The Royal Rake (Royal Romances Book 3)

by Molly Jameson

  He parked a few streets over and sat in his rental car. He switched his mobile on to see if he’d any messages that weren’t from a furious Smithpeters or his father. Specifically, he wanted to message Evie. He sent her a quick photo and shut off the mobile before it could begin ringing notices at him. He needed no alert to tell him he was an inconsiderate son and horrid at taking direction from the publicist and the security people.

  He was happier off the grid most of the time, and unlike Jamie, he didn’t have to keep a security detail with him. This was more like falling off the edge of the Earth, though. He felt boxed in. Not only by the feeling that he was, especially today, being hunted by the paparazzi. Not only by the expectations of which he always fell short. Even by the tiny MINI he’d rented. He burst out the door and took off walking, head down and hands in his pockets. He tied the blue muffler close around his neck against the wind. He walked in the opposite direction of the church, taking long, purposeful strides. He wasn’t merely running away. Leo had a destination in mind. He was about to violate His Majesty’s laws of property and trespass.

  Ten minutes’ walk out of the village, he climbed the stone wall that bounded the Wellingford estate and hopped to the ground on the other side. He’d visited there a few years back, and he remembered the layout of the expansive grounds pretty well. Dodging around to the gardens and staying low behind the rows of shrubbery, he made his way out past the pond and across a small bridge to the graveyard. She’d be buried on the estate in the family plot. When he’d been here once before, it had been to attend her grandmother’s memorial. He knew the way, though walking it was slow—his steps heavy with regret.

  There it was, a gaping hole in the sharp form of a rectangle, churned earth beside it, the spot where Adriana would end up. He stood a little off from it, feeling sick at the thought of her being lowered into that dark narrow space. It was too horrible to imagine.

  His hands were fisted tightly in his pockets. He pulled out a sixpence, one he’d carried for years since she gave it to him. She had told him it was for good luck. It wasn’t the same sixpence naturally since she’d thrown the original one at him several times and had tossed it off a hotel balcony rather memorably as well. But it was the thought that counted, he reasoned. He held it up to the weak winter sunlight and gave a sharp nod. He tossed it into the open grave.

  “Better luck on the other side, Dree. I’ll miss you,” he said in a low voice, though no one could be around.

  They would all be back at the church singing hymns and be talking about what an angel she had been. When she hadn’t been an angel. Only a bright, hectic girl who never got herself straightened out. The drugs were only part of the problem—she had terrible highs and lows, and her erratic behavior had been the reason they split up over and over again. He wasn’t strong enough to save her, is how he told the story to himself. The truth was, he had been tired. Of all the drama and the mercurial moods and the paranoid accusations, of never getting any sleep because she was either furious with him, certain he must be cheating, or else she was convinced she didn’t deserve him and wept for hours. There was no peace, not with her, and, he realized too late, no peace for her either.

  He stood there a moment and hoped very hard that there was something gentler, something kinder waiting for her. Then he turned and walked back to his auto and drove home. Not to London, but back to work. He’d get behind the controls and fly first thing in the morning, and it would clear his head. Forget the schedule and the week away. He needed to get back in the pilot’s seat.

  His flat was grim as ever, and he called for a Thai takeaway. It was quiet as a tomb, he thought, and then winced at the choice of word. He couldn’t help thinking it was a sparse, ugly place he’d chosen. Evie’s rooms over the teashop were fresh in his mind, crammed with chintz and dried flowers and overweight cats and a crackling fire and three kinds of scones in the kitchen. There was fuck all in his kitchen but a stale half-eaten packet of crisps and an empty wine bottle in the refrigerator. There was no thick rug on the floor, no scent of lemon cleaner nor any warm cinnamon cider fragrance coming from his unused oven. He wished he had thought to nip a parcel of baked goods while he was in Bath. Shame she didn’t have an online shop, he thought. Then it occurred to him that she should have an online shop. He switched on his mobile and messaged her that idea. It would be ace for her business because people loved to be pretentious about their small batch artisanal baked goods.

  She hadn’t responded to the photo he sent earlier. Perhaps she was angry with him. Or, looking at his watch, he thought perhaps she was busy in the shop and hadn’t checked her phone. Regardless, he had things to do that had no relation to some too-responsible baker he’d only known a couple of days. She was the only woman in his adult life that had ever declined his advances—even if she hadn’t held out for long against his persuasion. He wasn’t accustomed to so much as a token protest. Admittedly, he’d been pissed and sentimental last night, hardly at his most appealing. Still, she’d surprised him when she turned him down. Surprised him more, he mused, when she took him up on it. He was immensely grateful that Evie Bartlett had stayed with him that night, had kept watch with him, kept him whole somehow with her touch, her voice, and even the way she saw him. She kept saying he was charming, but he wasn’t. He was only the same man he’d always been. It was heartening that she found him charming, that such an upstanding, wholesome woman liked him. Even if she wasn’t quite his usual sort.

  The next morning he reported to the Maritime Rescue Co-ordination Centre to see what was on. Denny awaited him with a paper cup of hot coffee. “Saw yer picture this morning. M’wife shoved her mobile screen in my face before I’d even had a bite to eat, said you was a heartbroken wretch,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Here now,” Denny said. He cued up a gossip site on his mobile and presented the screen to Leo. There was a picture of him standing beside an open grave in his dark coat and blue scarf, holding the sixpence aloft. In the photo, it looked for all the world like a ring.

  “Christ, Denny! I was on private property. I was trespassing myself! How could someone have sneaked in and got that shot? It was as much as I could do to reach the graveyard myself. Lot of bloody vipers!” he said, nearly spitting his coffee.

  “They do like a drama, do the press. I reckon if you didn’t want to be seen you might try keeping out of sight instead of making big bloody romantic gestures outdoors,” Denny said, “holding up some bloody wedding ring over her grave. Were you playing Hamlet or what?”

  “It was a coin. It’s—not something I care to talk about, nor is it something I wanted splashed all over the media outlets. I was trying to give the Wellingfords their privacy on the day,” he said, half anguish, half fury.

  “Have your coffee and think on it. Sure there’s some press agent at the palace can straighten it out for you,” Denny said.

  Leo slumped in a chair, pushing away the sludge in the paper cup. “Did they lose the recipe for coffee down at Suze’s?”

  “Same as ever, mate. Did ye lose your taste for the stuff?”

  “Nah. I did find myself drinking a deal of tea. You’ll have a laugh on this one, Denny. I ducked into a shop to get out of the rain and found myself in a singleton speed dating game at a tearoom,” he said.

  “Lot of old widowed birds looking for a bit of a shag?”

  “Some of them. The one I was paired with wasn’t old, and neither was the owner. I dodged a bullet there,” he laughed uneasily.

  “How’s that? Did she try and make you eat all the leftover bikkies?”

  “Nah, she made incredible scones, but, c’mon, mate, she serves tea all day…” Leo said.

  “Too boring for you? All fairy cakes and tea cozies?”

  “Just so,” he said.

  “You go for them adventuring types with the wild eyes and the short skirts…well, like that bird that offed herself just the other day. Might be time to try a new style of woman, ma
te,” Denny said.

  The static mutter of the radio picked up a distinct call, and Leo was on his feet, taking down details. It was no intoxicated fisherman this time. A light aircraft was missing, and the SAR choppers were called in to sweep the coastline and four kilometers inland. He and Denny suited up and were fueling in no time. Leo felt the familiar surge of confidence, the jolt of energy that came with a search and rescue operation. He was good at this, and he wanted to be the one to locate the downed craft and save the crew. He needed to do this today, to prove something to himself if nothing else.

  He climbed in the Sea King HAR 3A, a bulky yellow bird with two rescue hoists and an infrared detection pod which would help them look for casualties if the worst had happened. Leo sat and waited, restless.

  “Where the fuck is Carney?”

  “His dad died. He’s back in Glasgow for the week.”

  “Who’s our winchman?”

  “You’re looking at him, mate,” Denny said.

  “Two pilots and a winchman to operate this thing,” Leo said.

  “Damn the rules and fly the bird, yer highness, we’re short-handed,” Denny said, “besides we’ve both had medic training!”

  “And you can fly this while operating a winch and providing first aid?”

  “’Course I can, Lieutenant. Can’t you?” Denny laughed.

  Leo swung the chopper out along the coast, looking for wreckage.

  “They been off the radar since half eight. I reckon they crashed,” Denny observed.

  “We’ll find ‘em,” Leo said.

  “Or one of the other crews up the coast will,” Denny said.

  “It’ll be us. I have a feeling. I’m going to swing out and take a bigger sweep. They may have gone out over the water,” Leo said.

  “Those weren’t the orders. Coastline and four point eight inland at most.”

  “Right, Denny. And you and I are such rules lads,” Leo said with his pirate’s smile.

  “Aw shite, Leo. When ye get that look, we risk getting reassigned to Shetland, flying low to look for lost ponies!”

  “Don’t you trust me, mate?”

  “Not as far as I could spit, yer highness,” Denny laughed, “now swing out to satisfy your vanity and then get yer bollocks back where they belong.”

  Leo directed the Sea King further out over the water, cold and choppy on a gray December morning. On his second pass, he saw something in the shadow of the cliff, a piece of debris standing out white on the shingle. He swung down.

  “I can’t get a good sightline on it. Could be wreckage. I’m going down in the winch. Hold the bird,” Leo ordered.

  “What? It’s nothing--that bit of white! Keep your arse up here and stay out of that winch. That’s not likely to be wreckage; they were further north up the coast when they lost contact, Leo,” Denny protested.

  “I’m for the shingle,” Leo said, starting the winch.

  “Mind the downwash, ye stubborn bastard, and don’t swing into the cliff face,” Denny sighed, “I’ll hold her steady.”

  Leo went down on the rescue winch, holding on with one hand, keeping his head down. The wind was mighty, and the cliff was close. Spray from the water bit into his face and burned his eyes as he leaned in for a closer look. The white piece he’d seen wasn’t part of the fuselage of a small aircraft. It was only some rubbish washed ashore too near the cliffs to see its shape from above. Cursing, he reached back to retract the rescue hoist and return to the chopper.

  His sleeve caught in the mechanism, and he jerked back on his arm to free it. The winch swung wildly, careening toward the sheer face of the cliff. Leo gripped the steel cable and tried to dodge as the hoist slammed into the cliff, scraping his side against the rock. He heard Denny shout and bank the chopper to give Leo room to maneuver. His thigh and his ribs burned from the impact with the rock. His hands were clumsy, heart racing as he got the hoist back into the helicopter.

  “Ye great fool, what did that accomplish? Are you bleeding?”

  “Nah. I nearly rescued a bit of rubbish, though. Near thing, that with the cliff.”

  “It was the wind.”

  “Sure and you weren’t trying to scrape me off so you could get back to your coffee?”

  “Don’t think I’ve not considered as much before now. Get back there and clean yourself up. Ye look a fright,” Denny said, his bluster not quite masking his concern.

  Leo’s trousers were torn, and a great gash showed in his jacket. He put ointment on the raw flesh and taped gauze over it.

  “That was a laugh. I’m for the controls now,” Leo said.

  “A laugh? There was no bloody sense in taking such a risk in these winds. For what, bragging rights that you were the one to find the wreck? If you’d cracked your skull on that rock, none would have thought you were a hero, mate,” Denny said seriously.

  “I’m not here to be a hero,” Leo said lightly.

  “The hell yer not. I’ve watched near on two years as you made every effort to leap to an early death to save a load of stupid drunks and bad swimmers.”

  “What makes you think I’m courting death? I’m remembering I’m alive, is what I’m doing. Or would you rather see me sit by a fire drinking tea, Denny?”

  “A fire and a cuppa wouldn’t be hell just now. I reckon your disdain for hearth and home may make a shift in time, lad. If you manage to live that long,” he said.

  The radio crackled to life with the news that the wreckage had been found further north and the pilot was being airlifted to hospital. “Told ye it wasn’t along our route,” Denny said, “now tell me ye weren’t pushing the envelope just now to push that pretty little lass from Bath out of yer mind?”

  “She was delicious but too domestic for my style, Denny. She’s nothing to do with a bit of rubbish on the shingle,” Leo said dismissively.

  “As you say, Lieutenant,” Denny chuckled.

  ***

  Evie spent too much time looking at that picture. The prince had messaged her a selfie after he left, a snap of himself eating one of her oolong scones with a note that she should tweet it to promote her new recipe. It had been a week and a half and the only person to see that photo was herself. She knew she should use it for promotional purposes, but there was something about keeping it private, about having a picture he’d sent her, that made her feel both special and pathetic.

  Now, she composed her one hundred forty-character announcement of the new scone on offer at Thimble, a rich tea-flavored pastry with a hint of cinnamon and orange essence that she was calling the Royal-tea scone. She hashtagged the photo #Royal-teaWithRoyalty and posted it.

  The business had been admittedly fantastic since Leo’s impromptu appearance at the Tea for Two event, with scores of women stopping in daily for a tea and a scone or muffin and to ask if he’d been round. A couple of local businesses had established standing orders for teas in takeaway cups and a boxed scone assortment, which had given her later nights and a better bottom line. She’d even had to promote Heather to full time and hire more part-timers to manage the counter and help with the baking. Even such a slim association with the royal family came with a side of prosperity.

  She sipped her tea with honey and looked at the picture on her phone during her tea break. Her phone pinged with notifications as she got new followers, hundreds of retweets on that photo. Comments started stacking up, all clamoring for mail-order scones. She remembered his message about offering her pastries online, and she’d dismissed it as grandiose. She only had the facilities for small batch preparation, so it wasn’t practical. She’d have to hire more help and charge a small fortune. Now that she was getting messages like, “I’d fancy a taste of Royal-tea out in Leeds,” and “I should have that with my morning tea even if the prince weren't included.” Evie thought there might be something to the idea.

  In fact, she started tapping out a description using one of those comments. A taste of Royal-tea delivered to you. She smil
ed and sent a message to the freelancer who managed her web page for Thimble. Lily would know what was involved in setting up an online boutique.

  In ten minutes, Lily was at Thimble, ready to talk, “I’ll have one of the new Royal-tea scones if you please, and a shag with that prince if he’s about,” she said.

  “Shame on you, Lily. He accused me of being a tea pimp but I’m not offering shags with anyone at the tea counter,” she said.

  “Ooh, he teased you about pimping. Sounds like he fancies you,” Lily said.

  “No, and it’s not like I didn’t try. I kept kissing him,” she admitted.

  “You kissed a prince. Sit down and tell me all,” Lily took her scone and motioned to Evie to join her.

  “It’s busy around here, I can’t just sit and gossip with you,” she said.

  “Right, it’s business. We’ll say it’s about your online boutique. It’s really about Leopold, the prince of hotness. How did this happen and you didn’t call me?”

  “Forgive me if my first impulse upon kissing a prince wasn’t to call my webmaster.”

  “I prefer web mistress. It sounds less geeky and more like a dominatrix. He looks like that guy from Hunger Games, the one who never wore a shirt and had the trident,” Lily said.

  “He’s so much hotter than Sam Clafin. Honestly, Lily, you could learn the names of the hot British actors you like. Mark it down to repatriation.”

  “Why bother? We saw the movies together, and you remember everything.”

  “Because watching the credits to learn his name is more mature than shouting, what was it? ‘I’ll be your crazy lady and have your baby, Finnick!’” she laughed.

  “I only said it once and to be fair, I wasn’t the only person yelling at the screen.”

  “The only other person who did that was thirteen. She had braces and a One Direction t-shirt.”

  “Fine, I’m immature. So tell me all about it. He looks muscly in all the tabloids. Is he muscly?”