His American Princess

by Pamela DuMond

  “Come back later,” a man’s voice called out with a clipped English accent.

  “No!”

  A Champagne bottle flew out the window headed straight at my head. I ducked and it shattered onto the small patch of pavement behind me.

  “Jeez.” Joan hugged her coat closer.

  I leaned down and dusted a few shards off my leather boots. “I think that explains the broken glass.”

  “Hold on,” the same voice said. Thirty seconds later, the front door creaked open.

  A hand gestured us inside. “Enter.”

  “At last, Gareth.” Esmeralda took the lead and stomped inside, Mr. Cartwright on her heels.

  “What do you think?” I asked Joan.

  “I love his purses. Perhaps we should toast. Lady Beatrice loaned me her silver flask of Prince Harry’s Scotch for good luck.” Joan pulled it from her coat pocket, took a slug, and handed it to me. “To procuring beautiful gowns, finding Vivian’s priest poser, and tracking down her loophole.”

  I wanted to be the good prince and hope for happily-ever-after endings for everyone. Was it horrible to want a happily ever after for myself as well?

  “Is it too early in the day to be drinking Scotch?” Vivian asked.

  Esmeralda leaned out the door, snatched the flask, and slugged back a shot. “It’s after 2 p.m. What’s wrong with you, Vivian? Hurry up. Gareth’s creative window is open, the clock is ticking, and we don’t want to miss our opportunity.”

  I nodded. “Let’s get this done.”

  “Yes,” Vivian said.

  A half-naked, muscular, heavily tatted man with wild salt and pepper hair leaned out the door and smiled through bleary blue eyes. “Greetings, Your Majesty. Move your hot asses, Ladies, inside my hovel.” He arched his eyebrows at Joan. “Especially you. The redhead. Let’s get this party started.”

  We sat on velvet beanbag chairs in Gareth’s studio, surrounded by racks filled with ball gowns resembling exotic birds. The smell of medicinal weed wafted through the air as a few assistants helped the ladies with gowns and purses. One wizened man served us tiny cups of espresso and an assortment of Italian pastries from an ornate silver tray.

  “Joan Brady,” Gareth said. “Stop hiding. You’re wearing a Gareth Trent original and I will not allow you to wear it like a frightened child.”

  “I’m not hiding.” Joan stared at her feet as she walked across his studio, dressed in an emerald green silk gown with a full skirt and a V neckline. Cinched at the waist, it made her red hair pop and her white complexion glow.

  “You walk like you’re single at the secondary school dance,” Gareth said.

  “Don’t be mean,” Vivian said. She munched on a little cake, brushing crumbs from her mouth.

  “It’s true,” Gareth said. “The essence of Joan is sassy, fetching, whatever the hell she wants to be. She just doesn’t know it yet.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Vivian,” Joan said. “We’re here to procure gowns. Not raise our self-esteem.”

  “Vi has a point,” I said. “Stop being an asshat, Gareth.”

  “Apologies, Your Majesty,” Gareth said.

  “Not to me,” I said.

  “Lady Joan, I apologize,” Gareth said. “Let’s try this again. When you walk, lift your head. Don’t look at your feet. Let the dress swish around your ankles. As for you, Vivian…”

  “Vivian doesn’t need your directions on how to walk,” I said.

  Esmeralda stared at me. “Did Cartwright die and make you the etiquette police?”

  “I see you in a rose silk dress, Vivian,” Gareth said. “With a plunging neckline and a nipped in waist to show off your curves. A bit of a train, because it is a ball gown after all, and some detail around the bodice to call attention to your obvious assets.”

  He was looking at her too closely. Why was he looking at her that way?

  “I don’t need attention,” Vivian said. “I don’t know if Esmeralda told you, but we’re actually here on a stealth mission.”

  “You won’t be stealthy if you don’t fit in. Try on the rose gown. I think it will work. If so, I’ve got a clutch that will match it perfectly. Your Highness, can I ask you a question?” “Yes.”

  He whispered, “Is Lady Joan married?”

  “No.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “I don’t think so. Interested?”

  “Yes.”

  Esmeralda stuck her nose into our conversation. “Gareth, do you have a crush on our Joan-y?”

  “Yes,” he said. “What are the lot of you doing tomorrow early afternoon?”

  “Work,” Mr. Cartwright said. “No time for holiday merriment.”

  “Bah humbug, Cartwright,” Gareth said.

  “What will it hurt to have a little fun before the grand night at the opera?” I asked.

  “Cicchetti appetizers, wine, and a tour of the Rialto Market,” Gareth said. “A friend of mine’s coming to town. She’s an art historian, tracks down clues and mysteries and is very good with stealth missions. I’ll pick you up at La Princessa tomorrow at noon. Dress code is fashionably comfortable. Lovely working with you royals. I never listen to the gossip about you.”

  “What gossip?” Vivian asked.

  “Not you. From what I hear, you’re not technically a royal yet.” He stood up and stretched. “My people will help you out. You’re welcome.”

  “Thank you,” Joan said.

  “Send me the bill,” Mr. Cartwright said.

  “Of course. Lady Joan, a pleasure.” He bowed, kissed her hand, then exited the cavernous room.

  Joan peered down at her gown as an assistant unzipped the back and helped her out. “When we first got here, I thought, ‘Oh great, here we are slumming it again.’ But then this happened. Between the suite at the Princessa, the ball gown fitting thing, except for the ass-pinching thing, I think this trip is going exceptionally well. On a more positive note, I can barely feel the bruise on my ass, and I think the Rescue Remedy is totally working.”

  “We still haven’t made contact with the priest impersonator,” I said. “This isn’t just fun and games. We’re in Venezia on Mission Serenissima.”

  “Indeed. And ball gowns aren’t cheap, ladies.” Mr. Cartwright said. “Someone pass me the Scotch.

  Chapter 9

  VIVIAN

  Most people have three kinds of jeans: straight legged, boot cut, and flared at the ankle. I too have three kinds: fat, medium, and skinny. I’ve traveled up and down the scale, playing with fifteen pounds or so, and am usually pretty cool about that.

  As much as I like to pride myself on being happy with my body image, if someone put my feet to the fire I’d have to confess that when I was preparing to marry Max the first time, I dieted like a madwoman to stuff myself into a significantly smaller wedding dress. But ever since I’d walked down that aisle in Friedricksburg almost a month ago, I’d been hungry.

  So I was excited that after our tour of the famous, open-aired Rialto Market on a chilly, foggy December day, my ladies, Mr. Cartwright, Leo, Gareth, and I crowded around a wooden table in a busy trattoria, to sip regional wines and nosh from small dishes filled with Venetian hors d'oeurves, aka cicchetti.

  It seemed to me that Venetians lived life with brilliant abandonment – hanging out with pals mid day, sampling delicious food, and consuming them in bite-sized pieces until their taste buds sang hallelujah. Pinch me, I could get used to this.

  “What did I just eat?” I sighed contentedly, dabbed the paper napkin to my mouth, and pointed to meaty crumbs left on a small, white ceramic dish embedded in a smear of thick, vibrant red sauce.

  “Spicy fried meatballs.” Gareth speared a hunk of bread topped in shaved parmesan, and waved it in front of Joan’s lips. “Try this, love.”

  “Delicious!” she said, between bites. “What is it?”

  “Crab and mussel risotto. The flavors blend for an incomparable ri
chness. Similar to the way you looked in the green gown I picked out for you. Did I tell you I’m attending the opera tonight?”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Perhaps we could—”

  “Meet up for a drink thereafter?”

  “Yes.” He winked at her.

  “Oh.” Joan leaned toward me and whispered, “Perhaps I need to move to Italy.”

  Gareth looked up and waved at a woman. “Shay! Over here!”

  “Sorry I’m late!” The thirty-something woman was beautiful: high cheekbones, impeccable light cocoa skin, her body curvy and fit. Her long, dark hair was fashioned in a hundred tiny braids and twisted into a loose knot on the back of her head. She paused to greet an older, white-haired man sipping a cappuccino. “Ciao mio amico,” she said. “We must catch up.”

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  “Someone you should get to know,” Gareth said.

  Esmeralda jumped up. “Lady Shay Montbeliard! Bitch, what are you doing here?” The two women kissed on both cheeks and hugged.

  “Lady Esmeralda, my sister from a different mister!” Shay pulled back and then obviously noticed Leo. “Your Highness.” She curtsied.

  “We’ve met. Years ago. Call me Leo.”

  “Last I heard you were busy on a top secret project,” Esmeralda said to Shay. “What brings you to Venice?”

  “Opera, mystery, and fashion. You?”

  “Working on a historical art project in Verona that’s also a bit of a puzzle.

  “Have you met Vivian?” Gareth asked.

  Shay’s eyes widened and she curtseyed. “It is you! You looked awfully familiar Duchess, but I’ve had my head in the history books for too long. My apologies. Where are my manners? So nice to meet you, Your Highness.”

  “The people of Bellèno dubbed you Lady with a Bellèno Heart a few years back,” Shay said. “You’re unassuming as well as pretty. No wonder Maximillian loves you to pieces.”

  A woman seated at the table next to us squinted at me. “Signora with a Bellèno Heart?” she whispered under her breath. She grabbed her phone and aimed it in my direction.

  Mr. Cartwright’s eyebrows slammed together. He stood and blocked her view. “My, how the time slips away.” He grabbed my arm and yanked me to my feet. “Lovely to see you, Lady Shay. Unfortunately, Vivian and I were just headed to our next appointment.”

  “We were?”

  “We are.” He pulled his wallet from his overcoat. “How much do we owe?”

  “Lunch is on me,” Gareth said.

  “Thank you. We’ll see you tonight, I trust?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” He stared pie-eyed at Joan.

  “Ciao ciao,” Mr. Cartwright said. “See you back at the hotel, ladies. Don’t dally.”

  Mr. Cartwright hustled me through the packed lunch crowd toward the bathrooms.

  “I think at this point you should know that if I need to use the facilities, I’ll ask.”

  “Thoughtful of you,” he said as we squeezed past bins of vegetables and stacks of wine boxes. “I’m more concerned about the possibility of being swarmed by the press. If that persistent woman managed to snap a pic, this exit will be less packed with reporters than the front.”

  “It’s been a minute. How quickly could they get here?”

  “They’re already here, Vivian. That woman is the tabloid press. These days, it seems like everyone is.” We exited the back door. “Let’s get out of here while we can.”

  We made our way down a small side street, Mr. Cartwright hurrying me as fast as a pissed off teacher walking a naughty ten-year-old boy to the principle’s office.

  “Why so frantic, Cartwright? Besides the opportunistic woman, I thought we were enjoying our outing.”

  “Did you see the tabloid flipped open on her table? The one she was reading?”

  “No. I was trying to figure out what spices they put in the fried meatballs and the sauce. I think Max would love the recipe.”

  “You need to worry about the sauce that’s smeared across page two of All Right Magazine.”

  ‘On Whose Dime? Vivian Leaves Country as Prince Maximillian Serves Guard Duty.’

  “It was accompanied by a photo of you, the ladies, and myself boarding Royal Nana’s jet yesterday morning.”

  “How would they know that? Who would tip them off?”

  “The guy servicing the royal jet, the caterer who delivered the snacks for our trip. Anyone. Everyone. What does it matter? As soon as someone forwards a photo of you in Venice to that rag, the paparazzi will descend upon us and hound our every step. That will slow down our mission to get you unwed and greatly displease Her Royal Highness. She’s not going to live forever you know.”

  My stomach flopped. “Is there something you’re not telling me? Is she okay?”

  “Yes, and we want to keep it that way.” He stopped walking. “Does your coat have a hood?”

  “Do I look like I’m snowmobiling?”

  “No.” He pulled his warm woolen scarf from around his neck and handed it to me. “Wrap this over your head.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine.” I pulled it on and knotted it under my chin. “Your man scarf reeks of cologne. Do you bathe in this stuff? Might I suggest you slap it on a bit more sparingly? My hair will smell exactly like you. I’ll have to wash it before the opera tonight.”

  “It’s Dior. We’re headed back to the hotel. I need to regroup, rest my back, and get you out of sight before someone recognizes you.”

  “We’re too late!” I jabbed my finger in the direction of a dock approximately fifty yards away. “That sixty-something couple in matching faux fur trimmed jackets stepping out of that swank gondola? That’s the Duke and Duchess of Holstein LaGorpe.”

  “Weren’t they at your wedding?”

  “Which one?”

  “Any. I can’t keep up.”

  “Yes. My first wedding to Max in Friedricksburg.

  “They’re headed in our direction,” he said. “Don’t look at them.”

  “I already did. We’re going to cross paths in T minus thirty seconds. Crap! They’re totally going to recognize me.” I glanced around for an escape route, or a hiding place, or a sinkhole to open in the ground beneath me and magically swallow me whole. Because I couldn’t get good attention if I paid for it but bad attention followed me around like stepping in dog poo with new sneakers.

  He pushed his hand into the small of my back, propelling me forward. “They will if you stand there like a speed bump. Move.”

  I stumbled but caught myself. “What if they recognize you? They’ll stop to say hello and quickly figure out that the woman under the aromatic head scarf is me—Vivian DeRose, part-time wife to Prince Maximillian of Bellèno.”

  “That might not happen if you keep walking.”

  “It will. These kinds of people have a nose for gossip and right now I’m a veritable bouquet. They’ll say hi to you and then ID me. We’ll have one of those enormously uncomfortable moments where we make forced small talk as they eye each other knowingly. The second we fake promise to hang out with them back in Bellèno, they’ll message their friends and plant the seed that you and I are conducting a sordid May-December affair.”

  Mr. Cartwright coughed. “I’m flattered, Vivian. I haven’t been involved in anything sordid in quite a while. Move it.”

  “It will be a scandal. Like Princess Margaret and Peter Townsend in Great Britain back in the 1950s.”

  “Their age difference was fifteen years,” Mr. Cartwright said. “Ours is forty five. No one will buy it.”

  “Oh yes they will.” I kept my head down. “The palace won’t take kindly to another mess. God knows what they’ll do to me. I’ve seen that dungeon and it is a dark and dismal place. They’ll probably send you off as envoy to Belgium, and even though you’re practically a father figure to me, I won’t see you for two years. Then people will ask me how you are and I’ll say, honestly, that I do
n’t have a clue. Because while of course I’ll miss you, let’s face it, no matter how badly I stank of your expensive, fancy men’s cologne, we were never an item. But no one will believe me and I’ll be hit with those knowing looks and the wink-winks from older men wherever I go. Octogenarian men with liver spots who think that they can fill your sturdy, expensive, wing-tipped shoes. My life will become hell.”

  “I rather like Belgium. Your worries are temporarily unfounded. The Duke and Duchess of Holstein LaGorpe have turned a corner,” he said. “They’re gone.”

  “Thank God.” I plucked at the scarf on my head, desperate to yank it off, as the irrational thought burrowed into me that I would forever smell like an older man’s scarf.

  “Keep it on until we get inside the hotel,” he said.

  “Easy for you to say. It’s okay if you smell like an expensive older man who bathes in Dior. No one will blink an eye.”

  My gaze was drawn toward a guy in a small dinghy in the canal who puttered slowly in our direction, almost as if he was following us. “Don’t look now, Cartwright, but over my shoulder at nine o’clock. There’s a man in a long raincoat in a small, unassuming boat. It’s that guy I saw before. I think he’s tailing us.”

  “The last thing I’ll be doing is checking him out. No doubt he’s yet another member of the press, or a royal-phile who has spotted you. We need to save our energy to track down the imposter priest at the opera.”

  Luckily, the guy in the boat turned down a side canal and disappeared from sight. “Let’s say we find the poser priest. Besides appealing to his sense of right and wrong, how will we get him to sign Royal Nana’s affidavit?”

  “Your ladies are pretty good with dicey situations.”

  “Hmm. Joan can corner him in the theater’s lobby and ask for directions to the lavatory. I’ll sneak up behind him, shove my finger in the back of his kidney area, and tell him to walk to a deserted corridor ahead of us.”