The Princess's Bodyguard

by Beverly Barton

  Attired in a tailored navy-blue suit, Lord Sidney Bur-hardt, the king's chief advisor—and some said second only in power to the king—clicked his heels after entering the room. All eyes turned to Lord Burhardt. He had the bear­ing of a soldier, which he had once been, and an air of superiority that immediately put others in their place. Add to those qualities his white-blond hair, cut conservatively short, and icy-blue eyes, and the chief advisor had the ap­pearance of a Nazi SS officer as depicted in American films about World War II.

  "Miss Mercer," Lord Burhardt said. Lisa trembled. "Why did you not come directly to the king. . .or to me. . .before the princess left? If you had warned us, we could have prevented her from leaving."

  "As you well know, my first loyalty is to the princess." Lisa looked directly at the king, judiciously avoiding eye contact with the chief advisor.

  "Yes, yes, of course your loyalty is to the princess, as it should be." The king looked at Lord Burhardt. "Just as your first loyalty is to me. So, do not badger poor Lisa. I'm thankful that Adele at least left a letter. Otherwise I might have continued thinking she had been kidnapped."

  "Yes, of course. We're all thankful that the princess left the palace of her own accord," Lord Burhardt replied. "But if the news is leaked to the press. . .if the people discover that she has fled only weeks before her wed­ding. . . I do wish Miss Mercer had tried to persuade the princess to stay—"

  "How could we expect Adele's secretary to be able to control her when I, her father, am unable to do anything with her? She's a stubborn, willful girl. But in this matter she will comply with my wishes. She will marry Dedrick one month from this Saturday!"

  "Then, Your Majesty, I suggest we—" Lord Burhardt said, but was quickly cut short by the king.

  "Send for Colonel Rickard immediately," the king commanded.

  "My dear, why send for the chief of security now that Adele has already slipped past his guards?" Muriel asked.

  King Leopold glared at his wife, who shrank away from him and cast her gaze to the floor.

  "I'll call for Colonel Rickard," Lord Burhardt said.

  King Leopold walked over, placed his arm around his wife's shoulders and hugged her affectionately. She lifted her face and smiled at him.

  Lisa's stomach knotted painfully. Would Colonel Rick­ard question her? Would he figure out that the princess had left the palace disguised as her?

  Within five minutes the tall, slender chief of palace se­curity stood before the king, an embarrassed flush on his pale face. Lisa felt sorry for Colonel Rickard. After all, it had been on his watch, so to speak, that the princess had managed to leave the palace grounds without detection— and without her palace guards.

  "The princess has not been kidnapped," the king said.

  Colonel Rickard sighed; his lips twitched with a grateful half smile. "Then you've heard from her, Your Majesty?"

  King Leopold held up the crushed letter and pointed it at Colonel Rickard as if it were a weapon. "The damn fool girl has run off and says in this message—'' he shook his clenched fist "—that she will not return until I call off her wedding to Dedrick."

  "This information is strictly confidential." Lord Bur­hardt offered first the colonel and then Lisa a deadly, warn­ing glare. "It is to go no further than the people in this room."

  "Quite right," the king said. "Colonel, I want the prin­cess found and brought home as soon as possible. How do you suggest we go about accomplishing this without alert­ing the press in any way? Things must be handled dis­creetly. A scandal must be averted!"

  "I understand, Your Majesty," the colonel said. "I sug­gest hiring a private firm to track down the princess and, with your permission, bring her home even if it means taking her against her will."

  "A private firm? Hmm." The king rubbed his chin. "A firm outside of Orlantha? Yes, yes. A trusted firm with operatives who know how to keep their mouths shut."

  "I will make some discreet inquiries, sire, and have sug­gestions for you within the hour." The colonel bowed.

  King Leopold waved a dismissive hand. "Yes, go. Now. And hurry. We have no time to lose." The minute the colonel bowed again and then exited the chambers, the king turned to Lord Burhardt. "Issue a statement that the princess has the flu and is confined to her quarters. Contact Dr. Latimer and instruct him to come to the palace this morning."

  Lord Burhardt bowed, clicked his heels and left. Lisa waited, praying the king would dismiss her. She needed to contact Pippin Ritter as soon as possible to tell him where the princess was and to pass along the information she'd left for him.

  The king slumped down on a huge, ornate chair by the fireplace. The queen came to him, leaned over the chair and placed her hands on his shoulders.

  "Please rest, my dear." Queen Muriel patted her hus­band tenderly. "Adele will be found and returned home. All will be well."

  The king glanced at Lisa. "She told me that she didn't love Dedrick. That's what this is all about, isn't it? Some romantic nonsense. I assured her that she would grow to care for Dedrick. The man has several sterling qualities. He's intelligent, quick-witted, charming, and his bloodlines are pure. I refuse to believe that it's anything more than prewedding jitters with Adele."

  Lisa remained quiet, aware that she had no right to voice an opinion. She thought Dedrick was only fairly intelli­gent, and he was seldom charming except when in the king's presence. Those who knew him well were aware that he drank to excess, gambled and womanized. Hardly sterling qualities.

  "Adele told me some ludicrous story about suspecting Dedrick of treason," the king said. "She thinks he's one of those damn Royalists who wants us to reunite with Bal­anchine. I told her there was no point in her fabricating lies about him."

  "Sire, what if. . .what if they aren't lies?" Lisa expected an outraged cry from the king, but instead he simply stared at her as if she were speaking in an alien tongue.

  "You're dismissed," the king said. "If you hear from Adele. . . Never mind. She won't telephone the palace."

  Lisa curtsied, then fled as quickly as possible. Once se­curely locked in her private quarters in the princess's wing of the palace, she used her cell phone to contact Vice Chancellor Ritter. He needed to know what had happened and that the princess would be sending and receiving mes­sages through her friend, Dia Constantine.

  Adele sipped at the pink champagne as she lounged in the drawing room of Chateau Gustel thirty kilometers out­side Vienna. The house and grounds would be considered large by most people's standards, but in comparison to the palace and royal grounds in Erembourg, the estate was rather small. But it was quite comfortable, with an ade­quate staff. And Yves had been utterly charming these past three days. They'd had such fun flying off to Paris yester­day for a divine shopping spree. No one had had any idea that the kooky redhead on Yves's arm was actually the princess of Orlantha. Being incognito was proving to be amazingly exciting. But she couldn't hide out here with Yves indefinitely. It was only a matter of time before someone discovered her whereabouts. But for now she was safe. Living outside Orlantha, there wasn't much she could do to help Pippin and his trusted colleagues in their quest to find evidence against Dedrick. But she could buy them all some time by stopping the wedding or at least post­poning it until she could show her father hard proof of Dedrick's disloyalty.

  Yves breezed into the room, a newspaper under his arm and a quirky smile on his handsome face.

  "What's wrong?" she asked. "You have a silly ex­pression on your face."

  "We've been found out," he replied.

  "What?'' Adele spilled a drop of champagne on her silk trousers as she rose from the settee.

  Yves opened the paper and read to her, "Rumor has it that Princess Adele of Orlantha, reported to be in bed with the flu at the palace in Erembourg, is in actuality cavorting about Paris with none other than that bon vivant Yves Jurgen. Now, why would the engaged princess be traveling with a man other than her fiancé, Dedrick Vardan, Duke of Roswald?'' Yves sighed dramatically
. "The article goes on and on, but you get the idea. I'm afraid we've blown your cover, chère."

  "That means it's only a matter of time before someone figures out I'm here in Vienna with you."

  "We can pack our bags and head out for the Riviera whenever you say. This evening. Tomorrow."

  Adele shook her head. "No, I'm afraid not. Everyone in Europe knows you. And apparently they recognize me, even in a red wig. I'm less likely to be recognized if I'm alone."

  Yves tsk-tsked. "I hate the idea of your being out there alone. What will you do if—"

  "I'll make arrangements to fly to Golnar in the morn­ing," Adele said. "I'll phone Dia to let her know I'll need sanctuary with Theo and her a little sooner than I'd planned."

  "I'll be sad to see you leave, dear heart. You're such an entertaining companion." Yves popped Adele gently on the nose. "I had made plans for us to meet some trusted friends for an intimate dinner tonight, but—''

  "Don't change your plans," she told him. "I'll be busy packing and preparing for my trip to Golnar."

  "Are you sure you don't mind? If you'd rather I stay here with you, I'll be more than glad to cancel."

  "I'll be perfectly all right here," she told him. "At least for tonight. I doubt that anyone on my father's staff will be able to come up with the information about this estate in the next twenty-four hours. After all, the place still be­longs to your cousin Jules, doesn't it?"

  "Yes, but how did you know the chateau wasn't mine?"

  "Because, Yves, my wicked friend, we both know that you have no money of your own and depend on relatives and wealthy older ladies to support you."

  Yves clutched his chest and groaned. "I have shared too many of my secrets with you, chère.'"

  "And I with you."

  Grinning, Yves lifted her hand and kissed it. "Then it is good that we trust each other, is it not?"

  Dedrick rolled over in bed and stretched. The loud bang­ing on the door had awakened him from a peaceful sleep. The voluptuous creature lying next to him roused, eased out of bed, slipped on a silk robe and headed for the door.

  "Ask who it is," Dedrick told Vanda. "I can't have anyone finding me here."

  "Don't worry," Vanda said, a devilish smile on her pretty face. "You can hide under the covers."

  She cracked the door a fraction and peered through the opening. Before she could stop the man, he shoved the door open wide and knocked her aside as he entered her room at Madame Pellonia's, the most exclusive brothel in all of Orlantha.

  "You fool!" the man shouted at Dedrick. "What if someone sees you here? Then the whole world will know why the princess doesn't want to marry you."

  Dedrick rose from the bed leisurely, totally unconcerned with his friend's outrage. "You worry too much."

  The intruder glowered at Vanda. "Leave us!"

  Vanda frowned and looked to Dedrick for instructions.

  He waved a dismissal. "Go. Go."

  Vanda huffed, then stomped out of the room and slammed the door behind her.

  Dedrick dressed, taking his time as his friend glared at him, his arms crossed over his chest.

  "We must go to the palace immediately. The king has hired an American private detective to find the princess and return her to Orlantha. You should be at King Leo­pold's side, showing your support and concern. If he be­comes the least bit suspicious—''

  "Ah, but that's your job, isn't it? To waylay any sus­picions."

  "Princess Adele actually told her father that she be­lieved you were a Royalist."

  Dedrick laughed. "I'm sure dear papa didn't believe her. Why would anyone suspect me?"

  "If your wedding to the princess is canceled, we will have no choice but to eliminate her and leave the king without an heir. We prefer to take over Orlantha by peace­ful means. The Balanchine army is half the size of Orlan­tha's army. Once you become the prince consort, you will wield great power and can put many of our people in stra­tegic positions within the government. And in time we will see to it that you become king of both Orlantha and Bal­anchine."

  "I would hate to lose the chance for a wedding night with Adele. She's such a delicious little creature."

  "Is that all you think about?"

  "I think about many things," Dedrick said. "I think that once I am king of both Orlantha and Balanchine, you will not speak to me in such a manner."

  "Once you are king, no, I will speak to you with due respect. But until that day—" the intruder grabbed Dedrick's lapels and glared directly into his eyes "—I am in charge. You will do as I say. Is that understood?"

  Dedrick took a deep breath, clutched the other man's hands and removed them from his coat. "I understand per­fectly."

  "Good. Then go to the palace and assure King Leopold that you adore Adele and want nothing more than to be her husband."

  Dedrick grinned. "What if this American detective can't find Adele?"

  "My sources tell me that his firm is the best in the business. He will find her. It seems the princess was spot­ted with Yves Jurgen in Paris yesterday. This detective's agency is tracking her down as we speak. And when he leaves Orlantha to go after her, two of our men will follow him and make sure nothing goes wrong."

  Matt's flight landed at the Vienna International Airport Holzbauer with only a twenty-minute delay. His rental car, a four-door silver Opel Omega, was ready and waiting for him. He'd spent enough time on airplanes these past few days to rack up quite a few frequent-flyer miles. Of course, Dundee picked up the tab for his flights, since all of them were work related. Ellen Denby, Dundee's CEO, had shot to hell his plans for a week of R&R in Paris. She'd phoned him only hours after Worth Cordell had taken a flight out of Roissy Charles de Gaulle, winging his way home to the good old U.S.A. Ellen had pointed out to Matt that he was already in Europe, only a short flight from Orlantha, so it would be foolish to send another agent to take the assign­ment. He'd tried to beg off. He should have known better. Ellen wasn't the type who could be persuaded or pres­sured; she was the type who expected her orders to be obeyed without question.

  He had to admit that, even though he really hadn't wanted this assignment, he was curious as to why the lovely Princess Adele had flown the coop only a month before her wedding. During his interview with King Leo­pold, His Majesty had cited a case of premarital jitters as the reason his daughter had run away. But after sizing up the situation—and meeting the Duke of Roswald—Matt had drawn his own conclusions. Dedrick Vardan was a horse's ass. Pompous. Arrogant. Condescending. And come to think of it, the wannabe prince looked a bit like a horse. Or maybe more like a mule. But the guy sure knew how to play the king like a fiddle. And Lord Bur­hardt had sent cold chills up Matt's spine. His gut instincts warned him that the man would be dangerous if crossed. Then there was Colonel Rickard, who seemed to resent the fact that he hadn't been put in charge of returning the princess to the fold. The king had told Matt he wanted his daughter returned to the palace, and gave him permission to use whatever means necessary to bring her home.

  After taking a look at faxed photos of Yves Jurgen that Dundee had sent, along with more information on the man than Matt actually needed, it was easy to see why the prin­cess had run away from Dedrick and straight into Yves's waiting arms. Hell, Yves Jurgen was a damn pretty boy, and from his "rap sheet" he knew everything there was to know about women—how to please them and keep them coming back for more. Matt's guess was that Princess Adele had run away for one last fling with her former lover before tying the knot with old mule face.

  It really didn't matter to him why the princess had run away. She was nothing more than an assignment to him. Dundee contacts in Austria had tracked Yves and her to an estate outside Vienna, so it was only a matter of time before he knocked on the door, introduced himself and told the princess that she'd been caught. He hoped she didn't put up a fuss or that her lover didn't do something stupid. He wanted to get this over with as soon as possible so he could return to Paris and pick up where he'd left off with a dele
ctable blonde named Chantel.

  Adele ate dinner alone at the chateau after making res­ervations to fly to Golnar in the morning. She had already packed, except for toiletry items, her pajamas and the outfit she'd wear tomorrow. When she'd phoned her best friend, Dia Constantine, Dia had told Adele that she and Theo would gladly provide a sanctuary for her. Dia was an old boarding school classmate who had become her best friend despite the differences in their backgrounds. Dia was the product of a marriage between a stodgy English barrister and his free-spirited Greek wife. A statuesque beauty with jet-black hair and luminescent silver eyes, Dia had cap­tured the attention and then the heart of Greek tycoon Theo Constantine when they'd met at a party at the royal palace in Erembourg. The two had been married for eight years and had one child. Adele was Phila's godmother and she adored the seven-year-old with a passion.

  Adele would have gone straight to Golnar when she escaped from the palace, but it would have been the first place her father would have thought of when he discovered her missing. If he'd caught her en route, he would have forced her to return to Orlantha, and no government would have dared offend the king. Of course, if she made it to Golnar, he would be powerless to force her to return. Gol­nar, a small island nation between Greece and Cyprus, had no diplomatic ties to Orlantha, and since Theo's wealth gave him unlimited power over local politics, the author­ities would hardly allow a guest of his to be taken against her will.

  No matter what, she simply had to give Pippin and his friends time to gather evidence against Dedrick. If that meant staying in Golnar for a year, then so be it.

  As Adele listened to a tape of Tchaikovsky's concertos and drank her after-dinner demitasse, she heard a ruckus at the front door.

  "Please, sir, no!" the butler called out in his native German language. "Stop right now, or I shall be forced to call the police."

  "My German's a little rusty," a man's voice said. "But I understand that you're threatening to call the police. Go right ahead. Be my guest."

  Adele tensed. The doors to the drawing room swung open. A tall, black-haired man wearing faded jeans and a weathered leather bomber jacket stormed into the room, the butler on his heels. Adele's heartbeat accelerated. Who was this stranger? Whoever he was he spoke English, not German or French.