Palace of Deception: A Romantic Suspense Novella

by Helena Fairfax

  The wall-length mirrors in the Princess’s bathroom reflected my pale complexion. I met the hairdressers’ critical eyes in the glass as they examined my wavy red hair. The Princess’s hairstyle, at least, was relatively easy to copy. The process took a couple of hours, but when the hairdresser brushed off the last few remaining strands of red hair from my neck and I finally stood up from my chair, I had a chic honey-blonde bob. I stared at my reflection, turning my head this way and that. My normal hairstyle was tousled and a little unruly. I no longer looked like me. I still didn’t look like the Princess, either, but it was a start.

  When I returned to the sitting-room, Léon rose to his feet. At first I wondered if the hairdresser had made a big mistake. He took one look at me and a flicker of dismay crossed his face. I patted the back of my head, where the line of the bob lay neat and crisp. I felt just as though I’d returned from my own hairdresser’s, and was ridiculously anxious for Léon’s opinion, which was silly. I was here to do a job, and so I bit back the words, ‘Don’t you like it?’ that were hovering on my lips.

  But perhaps I’d imagined Léon’s initial reaction. He gave a brief nod and said merely, ‘Very good.’

  My unruly curls had gone, but my make-over was far from over. For the rest of the day, Léon would leave and return with yet another silent make-up artist. I was manicured and pedicured; my brows were plucked, arched and dyed black; I was moisturised and depilated, and my teeth whitened until they pinged when I opened my mouth. Every operation on my body was carried out with seriousness and attention to detail, and a complete lack of regard to my own presence in the room. I began to feel like a mannequin, devoid of personality. It didn’t help that the make-up artists were completely silent. Whenever I’ve been made up in the theatre in the past, by the time my nails have dried I’ve found out all about the make-up artist’s in-laws, her latest holiday to Greece, and which actors are sleeping with whom. In turn, I’ll have given her the gossip on all my other acting jobs and my plans for decorating my flat.

  By contrast, the make-up artists Léon brought into the Princess’s suite were quiet as the grave. If I asked a question, they merely answered yes or no. They showed no curiosity about the fact I was being made over to look like the Princess of Montverrier; they simply applied their skills to my body in a swift, efficient manner that was completely chilling.

  As one of the artists examined a recent photo of the Princess, I began to wonder where these people had come from. Then I remembered what my old director had told me about his network of stand-ins. Were all these people in Mr Ross’s pay? If so, perhaps in the past they might also have worked on actors I knew; acquaintances of mine from college. I imagined a group of stand-ins across Europe, all ignorant of each other’s roles, with Mr Ross holding all the threads together like a puppet-master. I itched to ask the make-up artists who else they’d made over, but their forbidding manner discouraged me from speaking at all.

  Finally, after turning me this way and that way for hours, the artists packed all their equipment away and left. I stood alone and naked in front of the mirror after they’d gone, examining the woman I’d now become. I glowed all over with a deep brown tan that had been carefully applied with a spray. My eyebrows were two fine arcs, and my lips had been plumped into a rosy bow. When I smiled, my teeth gleamed. I no longer recognised the person in front of me.

  I’d made much study of the Princess while I was still in Edinburgh, watching several video clips. She has a slender, ethereal grace, and it seemed to me that despite my physical transformation, my reflection was a little too solid and down-to-earth. There was still a lot of work to be done before I could pass for her.

  As a test, and to see if I might eventually step inside the Princess’s skin, I tried one of her mannerisms; that sudden, charming smile she had for the reporters, which failed to light her eyes, and which would vanish as quickly as it had come. I smiled – and yes, there she was! I tried it again, entranced by my reflection. The likeness was completely uncanny.

  I heard Léon return from escorting the last of the make-up artists to the Palace gate. By now I knew his firm knock on the door. I threw on the white robe they’d left me and made my way through the sitting-room to let him in.

  When I opened the door his dark eyes widened for a moment in astonishment at my transformation. I almost laughed at his reaction, like a little girl at a fancy-dress party, but then the reality of it all hit me with force. I was no longer Lizzie Smith. I was beginning to lose my true self. I should have felt excited at the thought of stepping into a new role, but instead, I remembered the angry placard on the road past the Cathedral, and my precarious position, and I shivered, wrapping my gown more tightly around me.

  Chapter Seven

  It was late by the time the make-up artists had finished their work, and I was beginning to feel hungry. I was about to ask Léon what I was to do for meals, when my question was answered by a knock on the door. Daria entered with a selection of dishes and cutlery on a silver trolley, bringing with her the most delicious smell of roast meat and herbs.

  Like Léon, the housekeeper’s eyes widened when she saw how I’d been transformed, but her expression quickly became cold and even a little disdainful. Perhaps she thought it was disgraceful of me to imagine I could ever replace Princess Charlotte, no matter how well I tried to disguise myself. It was a relief when Daria placed the trolley next to the table in the sitting-room and left without speaking.

  I lifted one of the domed lids to find everything was duplicated: two plates, two sets of cutlery, two meals, two desserts.

  I frowned, looking up at Léon. ‘What’s all this?’

  He shrugged. ‘My orders are to remain with you.’

  ‘What, all the time?’

  This time a short nod.

  ‘Even at night?’

  For once, he looked a little discomfited. I glanced around. My suite had only one bedroom.

  ‘I will sleep here.’ He indicated one of the sofas.

  I was beginning to understand that my bodyguard was a man of few words. There was a second or two’s silence as I stood there, foolishly clutching the silver lid. But I didn’t feel the need for my improvised shield. On the contrary, I found the thought that Léon would be sleeping outside my room each night, like some knight in a medieval castle, immensely reassuring.

  The tantalising smell of food wafted from the tureens, and I remembered how long it was since I’d eaten. Léon, too, must be hungry. I guessed he must be waiting for me, in my role of Princess, to invite him to eat. For a gaoler, he was a patient man.

  ‘Shall we have dinner?’

  He gave a small bow of the head. ‘Your Highness.’

  Chapter Eight

  From then on, Léon was always by my side. At first the intimacy was strange and awkward. We had to share the bathroom, for example. Although Léon was punctilious about removing all trace of himself, there was still a lingering aroma of mint toothpaste and an indefinable maleness about the place when I entered it.

  And then there was the fact that he was sleeping in the next room. When I climbed into bed that first night and sank down on the pillows, my body was exhausted, but my mind was racing as though I were still on the back of Léon’s motorbike. The unfamiliar bedroom was unsettling, and the sight of my bare, tanned arms on the covers gave me a sense of being inside the wrong body. But funnily enough, it was the thought of Léon’s calm, solid presence within reach that finally helped me sleep.

  My first morning in the Palace, I awoke to bright sunshine streaming through the window. I sat up with a start. My automatic reaction was to reach for my mobile phone to check the time, but my phone was back in Edinburgh, where I’d left it in the care of Mr Ross. As part of the terms of my contract, I was to have no outside contact with the rest of the world. My story was that I was on a walking holiday in the Alps, and out of reach. Depressingly, there were few people who would miss me. Mr Ross knew both my parents had died some years previously. I have an
aunt and several cousins, but when I informed them of my holiday, they showed little interest. My few close friends in Edinburgh had their own plans for the summer and merely wished me bonnes vacances.

  I got out of bed and put on my dressing-gown, feeling more alone than I had done the day before, but when I entered the sitting-room and saw Léon’s familiar figure at the table, a large pot of coffee beside him, my spirits rose. He was beginning to feel like an old friend. I beamed a smile at him.

  Léon pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. ‘Good morning, Your Highness. Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Not really, Léon.’ I ran a hand through my hair. The neat bob was dishevelled and sticking up in soft tufts. ‘It’s the strangeness of everything.’

  He took in the shadows under my eyes. ‘It will be a difficult few weeks. Do you think you will manage to remain cooped up in this room until the ceremony?’

  I told him I would, although I didn’t feel at all confident. My actor’s training must have worked, though, because Léon nodded approvingly.

  ‘There’s a lot to be done,’ he said. ‘But first, breakfast. Daria has brought us a tray.’

  He came round the table and pulled out a chair for me. After my initial shock at being thrown so completely in Léon’s company, I was beginning to find him a restful person to be with. He didn’t speak much, but he had a way of second-guessing what I wanted. He offered me items from the breakfast tray before I even opened my mouth to ask. I wondered if it was his bodyguard’s training that made him so observant, and was curious to find out more about him.

  ‘How long have you worked as the Princess’s bodyguard, Léon?’

  ‘I don’t work for the Princess, Your Highness.’ He split open a croissant and began to spread it generously with butter. ‘Besides, I would be ashamed to let one of my charges disappear without a trace.’ He frowned. ‘I don’t know what her own bodyguards were thinking. I hope they’ve been sacked from their jobs.’

  I had to smile at the vehemence of his reply. ‘So where did you work before, then? You’re from Montverrier, aren’t you?’

  He nodded. ‘My mother is Italian, but my father is from Montverrier and I grew up here. I did my national service here, also.’ He glanced up at me with a wry smile. ‘Although we don’t exactly have a big army. National service in Montverrier mainly consists of standing outside the Palace in full uniform trying not to faint in the heat. After the army, I did some training in Switzerland. That was an eye-opener.’

  Léon took a large bite of his croissant. I waited for him to continue, but it appeared his breakfast had claimed his attention.

  ‘An eye-opener?’ I prompted. ‘Did you work in Switzerland?’

  He nodded, and began to tell me about the enormously wealthy family whose children he had guarded.

  ‘To be honest, I wasn’t so much a bodyguard as a nanny. The parents were often away, and I would play football and video games with them.’ He smiled. ‘Even read them stories at bedtime.’

  I laughed. ‘How sweet. I can imagine you reading Little Red Riding Hood, Léon. You must be relieved to know bedtime stories aren’t part of your duties here.’

  His eyes met mine over the breakfast things and he held my gaze for just an instant too long. I had the ridiculous image of Léon reading to me, lying beside me in my large bed in the next room, and I felt my skin begin to warm.

  There was a rattle at the door, and the housekeeper pushed it wide. Her black eyes flew to me, dressed in my robe as I was, and then flicked to Léon, like a lizard’s. I could tell she was angry. Unnerved, I straightened up. Léon continued to drink his coffee, unmoved.

  ‘There is work to be done this morning, Your Highness.’

  Apart from Daria’s thin-lipped use of my title, I’d given up hope of her ever showing me the deference due to royalty. Still, it would be nice not to feel intimidated every time she entered the room.

  I narrowed my eyes. ‘I’m well aware of the programme, thank you, Daria. I have been through everything necessary with Mr Ross in Scotland. And now if you wouldn’t mind removing our breakfast things.’ I rose from the table, glancing enquiringly at Léon. ‘That is, if Léon has quite finished?’

  Léon stood with me, leaving his half-empty coffee cup on the table. He nodded. We watched Daria clear our trays away in silence. After the housekeeper had left the room, I continued to gaze after her, my back ramrod straight.

  ‘That was well done, Your Highness.’ Léon’s quiet words brought me back from the dark direction my thoughts were taking me. ‘You are beginning to act like a princess. I’m glad that you refuse to let Daria intimidate you. Sometimes I swear she acts as though she were one of the Royal family herself.’

  Léon’s words gave me pause for thought. Perhaps I’m a little foolish. You probably think I’m stupid, even. But with all the rush to leave for Montverrier, I had never questioned who had actually sent the request to Mr Ross for a stand-in for the Princess. At the time, I’d assumed it must be the King. Now I realised he was far too ill. It couldn’t have been the Princess herself, as she was missing. So who was it who had set the wheels in motion?

  ‘Léon,’ I said. ‘How did you come here? I mean, who asked you to be my bodyguard?’

  ‘I received a letter from Daria at my home in Switzerland.’

  ‘Daria.’ I knitted my brows. I suppose it was believable that Daria, being so close to the Princess, should be the one to arrange security for her stand-in. But who had approached Mr Ross? Was that also Daria? Why would a Palace housekeeper be the one to make such a request? Who was really in charge in the Palace, in the absence of the King and Princess?

  Léon must have sensed my bewilderment. ‘Let others concern themselves with Royal politics,’ he said calmly. ‘We have our own work to do.’

  I tried to dismiss my concern as easily as Léon, but there were too many uncertainties. I’d hoped matters would become clearer the longer I stayed in the Palace, but the truth only retreated deeper into the mist.

  Chapter Nine

  Léon was right, though. I was being paid to do my job, and there was still much to be done before the ceremony. Although superficially I now looked like Princess Charlotte, I was still a long way from “being inside her skin,” as I liked to think of it. Mr Ross and I had discussed how best to immerse myself in my role, and together we had come up with a schedule. For the first few days, every morning, after Daria had cleared away our breakfast tray, Léon would set up a screen in the sitting-room. Mr Ross had provided me with me with several memory sticks containing video clips, and I would load them into a laptop and sit and watch the Princess move about on the large screen, hour after hour.

  Here she was descending the steps of a plane in the Caribbean, in fashionable, wide-legged trousers and sunglasses. The expression on her face is hard to see beneath the broad brim of her hat. She stands at the top of the steps and gives a wave to the crowds; an elegant lift of the hand, palm outwards, fingers very slightly spread. I practised this same wave in front of the mirror until it came as naturally as breathing.

  Another clip showed the Princess at the film festival in Cannes, walking away from the cameras, down a long red carpet. I studied every movement of this walk; the way her feet turn very slightly outwards, like those of a dancer; the way she holds her head, turning it lightly to take in her surroundings; the way she glances over her shoulder with a small smile.

  And so on and so on, through many, many more: Princess Charlotte tripping up the steps to the Cathedral for Sunday Mass; chatting with friends in the stands at a race track; dancing at a charity ball; greeting the Queen and Prince Philip in a state room in the Palace. On and on the videos play, and I repeat her movements over and over again. And all the while, as I metamorphose myself into someone I’m not, Léon sits on the sofa, his arms crossed over his broad chest. Occasionally he moves to stand by the window to check the scene outside, and I ask him what he can see, but it’s always the same answer: sun, sky, poplars.

&
nbsp; Once I asked Léon if he weren’t tired of watching the Princess leaving and arriving at various glamorous locations time and time again. He surprised me by answering, ‘I’ve been learning, too. Play the next clip, and I’ll show you.’

  As the next video began to play, Léon pointed out all the other people in the crowd that I hadn’t noticed myself, engrossed as I was in the Princess’s actions.

  ‘See, here are her bodyguards.’ He indicated a couple of well-built men with serious faces, one walking in front of the Princess as she made her way along the promenade in Nice, and one just behind her.

  I gave Léon a sideways look. ‘They’re muscular and they’re wearing shades,’ I said. ‘That doesn’t mean they’re bodyguards. They could be anyone.’

  ‘No, look again.’ He pointed at the screen. ‘Those two men are the only people not watching the Princess. They’re watching the crowds. And if you look carefully you’ll see a bulge beneath their jackets. They are carrying guns. I’ve seen these same two guys on a lot of the clips you’ve played.’ He waited for the video to play out and the next to start. ‘See, here they are again. And watch how the one in front – the darker guy – moves those two people back in the crowd. He does it well, without causing confrontation. They’re doing a good job.’

  Léon stood, arms folded, a frown on his brow. A silence fell as I pondered his words. If the Princess’s bodyguards were doing such a good job, then how was it she had disappeared? It didn’t make sense. It seemed to me that outside the walls of my suite the Palace was a web of the unknown. As if on cue, right there in the next clip was Daria, all in black, clipping along like a beetle behind the Princess’s graceful figure.