The Royal Treatment: A Crown Jewels Romantic Comedy, Book 1

by Melanie Summers

  Nikki doesn’t answer me, but just stares. I let out a long, groany-type sigh. “This is going to suck nuts!”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. But it’ll be totally worth it.”

  “What would I even wear? I obviously can’t go buy a bunch of clothes now that I have to pay for the car.”

  “And the shrubs.”

  “And the shrubs, right.” My shoulders slump down. “Oh, my God. The video! I can’t face the Royal Family after they’ve seen that! In fact, can’t face anyone. I am never leaving my apartment again.”

  “You have to. You’re going to be huge after this. Your blog will be the authority on the Royal Family.”

  “How is it that the biggest opportunity of my life falls into my lap at the exact same time that I become a world-famous joke?”

  “Life’s funny that way.”

  “Hilarious.”

  I walk back over to the couch and turn the volume back on. Veronica Platt sits behind her ABNC anchor desk with a split-screen picture behind her head. One side is me with my sweat-drenched face squished in pain and my shoulders jammed up into my ears; the other side is the ridiculously handsome Prince Arthur dressed in a tuxedo, his short, dirty blond hair looking freshly cut, wearing a shit-eating grin. The text underneath says Love Match?

  “Oh, for God’s sake…”

  Veronica’s smooth voice begins the next half-hour of news. “Reports from palace insiders today indicate that Prince Arthur’s announcement to invite Tessa Sharpe, the so-called Royal Watchdog, to live at Valcourt for the next two months came as a complete surprise. Staff members were unaware that any such plan was being hatched until the press conference was underway. Our royal correspondent, Giles Bigly, is here with the scoop. Giles, exactly what happened this morning at Valcourt?”

  The camera zooms out to include Giles sitting behind the desk. “Veronica, it’s not known exactly how this bizarre turn of events came to be, but what is clear is that the Duke of Wellingbourne acted alone. This video of senior staff members during the Prince’s announcement seems to say it all.”

  A video roll starts, the Prince is speaking and behind him there are circles drawn in around the faces of several men and women in the background.

  Giles’ voice cuts in. “Watch as their mouths drop in unison, right… here!”

  The video stops, and it’s back to a split screen of Giles and Veronica. Veronica is nodding quickly. “Yes, Giles, they are clearly quite surprised.”

  “Indeed. And this has everybody asking the question, ‘What exactly is Prince Arthur trying to accomplish with this?’ Up until now, the entire Royal Family has been extremely standoffish with the press, Prince Arthur rarely making appearances or giving interviews. But to invite an unapproved member of the press—”

  “If you could call her that.” Veronica laughs.

  “Bitch,” Nikki says.

  Giles laughs with her. “Quite so, Veronica. This is what makes it even more bizarre. We’ve done some digging, and it turns out she was a journalist for The Daily Times for almost two years, but left back in twenty-fifteen to pursue her work as a blogger.”

  Veronica’s face grows serious. “But his invitation says ‘effective immediately,’ which could mean she could move in tonight if she accepts. Why the rush to have her move in?”

  Giles nods. “Exactly. And why the secrecy about it in the first place? Although it is quite possible that his claims should be taken at face value, one cannot help but wonder if there isn’t more behind this. He stated that he is simply trying to show that the Royal Family has nothing to hide, and that by inviting his harshest critic into their home, that he hopes to end the current unrest about the Langdon family. But it would seem there is more there than meets the eye.”

  “A recent poll did show that the Royal Family is currently experiencing a nation-wide all-time low in popularity.”

  “Yes, seventy-two percent of people polled stated they would like to abolish the monarchy, so it is possible that the Prince’s reaction is solely to do with that.”

  “But why the urgency?” Veronica cocks her head to the side and squints into the camera.

  “That remains a mystery. One thing everybody is wondering right now is whether or not Lady Brooke Beddingfield, the woman long speculated to one day marry Prince Arthur, knows about this arrangement?”

  “Ooh! And if she does know, what does she have to say about the whole thing?”

  “Good question.” Giles nods.

  “Any word on whether Ms. Sharpe has accepted the Prince’s invitation yet?”

  “Nothing yet. We have a crew outside her apartment, but no one has come out or gone in since the incident earlier today.” Giles fights a bout of laughter, but then gives in.

  Veronica joins him. The video of the Shock Jogger test cuts in again, while the two chuckle away. I shut it off and go in search of some ice cream. A knock at the door has Nikki and I both jumping out of our skin.

  “Should I get it?”

  Nikki shakes. “I don’t think so.”

  “Ms. Sharpe!” A muffled voice comes through the door. “It’s Charles Porter. I know you’re there, so please open up.”

  “Shit, my building manager,” I mutter, then I raise my voice as I hurry to the door. “Coming!”

  When I open it, I am greeted by his pinched face. Clearly, he is among the twenty-eight percent of royal fans left in the country.

  “You may have noticed that we have quite the disruption outside with the reporters and camera crews.”

  “Yes. Sorry about that. I had no idea any of this was coming.”

  “Well, now there seems to be a group of protesters forming. Mainly women who are not impressed with some of your comments about the Prince and his family.”

  “Oh. That I did not know.” This day just keeps getting better, doesn’t it?

  “Well, I expect you to do something about it. It’s nearly dinner time, and your neighbours deserve a peaceful place to come home to.”

  “Agreed. I’ll… figure out a way to get rid of them.”

  “I’ll tell you how. You need to give the Prince your answer already. It’s not polite to keep him waiting.”

  “Okay, I will.” I try to shut the door, but he wedges his foot in.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Right now? Make a decision.” I use my foot to push his out, then shut the door in his face.

  Nikki pipes up from the couch. “It’s not polite to keep the Prince waiting.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not polite to rush a lady while she’s in the middle of a crisis, either.” I sigh. “There’s really no way to get out of this, is there? Not if I want to keep my credibility as a hard-hitting royal watchdog.”

  “I think that ship has sailed.”

  I cringe inside again. “True.”

  “You have to do it. I’ll stay here and watch the fish for you.”

  “You just want to get out of your parents’ place for a while.”

  “I could use a little break, yes.” Nikki moved back in with them when she and her last boyfriend, Todd, broke up. It’s been six months, and they are driving each other crazy. “And since you broke my nose, and wrecked my car…”

  “Right. I owe you.”

  “You do.” She stares at me for a moment. “Also, two words. Book. Deal.”

  “All right, fine. But I’m not going out there to meet the press.”

  “Definitely not. You’re half-drunk.”

  “More than half.” I stand and walk over to my desk. “Might as well get some more hits while I’m at it.”

  Blog post – March 10th

  Tessa here. It’s been a rather ‘shocking’ day for me. Wink, wink. For those of you who saw the Shock Jogger video (which is likely all of you), I apologize for the strong language and assure you that even a Tibetan monk would have likely resorted to a similarly foul-mouthed tirade given the voltage.

  The second big shock for me today was Prince Arthur’s open invitation for me
to live at the palace for the next two months. I can honestly say I never in a thousand years would have expected such a thing. I can assure you all that in spite of media speculation (don’t they have anything better to do?), the Prince and I have never met in person, spoken on the phone, texted, emailed or had any other form of communication prior to his press conference. We still haven’t met, and there is not now, nor will there ever be, a romantic tie between the Prince of Laziness and myself.

  As you know, he stands for everything I do not. I believe in hard work, pulling your own weight in this world, equality, and the ability for the people to elect their leaders. So, please put that ridiculous question of a possible romance aside. I’d sooner sleep with the inventor of the Shock Jogger.

  I’ve decided to give my answer here, on my blog, because you, my loyal readers, deserve to know first. So, here’s my answer:

  I will accept the Prince’s invitation.

  I will do my best to investigate and evaluate their contributions to our society with an open mind. I suspect this will provide me with heaps of further proof as to the necessity to have them removed from power, but perhaps I will be surprised by my findings. I look forward to the challenge of bringing the truth to light.

  You can count on me to remain professional, and to continue to be your voice as we attempt to bring Avonia into the twenty-first century.

  Five

  All the King’s Horses

  Arthur

  So, I may have gone ‘off script’ as they say in Hollywood. So bloody what? You’d think I’d just declared war on the Americans, the way everybody is going on about it. For years now, my father’s been on me to ‘show more initiative’ and ‘think for myself because, above all else, that’s what reigning monarchs must do.’

  I called him last night after spending the evening alone with a bottle of bourbon. Well, not really alone. Dexter, my constant companion, a Vietnamese pot-belly pig, was there, too. He didn’t drink the bourbon, but we did share a bag of salt ’n’ pepper crisps while we watched reruns of Baywatch. Oh, I do like the part where they run in slow motion. Reminds me of my boyhood days.

  By the time last night’s meeting was over, the duchess was on her way to the airport for an impromptu ski trip in the French Alps. So, I missed the one bit of fun I had planned for the entire month of March, which quite frankly has put me in a bit of a crusty mood. And before you start accusing me of only having one thing on my mind, please note that it’s really frigging hard for a prince to date casually. Before I can even ask a girl out, I have to instruct Vincent to have her sign a non-disclosure agreement. And he can’t even tell her who it’s for, just in case she leaks it.

  Not exactly a good ice-breaker. If I do manage to find someone I may potentially fancy, and she signs the NDA without knowing who it’s for, I’m sort of turned off by the fact that she signed it in the first place. Somehow it seems a little desperate, which means I immediately lose interest.

  Anyway, I finally got around to calling my father just after one in the morning. Turns out it was also the middle of the night wherever in the hell he is this week. And he wasn’t alone, if you get my drift. (Unlike me, my father has no problem asking for NDAs from any woman he meets.)

  I used to believe that if my mother had lived, he wouldn’t be spending his nights with so many random women, and that maybe, if she were still alive, he wouldn’t have turned out to be such a giant arsehole. Then, I wouldn’t be in this current predicament, because the people are not as dumb as he, and all the advisers, think. The people know a rat when they smell one. And a rat he is.

  I hate to say it of my own flesh and blood, but it’s true. He’s hurt the entire kingdom, and his family, by ignoring the economic troubles of the nation, not to mention that whole sketchy tax-dodging business. He’s cooked his own goose, and probably mine as well.

  So, back to my phone call with His Serene Sleaziness last night. When I started to explain our current dilemma, these were his words: “Oh, for Christ’s sake! Be decisive, boy. You need balls of steel to do this job, so you better grow a pair before I kick off.”

  I heard the distinct sound of giggling in the background right before he hung up. I decided right then and there to hold a press conference first thing this morning to announce my plan. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I stumbled over to my computer and immediately wrote an email to my favourite reporter, Veronica Platt of ABNC, to ask her to tell all her friends. Veronica. The legs on that one. Mmm. Okay, so I may have been drunk when I wrote her, but not so drunk that I mentioned how badly I’d like to spend a weekend between those legs of hers. Well done, drunk me.

  Veronica apparently did as I asked because by eight in the morning, our front lawn was lined with reporters and camera crews, waiting with bated breath for the big announcement. I showered, sucked down a vat of coffee, and threw on my casual ‘man-of-the-people’ sweater and slacks.

  I know what they were thinking. You could see it in their beady little eyes— ‘Oh, please let it be a royal wedding! Please!’ They were looking around for Brooke Beddingfield, the woman everyone assumes I’m destined to marry. But I threw them a curve-ball with the whole ‘I’m giving the keys to the castle to my nastiest critic’ thing. By eight-forty-five, the vans were peeling out of our driveway, and I was tucked in bed nursing my hangover.

  Unfortunately, by nine-thirty, I was back in my office—dry mouth and all—surrounded by all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, who, as much as they want to, will be unable to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. And by Humpty Dumpty, I mean turning back the clock so that Ms. Tessa Sharpe will not, in fact, be calling the palace home for the next two months. Well, that was a bit of a crap analogy. I really am quite hungover.

  “Your Highness, we haven’t even had time to do a background check.”

  That vein in Damien’s neck is pulsing, so I know he’s really mad. I don’t care, but I don’t want you to think me completely oblivious to these things.

  “Well, someone better get on it, because she’s arriving tomorrow. I’m sure there’s some tedious paperwork that will need to be done if it turns out that I’ll need extra guards posted outside my bedroom door.” I stare Damien down while I tap my fingers on the cool leather arm of my chair. It’s a total power move. I got it from Benedict Cumberbatch as Sherlock. Nice guy, by the way.

  Damien doesn’t answer, so I go on. “Listen, it’ll be fine, I promise. In case you haven’t noticed, I tend to have a way with her type.”

  “What’s her type?”

  “Female.” Oh, that was arrogant, wasn’t it? “I’ll show her the library, the stables, I’ll open up the vault and let her try on some sparkly things. She’ll be putty in my hands by Friday.”

  “With all due respect, Your Highness, I’m not so sure we can base our entire plan on your ability to woo this woman,” Vincent says. “Not that you don’t have a way with the ladies, but due to the gravity of the situation, we should probably have a backup plan.”

  “Fine, Damien. Dig up whatever dirt you can on her, so we’ll have it if we need it.”

  “Already on it,” Damien says, and quite frankly the look on his face suggests he should be twirling his mustache right now—if he could grow one. I think he must have some pituitary disorder or something because he doesn’t have even one whisker on that pale face of his.

  “Good, everything’s settled then. If you’ll all clear out now, I have a raging hangover that needs attending.”

  The sound of laughter breaks out from the back of the room. At first, I assume it’s a result of my wit, but I soon discover the source of the humour is coming from one of the assistants to somebody-or-other, who is watching a video on his mobile phone. The guy next to him gasps. “Isn’t that…? It’s her! The Royal Watchdog!”

  Everyone turns to them, and the room goes quiet. The young man blanches when he realizes that we’re all staring, then he looks at me. “I really think you ought to see this, Your Highness.”


  And then the very best thing that I’ve seen in my entire thirty-one years comes onto the screen. It’s Ms. Sharpe in form-fitting jogging pants and a tight shirt. My sceptre wakes up and asks if we’re going somewhere, because, even though I feel like shit on a stick, he’d be up for that. I’m trying to focus on what she’s saying while she runs, but it’s really no use. Those lovely, perky breasts are speaking volumes on her behalf. Suddenly, her feet leave the ground, and her entire body coils up into a ball impossibly high in the air and she’s screaming, “Mother fucker!”

  I burst out laughing so hard that I missed most of the rest of the video, just managing to catch the part where she whips the shock-thingy at her friend who immediately drives into some giant shrubs.

  Tears stream down my face. When I finally manage to speak, all I can come up with is, “What the fuck was that?”

  I wait all day for an answer from Ms. Sharpe, but nothing comes until dinner time. I’m just sitting down to another healthy-but-dull meal of tilapia with roast vegetables when I catch a whiff of blue cheese. We really need to get rid of these plush carpets so I’ll hear him coming. “She’s taken you up on your offer! Ms. Sharpe arrives tomorrow afternoon!”

  My fork and knife clatter as I drop them on my plate. “Really?” A slow smile spreads across my face. I feel like a jaguar (considered the most cunning hunter in the forest, in case you didn’t know) luring its prey. What? I only watch Baywatch when I’m drunk and lonely. Otherwise, I’m a pretty big fan of David Attenborough.

  Six

  Big Girl Knickers

  Tessa

  “It’s here! And it’s a big one!” Nikki has been standing at the living room window for twenty minutes on limo watch.

  “That’s what he said.” I guffaw at my own horrible joke, then feel another wave of nausea come over me. A hangover doesn’t mix well with moving into a snake pit. “Oh, my God, what am I doing?”