’d completed their task. “Daffy, may I have a word?”
If looks could kill…
“Lucy, will you excuse me?”
The woman inspected Gus, then Daffy. “I’ll go for the gold thread.” She curtsied to Gus then backed down the wide, carpeted gallery.
“Can we talk in your suite?” he said.
She started for the Princess Charlotte without a word. Gus tried to fashion his opening statement, but the dull throb over his eye troubled his concentration.
“About last night,” he said the moment the door closed. “I am so sorry.”
“You broke the King Titus.” Her voice rose and fell with his heartbeat. “The King Titus. Gus, I don’t…” She paced, hands flexing in and out of a fist. “One of the world’s oldest artifacts. Not just Lauchtenland’s but the world’s.” She swung her arm toward the dressing room where they’d carried the broken pieces, wrapped them in a pink blanket, and hid them in the corner. “Disaster.”
“Yes, we have a problem but—”
“We?”
“Okay, I have a problem. Me.”
“No, no, you’re right. We. It’ll be my job not yours. Ha. You don’t even have a job. You are the job. I want it on record I told you to get out of the chair.”
“Fine. Though I don’t remember much of anything but a cracking sound. Daffy, is there any chance the chair was one of the remakes?”
“Not a snowball’s. The real King Titus is very distinct. The fabric, the wood, the markings. The wood is from the forest lost in the mid-eighteenth century when the hamlet cut down every tree during the brutal winter. The fabric color is unique. The scuffs on the legs, the smoothness of the arms are all very distinct and very documented. Besides, Cranston personally carried it down to the library. He knows it’s the original.”
“I saw him this morning. He apologized for not locking the doors. Said he came down in the middle of the night to do so.”
Daffy gasped and dropped to the arm of a chair. “Did he see it was missing? Please, tell me he didn’t.”
“No, no, I don’t think so. If he did, he said nothing.”
“I’m going to pass out.” She bent forward, panting.
“Shush, lass, it’s all right. We’ll figure this out.” Gus patted her back, angling to see her face. A red hue crept across her cheeks and around her eyes. He had a feeling this “blush” wasn’t about him. Not in the sweet, she-had-a-crush way.
“I have an idea.” She sat up, eyes glistening. “Is turning back time one of your princely powers?”
“I’m serious and you’re joking.”
“It’s the only way to keep from freaking out!” She shook out her hands and sort of hyperventilated. “This will be my position. My reputation. I’ll be lucky to get a post recycling rubbish.”
“Stop. You won’t lose your job. We can work this out.” The plural pronoun here comforted him. He’d take the heat if it came to it, but he liked teaming with a friend.
“Gus, we broke a thousand-year-old chair the queen has kept in storage for twenty-five years except for two world tours in ’98 and ’08. There is no air in this room.” Daffy stumbled to the window, drew up the sash and pressed her face against the cold screen.
“We did nothing. This is all on me, Daffy.” It was his turn to flex his hands and pace. “What we need is a plan.”
“W-what we need…is a miracle.” Daffy swerved from the window with a hint of tears in her words.
“The replicas.” Gus stopped beside her. “We’ll use a replica.”
Now she just looked mad. “Every curator knows that chair. And several reporters. Never mind your mum as well as mine. A replica would be spotted in a second. Wait. Did you say you’d fixed a few chairs in your life?”
“Hammered a nail. Tightened a screw. Nothing like what that blooming chair needs. We’d fare better with the replica.”
Daffy returned to her chair, tugging at the cuffs of her blue uniform. “I should call Mum. Tell her the news.”
“Not yet, Daffy. We have time to figure this out. If anyone makes a call, it’s me to Her Majesty. I’ll shoulder the blame. As far as I’m concerned, I was the only one in the room.”
“But you weren’t. I know the truth.” She twisted her fingers together. “If I lie about what happened, what kind of integrity do I have?”
“Keeping a secret isn’t a lie, is it? Don’t you have one about the queen?”
She glared up at him. “Keeping a confidence is not the same as pretending I wasn’t there when the Titus was destroyed—which I was. If I’m asked outright, I’ll have to tell the truth.”
Her red hair waved and curled about her face, giving her a wild, free look. For the first time Gus saw she carried a bit of a lioness inside. For a moment, his thoughts drifted from the current dilemma to the woman in front of him. And what it might be like to kiss her.
Now he was blushing. Clearing his throat, Gus turned for the open window. He needed a breath of cold morning air himself. Best to focus on the trial at hand and not how she’d feel in his arms. Friends, mate. She’s just a friend.
“Tell your maid not to go into the dressing room,” he said, taking command of himself and the situation.
“She won’t. There’s nothing in there besides my coat and an empty suitcas
e.”
“Is there a key? Can you lock it?” Gus knelt next to Daffy and placed a hand on her knee. “I have an idea. My friend Ernst will know how to help. How to find a skilled craftsman.”
“We cannot tell him about the chair.”
“He won’t ask.”
For the first time since they’d been talking, Daffy brightened and rested her hand on his. “We need someone good, Gus. More than a man or woman with a hammer and carpenter’s glue. And someone with discretion.”
Gus’s phone pinged. He knew without looking Stern was reminding him of their planning meeting.
“I’ve a meeting in twenty minutes in the New Hamlet so I’ve got to go. But meet by my apartment tonight. Eight o’clock.” Gus rose to his feet and stepped back.
“Make it nine. Most of the servants have gone home or retired to their quarters by then. We won’t be seen.”
“Look at you with your espionage plan.” Gus offered her a grin and a salute. “See you at nine.”
Out of the suite, Daffy went one way, Gus another. He met Stern in the Grand Foyer, who motioned to their waiting car.
Sunlight flooded the streets as the motor jostled over old Dalholm cobblestones to the smooth asphalt of the modern side of the hamlet.
Stern ran down the meeting agenda, but Gus barely listened. Instead he pictured the redhead who seemed to bring her whole soul with her wherever she went.
Daffy was both beautiful and easy to be around. Too bad he didn’t meet her two years ago. After Coral. Even better, before Coral. Their reconnection was too late for him.
Besides, she was engaged which stuffed any musings of a “them” back into the box where it belonged.
* * *
Daffy
A snowstorm gobbled up the sunlight as it rolled over Dalholm midafternoon, burying the hamlet in white. By teatime, windblown drifts collected along the castle walls. By dinner, the kitchen staff had to push against the doors to carry out the rubbish.
Gus appeared in the servants’ hall doorway just as they sat down. “May I join you?”
A chorus of chairs scraped over stone as everyone stood. Cranston made a place for him at the end of the table.
