“Please tell me this is all simply a nightmare, Gwen. Tell me I’m going to wake up now and the only thing I need to do is have breakfast with my children before their nanny comes to take them to school.”
She wanted her children to be babies again. She wanted to be able to control the influences around them, to ensure their safety, to protect them from the very real and adult world they all lived in now.
With a daughter she’d cherished and protected all her life, Gwen understood that desire completely.
“I wish I could.” Opening the bottle, she shook two tablets into the queen’s palm and handed her a glass of water she poured from a crystal carafe.
As the older woman murmured her thanks, Gwen smoothed the edge of the watered-silk comforter and sat down beside her friend. The queen was ten years older than she, and at fifty-three Her Majesty had certainly suffered and seen more. But Gwen knew heartache, too. The loss of her husband was why she was there now. The handsome young officer she had been married to for eleven wonderful years had died during an assassination attempt on King Morgan ten years ago.
“They’ll find him,” she murmured, touching the queen’s sleeve. “We both have to believe that.”
Marissa’s hand covered hers, her touch as desperate as her voice. “It doesn’t sound as if they’re even concerned about him, Gwen. I doubt the admiral would have even mentioned him if I hadn’t asked myself.”
Gwen doubted it, too. “That has to be because of everything else that is happening right now. You know yourself how focused these men are.” She wasn’t defending the admiral. She couldn’t. “But he did say that Intelligence is still on it,” she reminded her. “That means hundreds of men are working to find him even now.”
Troubled eyes lifted to hers. “Thank you,” the queen whispered. “I know somewhere in my mind I realize that they’re working around the clock. It just didn’t seem so when the admiral was here. I’d been waiting all night for news.” With her free hand she pinched the bridge of her nose to ease the pain above it. “It’s just so difficult not being able to do anything myself and having to rely on everyone else for information.”
“I wish you’d told me about the king.”
Marissa’s hand fell, the gesture weary, her tone apologetic. “I wish I could have. But it was made very clear to me that it was too sensitive for anyone but those who had to know. I wasn’t told myself until recently that this had been going on for weeks.”
“Weeks? But I’ve seen His Majesty. Just yesterday, in fact. He was speaking with Old Pierre in the kitchen garden.”
“That was Broderick.” Fatigue and stress merged in her deeply exhaled breath. Her glance turned pleading. “But no one is to know that, Gwen. The only reason I’m telling you is because of what you’ve heard already. I know it will go no further.”
“I heard nothing,” Gwen assured, her mind reeling with the intrigue someone—the RET undoubtedly—had been engaged in. “But His Majesty. King Morgan,” she emphasized, thinking of how incredibly the king’s twin had played him. “How is he?”
“He’s as the admiral said. They’re calling his condition critical but stable. Dr. Waltham seems to feel he could come out of the coma, but if he does, there is a possibility that certain symptoms will linger for a very long time.”
“You’ve seen him?”
“Twice a day since they told me. I’ve gone after you’ve retired for the night and instead of going for my morning walk with the hounds.”
Sympathy tugged hard. “It’s no wonder your mind hasn’t been on your schedule,” Gwen murmured, only to find herself reminded of Harrison’s decidedly imperious command.
Catching the sudden displeasure in Gwen’s expression, the queen frowned. “What is it?”
“Another problem, I’m afraid.” Giving her friend a cautious look, she squeezed her hand in a show of support and slipped from the edge of the bed. The thought of Harrison filled her with a sudden need to pace. “Monteque said the dinner couldn’t be canceled.”
“Of course it can.”
“That’s what I told him. But he said it’s too important. I even pointed out that it would benefit Prince Owen because his captors will think we’re doing what they want and not signing the alliance.”
Reaching the small white and gilt chest holding a large Waterford crystal lamp, she turned to pace toward the Louis XVI armoire. “He said that if we don’t proceed with the preparations, the prince could be in more danger.”
That wasn’t exactly a direct quote. But it was close enough to get his message across. She wasn’t about to be as blunt as he had been and tell a woman whose husband was in a coma and whose son was being held heaven-only-knew-where that her son’s life wouldn’t be worth squat if the party didn’t go on.
“That makes no sense,” the queen replied flatly. She rubbed an aching spot on her forehead, “Unless,” she murmured, “he feels they will then demand more.”
Or that the prince will have served his purpose, Gwen thought grimly.
“I have no idea how his mind is working. I’ve never understood men like him.” Men like her own father, for that matter, she thought. Men who seemed to thrive on tactics, maneuverings and rules that seldom allowed for any shade of gray. Political and military struggle had always seemed such a waste of time and resources to her. It was people who should come first. Not power.
“That’s because you’re an idealist,” the distressed woman murmured. “Which is what I wish we all could be. But I’m afraid I do understand them. And I’m not going to do anything that will jeopardize my son. I just can’t help but feel that not canceling that dinner will be a mistake.”
“He seemed quite certain it would be.”
“Then, find out why.”
There was no time now to consider what that particular instruction would entail. Gwen gave her a nod, then glanced at her wrist—only to discover that she hadn’t put on her watch.
“It’s six-thirty,” the queen told her, reading the ornate clock on her fireplace mantel that had been a gift from the king and queen of Spain. “I suppose we’d better get on with it.” She threaded her shaking fingers through her dark hair. “What suit should I wear?”
It was a true sign of her distress that she even asked such a question. Queen Marissa had a celebrated sense of style and never failed to know which ensemble would be absolutely correct for any given occasion.
“The maroon St. John would be good. Or the purple Chanel. Either color would be somber enough without being bleak.”
After a deep, bracing breath, the queen nodded. “The purple.”
“There will be cameras,” Gwen said as a knock on the salon door sounded. There was no time to waste. “I sent for everyone,” she explained, and pulled the cord on the heavy drapes.
Early-morning light slashed across the pale-blue and rose carpets, flooding the room, making gold shimmer, white marble shine. “That will be your tea and Cynthia,” she continued, on her way across the room. “Roberto will be here in half an hour.”
Mrs. Cynthia Westerbrook had been in charge of the queen’s wardrobe since Marissa had come to the palace as a young bride. Roberto Deluca owned the most exclusive salon in the city, an establishment that had developed an international clientele since his appointment as the queen’s hairdresser years ago. He would also do her makeup.
Having arranged for what the queen would need, Gwen now needed desperately to steal a few minutes for herself. She had attended Her Majesty at every imaginable sort of function, and learned long ago to never set foot in public without being prepared to be caught by a camera. It was usually the people in the background who fared the worst when it came to newspaper and magazine photographs.
“I’ll be upstairs trying to perform a miracle,” she said, scraping her hair back from her unadorned face. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Grab Roberto for yourself first. He can do you while I bathe.” Untying her robe, Marissa straightened her shoulders and headed for
her spacious marble bathroom. Duty called. Worried or not, tired or not, she would do what needed to be done. “You’ve barely had time to shower and cover your body. We could both use a miracle this morning. If any mortal can pull one off, we know he can.”
The exhaustingly energetic middle-aged hairdresser with the long black ponytail and goatee was a genius.
Gwen had no idea how Roberto had done it, but he managed to whip her hair into a simple but elegant French roll and pat, powder and gloss the long night from her face in a matter of minutes. Upstairs in her own room, she clipped on gold button earrings and tucked a pleated apricot scarf under her jacket. She had to turn back at the door when she remembered that she’d forgotten her watch again, but moments later she was on her way down to the reception room to receive the very dignified Sir Selwyn and two male speech writers who arrived with laptop computers and a decided sense of urgency. Mrs. Ferth arrived right behind them, her gray bob bobbing and her pleasant features pinched with annoyance and concern behind her silver-rimmed half glasses. The men had already taken over her desk.
As for the queen, by the time Her Majesty was armed with her speech and escorted into the king’s office next to the grand council chamber where the members of the king’s council and the media had gathered, the shadows beneath her eyes were gone, color pinked her cheeks, and she appeared every inch the calm, confident regent the men who’d counseled her needed her to be. The only bit of magic Roberto hadn’t been able to pull off was to remove the strain from her dutiful smile.
Gwen knew that the queen was doing her best to mask that strain herself, however, as she and Sir Selwyn accompanied Marissa inside the king’s richly appointed office and stopped before a bank of built-in television monitors. All were tuned to coverage of the press conference. From six different angles, Gwen watched the royal press secretary end his statement and introduce Prince Broderick.
The queen, stately in purple, gave no visible reaction as she watched Prince Broderick step behind the podium. Gwen, however, couldn’t help the quick, quiet breath she drew.
She remembered once hearing that the king had an identical twin. She realized now that he was identical right down to manner, bearing and the cut of his gray-streaked wavy brown hair. Even his voice sounded eerily familiar as he addressed the ministers, the country and the foreign nations represented by the cameras in the balcony.
“I have come to assist Her Majesty with her duties in any way I can. I am completely at her disposal,” he continued, somehow managing to exude modesty and authority at the same time. “I realize that this is a difficult time for her and for our country with our beloved King Morgan so ill, and I will serve in whatever capacity I am needed.”
He went on to say how proud he was to be Penwyckian and how he had missed his homeland. He spoke of the strength of tradition and the need to keep traditions strong, and as he concluded his brief remarks, there was no way anyone could have convinced her that the tall, dignified and dynamic gentleman in the Armani suit and ascot was not the king himself.
Only when he took a seat beyond the small throne-like chair next to the larger empty one on the dais, did she accept that he wasn’t.
The king’s chair remained empty.
“Well,” Sir Selwyn said, sounding a hint relieved. “That went well.” From beside the queen, he motioned her toward the door leading into the chamber. “If you will, Your Majesty. Your people await.”
Judging from the applause coming over the monitor, the prince’s statement had been well received. That applause, however, was short-lived. Total silence fell the instant the king’s door to the mahogany paneled chamber opened and the uniformed herald beside it blew the four note announcement of the royal presence.
Lightbulbs flashed from the press gallery above as the queen and her small entourage entered. Tradition dictated that Sir Selwyn take his place at the small writing desk near the podium, his duties as royal secretary now more symbolic than practical in chambers than his predecessors of past centuries.
As her own predecessors had done, Gwen slipped behind a small privacy screen near the door, invisible to nearly all but Her Majesty, ready to attend her at the slightest signal. At that same moment the Lords and Dukes seated behind the podium rose with the muffled rustle of fabric. Ministers and privileged heads from the Royal Intelligence Institute rose in the semicircle of tiered seats in front of it.
The queen ascended the three steps to the dais with its flags of Penwyck and all its shires and took her place behind the podium. Again the rustle sounded as everyone sat back down.
Because everyone else was seated when Gwen glanced across the huge room with its tiny coats of arms woven into the carpet, she couldn’t help but notice Harrison standing by the guards’ door opposite her. Colonel Prescott and Duke Logan, the king’s bodyguard, flanked him. But it was Harrison’s powerful, commanding presence that seemed to dominate the room full of men and a smattering of women who wielded enormous power of their own.
A small chair had been placed behind her screen. Suddenly too agitated to sit, blaming it on nerves for the queen, Gwen folded her hands in front of her and tried to concentrate on the well-modulated tones of Her Majesty’s voice. Having rehearsed the speech with her, Gwen knew exactly what she was to say. She just didn’t hear much of it as Harrison’s steady gaze urged her glance back to him with the pull of a homing beacon.
She couldn’t believe that he’d caused her to do what she didn’t want to do from a hundred yards away. Out of sheer sense of self-preservation, she deliberately pulled her glance from his and forced her focus to the poised woman behind the microphone.
“…and I wish to thank Prince Broderick for so kindly answering our request that he represent the Crown on those occasions I cannot attend myself,” Queen Marissa continued, making it sound as if calling on a man who’d virtually disappeared years ago had been nothing at all extraordinary. “I trust everyone will understand that I wish to be at my husband’s side and at the palace awaiting news of Prince Owen. Even thus occupied, I assure this country and our esteemed allies that I am in full communication with the lords and ministers of this realm, and that the business of the monarchy will proceed as King Morgan has intended.”
The queen went on to say how she and her family appreciated the support they had been offered, and how grateful she was for their prayers, but it was what she didn’t say that caught Gwen’s attention. She knew how difficult it had been for Marissa to mention her son. She had deliberately downplayed mention of Owen, giving the press and the kidnappers nothing to go on as far as official reaction to his kidnapping. But she had also purposely omitted specific mention of the alliance with Majorco. Something Harrison and Sir Selwyn had made clear she needed to do.
Across the crowded chamber, Gwen saw Harrison’s accusing glance arrow straight to her. It seemed he’d noticed the omission, too—which didn’t surprise her at all given that he’d made it as clear as the crystals in the overhead chandeliers that it was up to her to convince the queen she needed to play along.
The queen concluded her brief address and stepped away from the podium.
By the time Gwen glanced back again, Harrison was gone.
Given the way the day had gone so far, Gwen would have bet her favorite flannel nightshirt—the one embroidered with So Much Chocolate, So Little Time—that he was headed for the king’s office. Since that was where she was forced to go herself when the royal press secretary took the podium to answer the clamor of questions and Sir Selwyn escorted the queen back through the door, she braced herself for a confrontation the moment she stepped inside.
The Fates must have decided she needed a break. Within moments Sir Selwyn and the queen’s bodyguards were sweeping them back to the royal residence by way of the secret tunnel the royal family used to avoid the public, protecting Her Majesty from any member of the press who may have slipped past security that was now as tight as her Great Aunt Gwendolyn’s whale-bone corset.
The relief she felt
over avoiding an immediate encounter was painfully short-lived. Within five minutes of the queen retiring to her room, Sir Selwyn departing and Mrs. Ferth leaving for lunch now that the worst of the frenetic activity was over, Gwen remembered the request the queen had made of her earlier that morning.
If she was going to find out why the dinner couldn’t be canceled, she was going to have to speak to Harrison whether she liked the idea or not.
Looking at the phone on Mrs. Ferth’s desk as if it were about to turn into a snake, she tried to think of something—anything—else she needed to do at that particular moment that might possibly be more important. Since the prince’s welfare might well be directly affected by the ultimate decision, other than donating an organ, nothing came close.
She inched toward the desk, reminding herself as she did that she was accustomed to obtaining information for her queen. Because of the various connections she had made in the diplomatic circles she’d grown up in and friends she’d made at the Royal Intelligence Institute, she was actually very good at getting information, too.
She just really didn’t want to talk to Harrison Monteque. She couldn’t remember any man who disturbed her as much as he did. There was no man in recent memory, either, who had caused her nerves to knot when he touched her. Granted, that touch had been incredibly intimate, but that only troubled her more. Not because of the embarrassment she’d felt. Because of the disturbing jolt of desire.
She could only imagine one reason she would react like that to a man she didn’t really like.
Years of abstinence.
Telling herself she was going to get out more when this was all over, she took a determined breath and reached for the phone. With any luck she wouldn’t be able to reach him now, anyway.
“He’s expecting your call,” the incredibly efficient-sounding woman announced the moment Gwen identified herself. “Please hold while I put you through.”
So much for leaving a message, Gwen thought, and heard Harrison’s rich voice rumble through her within a second of the connecting click on the line.
Royal Protocol Page 5
