by Rachel Hauck
“We shall see.” Gus glanced around the table. “Did everyone have a good week? Were you discussing the match between the Port Fressa Capitals and the North Dals?”
“We were discussing the missing King Titus chair.” Cranston peered at the prince over the rim of his wine glass. “It’s not in the Queen’s Library.”
Here we go. Daffy all but buried her face in her bowl.
“The King Titus, of course. My apologies, Cranston, but I took the chair to my apartment for safekeeping until the ball. After all, I did find it in an unlocked library.”
Daffy spewed her bite of soup.
“Yes, of course, but…” A very pale Cranston worked to collect himself. “No one told me the chair was moved. And I locked the library, sir.” His lean cheeks began to redden. “Eventually.”
“I’m sorry you weren’t informed, Cranston. But Miss Caron and I will be looking after the chair. Thank you for your concern. Your devotion to your duty is admirable.” Gus put on an HRH show. “I shall mention you to Her Majesty.”
Cranston sat a little straighter. “Thank you, sir.”
Daffy focused on her soup, her very delicious soup, controlling her smile and urge to shout, “Brilliant!”
Chapter Thirteen
Gus
Daffy met him by his apartment at nine o’clock. “Ready?” He locked the door and tucked the key in his pocket. Zipping up his anorak, he led her to the secret door.
“You were clever tonight. At dinner. Putting Cranston off.”
“I couldn’t very well tell him the truth, could I? Not without trying to fix my mistake.” He pulled on the book, the shelf opened, and he tugged the chain of the bare bulb light. “Take my hand again. The steps are wobbly. If one gives way, don’t tumble with me.”
“But I will try and save you.” She hovered close, her hand on his shoulder, gripping his coat. “I’d rather tell the queen about the chair than how I watched you fall headlong down a dark, secret stairwell.”
Gus activated the torchlight on his phone and waved it over the steps, illuminating where the glow from the bulb stopped.
“Do you remember the legend of the tower in Brighton Kingdom? How if a young man rang the Pembroke Chapel bell at the beginning of the Christmas season, he must win the heart of his true love by Christmas Eve and marry her Christmas morn?”
“How could I forget? I cried when I heard the story in primary school. How poor Prince Michael fell to his death when he slipped on the stone steps, racing down to meet his true love. What a horrid story to share with a bunch of eight-year-olds.”
“At least the man died nobly. If I fall and burst my head open on the stone below, it will be because I’m sneaking off to meet a man about a chair.” He stopped short, bracing his hand against the wall. “Blast, I forgot Hemstead again. Why can’t I ever remember him?”
“Because you don’t want to, Gus. Shall we go back?”
“Never.” He grabbed her hand, liking the feel of her palm warm against his, and continued down the winding stairs. At the bottom, they burst out the hidden door and dashed across the snow-covered grounds toward the woods.
“Can’t we go round by the road next time?” Daffy said, untangling her hair from a craggy, broken branch as they paused by the gate. “Out the front door? Down the steps?”
“And be seen? Or be stopped by Hemstead? Never.”
“You’re so busted, Prince Gus. Forget, my eye. You want to escape without him.”
“You read me like a book. Let’s go.” He punched in the security code and escorted Daffy down Centre.
When she slipped on the cold cobblestone, he caught her by the arm, then linked his through to keep her upright. After all, it was the gentlemanly thing to do.
Besides, his old friend was easy to be around. Especially in the Old Hamlet and at Hadsby, which was like living in a pop-up fairytale. The ancient walls of the castle, the rows of quaint shops along cobblestone avenues, ancient street lamps, mentor-friends who spoke in shorthand and mysterious characters who came down out of the mountains. But only when they were called. Would Emmanuel require a pure heart or a drop of blood to accomplish the royal task?
“Do you think we should tell?” Daffy’s words broke through his thoughts. “Even if we get the Titus repaired. The work should be documented. I pulled the chair’s specifications from the Royal Trust files and there have been fixes over the centuries. There are pictures and notes. It was treated for woodworm in the late 1800s. And it seems there was new upholstery about the same time. Maybe the fabric isn’t so hard to match after all.”
“I’m of the camp what they don’t know won’t hurt them.”
“Don’t you mean won’t hurt us?”
He laughed, but the sound was brittle. “Maybe. I’m willing to take the fall, but I’m not willing for you to be tangled up in my mistake.”
“Too late.” He glanced over at her. “We’re in this together now, aren’t we?”
“I suppose we are.” And he was glad.
The trouble with Daffy was she got under his skin. No, it was something more. She seemed to fit with him. He woke up the past two mornings thinking of her. Not romantically, although he would consider…anyway, it was more as if he needed, wanted, to see her as soon as possible. And then his day would be right and good.
As they turned onto Wells Line, a sharp cracking fired through the chilled air. Daffy stopped and pulled back on his arm.
“What was that?”
“Ice in the channel.” Gus nodded toward the end of the narrow lane. “The blocks floating down from Scandinavia have hit warmer water.”
“Can we see it from up here? By the Canal Street barrier?”
“Too dark. But if we climb the Hand of God during the light, we can see miles of ice.”
“No, thank you, sir. You go and text me pictures. I’ve seen the path leading around the cliff up to the cleft.” She shivered.
“What if I held your hand?”
“As we both careen over the side?” Her eyes widened at the thought. “Very comforting.”
He laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of heights.”
“I won’t. But I am. I can see it now, you helping me up the path. I slip, panic, grab your arm—and over we go, twisting and screaming, down to the rocks.”
“Would it be so bad? I’d be the new legend—Prince Augustus of Lauchtenland fell to his death from the Northton Cliffs while holding the hand of his true love.” The words came without hesitation. A wild, unanchored confession. A warm flush flowed up his neck to the top of his head. “Ha, ha, um, you know, so to speak.”
He had to say something. Otherwise she’d think he was serious. Or perhaps not. But still. Any chance she didn’t hear him? He stood at least a foot away. But he couldn’t leave “true love” hanging out there, flapping in the unanswered breeze.
Gus leaned to see her face. Her composed expression communicated nothing.
“Let’s not fall off the cliff,” she said, low and sweet. “I don’t want some eight-year-old lass a hundred years from now cry in class when the teacher relays our tragic story. Come on, we’re late.”
When they entered the Belly of the Beast, Ernst came from behind the bar, patting his broad stomach. “Prince. Sit. Sit. Pints.”
“How about hot chocolate instead, Ernst?”
“Stella. Choc,” Ernst hollered toward the kitchen. “Ice cracking.” He pointed to Gus’s chest.
“We heard.” Gus held Daffy’s chair. “Ernst, did you find this Emmanuel chap?”
Slipping off his coat, he warmed his hands by the fire, shoving—no, deleting—the “true love” comment from his being. Why would he say such a thing? Coral and Robbi had scrubbed him of romantic overtures, his verbal poetry, his princely charm. And why did Ernst point to his chest? Right where his heart lived? Weird old geezer.
Gus looked up as another booming crack penetrated the pub’s thick plaster walls.
“Yes, Emmanuel.” Ernst leaned over the tab
le, arms barely able to fold over his expansive chest. But Stella called him, and Ernst toddled off, calling, “Wife number one.”
Daffy made a face and laughed behind her hand. “What did that mean? I can’t understand him. Do you think George Lucas visited Dalholm when he was dreaming up Star Wars and Yoda?”
“There is a rumor—”
“Hot choc.” Ernst set down two large mugs of cocoa. “Emmanuel. Come.”
“That’s why we’re here.” Gus ignored the hot drink. “Where is he?”
Ernst pointed to the door. “There.”
Gus stared, waiting, then checked with Daffy, who watched Ernst.
“Ernst, is the man invisible? Because I—”
The pub door opened and ashes from the fireplace stirred from the hearth. A man, dressed in a long, woolen anorak from another century and leather boots, stepped inside.
The pub’s atmosphere sparked and shifted. Every bleary eye fixed on him. The clanking of dishes and glasses ceased. Even the music from the mounted speakers silenced.
“I’m looking for the prince.” The man’s voice filled the room as he removed his worn leather hat and shook snow from his boots.
“Welcome, carpenter.” Ernst pointed toward Gus’s table. “A choc?”
“That’d be fine.” The gentleness in his answer matched his commanding size. He moved with sublime grace and his expression, while stern, was kindness itself. His eyes seemed to glow, making their own light. Gus imagined he walked down the mountain without a torch.
Gus stood, offering his hand, all the while resisting the urge to bow.
Emmanuel spoke first. “Your Royal Highness. I’m the carpenter, Emmanuel.” He carried the scent of the high forest—snow and rain, sunshine and wind. He turned to Daffy, who was also on her feet. “You must be the princess.”
“Me?” Her cheeks flamed with a quick blush. “No, I’m a curator with the Royal Trust. Daffodil Caron.” She shook his hand. “We’re so hoping you can help us. You see, a very valuable chair, the King Titus—”
“I know this chair. Seen it many times.”
“Goodness, well, you see, the chair—” Daffy frowned. “You’ve seen the King Titus? Many times? It’s only come out of storage twice in the last twenty-five years. Before that, I believe it never left Hadsby.”
“And now it is in need of repair?”
She glanced at Gus, who felt her expression. This was no ordinary man. “Have you repaired it before?” she said.
“Indeed, I have.”
“But our records indicate the last repairs were—”
“Daffy, let the man sit.” Gus pulled out a chair. “We don’t care about the past, do we? We care about now.”
Emmanuel smiled at Gus, taking a seat as Ernst arrived with a pint. “Thank you, my friend. And how’s Stella?”
“Kitchen. Sends love.”
“Send mine in return.” Emmanuel took a sip of beer. “So, tell me about the chair.”
“I, um, sat on it and it cracked.” Gus sank down to his chair and cupped his hands around his warm mug. “I wanted to see if I could fix the crack so I—”
Daffy interrupted his story. “He ignored me when I told him to get up and kept moving the chair.”
“Then splat. On the floor,” Gus said. “Me and the chair.”
“I see.” Emmanuel glanced about the pub. His attention landed on a man across the room. “Dean Hayden. His new wife is ill. Let me say hello.” The carpenter carried his pint three tables over and sat with Dean, whose chin sat on his chest as he listened, occasionally bobbing his head and wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand.
“He’s an odd duck.” Gus gulped his cocoa. “Do you think he’s coming back?”
“I don’t know, but Dean seems to need him more than we do at the moment.”
Gus watched, sorting through his impressions of this man. Sorting through his feelings for the woman across from him. He just needed to guard himself until the chair was fixed. Until she finished staging the gowns and returned to Port Fressa. And her fiancé. Never forget the fiancé.
The carpenter was another matter. His presence stirred something familiar in Gus. A desire for greatness. Not the kind that came with his birthright, but the kind he earned. The kind that came with doing what was right instead of what was expected of him. Greatness didn’t require fame or fortune, but rather a life well lived. Of being honest, true, faithful. Which he would begin in earnest once the chair was repaired and back in the Queen’s Library.
“I don’t understand him.” Gus shook his head. “But I like him.”
“I was thinking the same thing. We can trust him, Gus.” When she touched his arm, he covered her hand with his, liking that she used we. That he wasn’t in this predicament alone. Though he should be.
But en garde, mate.
Moments later, Emmanuel patted the man on the shoulder and set his empty pint on the bar with a salute to Ernst. “Until.”
Ernst raised his hand in salute. “Not so long.”
He paused by Gus and Daffy’s table. “I’ll come tomorrow morning at eight. Gus, will you help me make the repair?”
“Yes, yes, of course. I’m not handy with these things, but I’ll do what I can. I’m better at hoisting beams.” He resisted the urge to point to the one he installed thirteen years ago. How much bragging could a man do when he only stood on a ladder holding one end along with four other chaps?
“Meet me at the workshop by the mews.”
“Workshop. Mews. Check.” How did Emmanuel know about the workshop?
“You and the princess have a good evening. Don’t stay out late. Snow’s coming. See you in the morning.”
Daffy rose from her chair. “Sir, I’m not a…”
But Emmanuel had settled his hat on his head, paused by a red-faced man by the door who shoved him away, and then exited into the night.
“Guess I’ll be up early. You’ll cover for me?” Gus returned to his seat, reaching for his phone. “I can’t tell Hemstead where I’m going.”
“You don’t need my help to escape him. But what should I say if he asks?”
“Tell him I’m outside. Be as vague as possible.” He scanned his weather app. “Did Emmanuel say it was going to snow? Not according to my map. We’re in a warming. Tomorrow will be sunshine with a high of ten Celsius.”
“Maybe he means in the mountains? By the way, I won’t be around in the afternoon. Thomas and my mates are coming up to ski.”
Gus tucked his phone away as a bit of chill seemed to settle in his chest. Double en garde, chap. “You never said.”
“He and Ella just texted this evening. I’m meeting them for lunch.
“You’ll be glad to see your fiancé.”
“Of course.”
“We should go.” Gus dropped his payment on the table. “How should I get the chair? I’d like to get it in the morning, only move it once. Will you be up?”
“I’ll have to be, won’t I? How will you get it to this workshop? What can I do to help?”
Gus assisted Daffy with her coat before pulling on his. “The garden carts. Golf carts really, but the groundskeepers use them for their work. I’ll come to your room at seven. We’ll take it down our staircase.” He arched his brow, smiling. He couldn’t help it. They had a secret staircase. “To the garage. But if you really want to help, the wedding ball is giving me fits. The planner emailed the final menu options this afternoon. It has everything on it from squid to tater tots. Now I ask you.” Gus followed Daffy to the door. “Good night, Ernst.”
“Royalness. Until.”
“Squid? Tater tots? You’re joking.” Daffy tied on her scarf and stepped off the curb, crossing Wells Line.
Gus followed only to have her stop suddenly, whirl around to say something, and land in his arms. There they were face-to-face, their breath intermingling. A subtle tilt of his head, and his lips would touch hers.
“Daffy—”
“Gus, I—” She rested her hands on hi
s chest. “What did you mean when you said—”
Just then her phone rang. Worst luck. A loud obnoxious jingle that pierced the night and killed the moment.
“It’s Ella.” Daffy stepped away and started up the lane. “Hello? So you’re there? Everyone? Good, good. No, I’m too tired…for lunch… I have something to do in the morning.”
Hands in his anorak pockets, Gus walked Wells Line a good five feet from Daffy. The waves of yearning for her were frustrating. Tempting his heart. As if he was daring himself to trust her.
But there was nothing honorable in flirting with an engaged woman. Thomas was a very fine fellow, offering her more than Gus could at the moment. He only had friendship to give, nothing more.
When she hung up with her sister, they walked Centre in silence. The air was thin and crisp, seasoned with a fresh chill.
“Everyone made it?” he said after a moment.
“Yes. I’ll see them for lunch. Ella went by my place for ski gear and saw a box of my old things Mum found in the garage and dropped by my place. She was laughing at my worn, stuffed toys.”
“Siblings,” Gus said with a small laugh. “One time John and I—”
Daffy’s phone beckoned with a text. “Thomas,” she said, tucking her phone in her pocket. “I’ll reply when we get to Hadsby. You were saying? You and John…”
“Daff, do you mind me asking? You’re not going to the lodge? To be with Thomas?”
“No.” She kicked through a lingering drift of snow. “I’ve been there, done that. Not hopping in bed with a chap until I’m sure. Until it’s right.”
“Okay. Respect. But he’s your fiancé. Sounds like he’s right to me. Is he okay with—”
“He didn’t really have a choice, Gus. My decision. Which apparently didn’t keep him from proposing.”
“There you go. The whole cow and milk thing worked for you.”
She stared at him through the muted street light, then laughed. “Did you just call me a cow?”
“No… I mean…yes, I suppose I did.” He shook his head, daring to laugh with her. “But what I meant was, you set the boundaries, did it your way. If Thomas wanted you, he had to play on your pitch with your rules, not his own.”
