by Janet Gover
The woman who wrote that letter didn’t know the guilt he carried for her husband’s death. For the deaths of five men. They’d been his men. His job was to protect them and he’d failed. That particular failure had never hit the headlines. Instead, the media had called him a hero and that was even worse.
A discreet knock on the door disturbed his thoughts. Courtauld had no doubt come to remind him his next task was to attend the formal presentation of a new ambassador. His first inclination was to simply walk out the door on the other side of the room and vanish. He wasn’t needed at the reception, and his failure to show up wouldn’t really surprise anyone.
Except …
Lauren was going to be there.
For centuries, the sons and daughters of the royal household had been painted by the greatest artists of their age. Nicolas hadn’t wanted this portrait but, like so many other things in his life, it wasn’t optional. He had thought that by choosing his own artist he might make it less of a chore. He hadn’t thought to make it one of the few real pleasures in his life.
Nicolas wasn’t often surprised. His world was divided into two well-defined parts. One was controlled by his birth and position and at times his rebellion against it. The other, far smaller area, he controlled.
Lauren Phelps seemed to fit into neither. With her blue hair and outrageous clothing, she created a stir wherever she went within the conservative confines of the palace. Just look at the commotion she had created in the staff mess at lunch. Of course, much of the stir was caused by his presence. Family members were rarely if ever seen in the mess. He wouldn’t have been there today if it hadn’t been for the artist with the intriguing eyes that one moment seemed grey and the next as blue as her hair.
Even as the thought formed, he noticed a flash of colour moving towards the palace gates. There was no mistaking that hair. Lauren was leaving.
That wasn’t right. The reception was due to start in just a few minutes. She shouldn’t be leaving. Unless she had changed her mind and wasn’t coming to the reception. What could have made her want to leave?
Nicolas turned away from the window and crossed to the door. A few moments later he was in Lauren’s studio. The large bright room seemed incredibly empty without her. Lauren had already stamped her presence on the room. It wasn’t just the easel, silently awaiting a canvas. The paint tubes and brushes stacked on the table were hers, but something else in the room spoke to Nicolas of Lauren. He took a long slow breath and tasted only paint and chemicals. The essence of her was there but, like Lauren herself, refused to be defined.
One side of the studio was dominated by a large board, onto which she had pinned two black pencil sketches. Intrigued he moved closer. The first was the sketch of his equerry. He moved closer to study it. The pencil portrait was remarkably lifelike. More than just a picture of the man, something about the curve of his lips and the lift of one eyebrow had captured Courtauld’s formality, his total belief in and devotion to the life he had chosen.
Once more Nicolas felt that momentary stab of jealousy. He wondered why it should almost pain him that the first face Lauren had sketched was not his but that of another man. He glanced around and saw the crumpled paper in the waste bin. The rejected drawings of his horse. And of himself.
Nicolas moved to look at the other sketch pinned to the board. It showed a pair of hands, wrapped loosely around a glass. The hands were beautiful. The sketch captured every detail: from the shape of the fingers to the carefully manicured nails and the lines on the skin. With a start, Nicolas recognised the ring on the left hand. These hands were his, clasped around a chocolate milkshake on the plain table in the staff mess.
He raised his hand and looked at it with new eyes. Could something as simple and everyday as his own hand be that beautiful? He turned it over, examining the palm, as he thought back to their lunch. He had enjoyed it far more than most of his meals. Lauren hadn’t seemed to spend any time examining his hands. She hadn’t stared at them or touched him. Yet while he was being rude to the genealogists, she had, from memory alone, created a remarkable sketch – a work of art.
Nicolas wished she were here so he could express his admiration.
He was disturbed by the sound of the door opening.
‘Your Royal Highness, you should be preparing for your next engagement.’
‘Courtauld, have you seen these sketches? Miss Phelps has captured you quite well.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The man would not offer an opinion unless asked.
‘I saw her leaving earlier,’ Nicolas continued. ‘I thought she was going to observe the ambassador’s presentation. I was preparing to be on my very best behaviour. Do you have any idea why she left?’
‘I believe Miss Phelps felt she was inappropriately attired to attend the presentation, sir.’
‘Why did she feel that?’
‘Sir, I was discussing the protocol of such presentations, to prepare her for what she would see.’
‘And you told her she was “inappropriately attired”?’
‘Not at all, sir.’ If Courtauld had heard the anger in the carefully spoken words, he gave no sign. ‘I did, however, wish to spare Miss Phelps any unnecessary embarrassment.’
Nicolas nodded. ‘Very well.’
He moved towards the door, no sign of anger or disappointment showing in his impassive face. Just as he had been forced from childhood to fit a pre-assigned role, so too was Lauren Phelps now being drawn into the web of the royal house. She would appear tomorrow dressed ‘appropriately’. She would realise that their lunch in the staff canteen was nothing short of scandalous. An obedient curtsey would replace that defiant tilt of her head. She would produce a painting worthy to hang in the royal collection, and he would hate it.
He opened the door, but before he left the studio he spoke without looking back. ‘Courtauld, please inform my mother that I will not be attending the reception this afternoon.’
Back in his office, Nicolas fidgeted with the papers on his desk until at last he found himself staring at an embossed invitation card. Some rich young aristocrat requested the pleasure of his company at a ‘gentlemen only’ dinner to celebrate his forthcoming nuptials. In other words, an upper-class stag party.
He’d been to more than a few such parties, and they held little interest for him, except as a chance to blow off steam and maybe, for a few hours, sweep away the dark clouds in his mind with a surfeit of alcohol. Such occasions also served to annoy all those people who would try to make him something that he wasn’t. It was childish, but Nicolas wasn’t in the mood for self-examination. He picked up the card and walked out of his office.
* * *
Her phone rang as Lauren was pulling the third skirt of the last ten minutes over her hips. Groping for the zipper, she mentally cursed people who believed that seven-thirty in the morning was a reasonable time to disturb someone. She grabbed a shirt from the pile on the bed and darted into her living room, which still seemed empty without the easel. Her phone was lying on the coffee table.
‘Turn on the TV.’
‘What?’
‘Lauren,’ Maria’s voice urged her, ‘turn on the TV. Channel 6. Now.’
A beep in Lauren’s ear informed her that Maria had hung up.
Puzzled, Lauren did as her friend had instructed.
‘… fashionable restaurant in the theatre district around midnight last night. The prince was one of a group involved in the scuffle.’
The screen came to life just in time for Lauren to see Prince Nicolas duck a wild punch thrown by a young man in a dinner suit. The commentator’s voice informed her that the man in question was the son of a wealthy businessman and the guest of honour at a high-society stag party, complete with stripper and excessive amounts of champagne. The prince, it seemed, was one of his school friends.
Lauren slowly lowered herself onto her sofa. The pictures on the screen were dark and shaky, obviously from someone’s phone, but that didn’t detract from their impact. As s
he watched, Prince Nicolas turned his handsome face towards whoever was filming him then quickly turned away, scowling. A security man led the prince to a nearby car.
As the car sped off, the camera moved to show a third reveller lying in the gutter, blood trickling from his nose. The camera spun back towards the prince’s car. The high-powered engine roared as it carried its royal occupant off into the night, as what looked like a professional photographer appeared, his flash almost painful in its brightness.
One final shot saw the young man, a bloody handkerchief against his face, being hustled into a taxi by friends. Then the scene on the television cut to two commentators, sitting at a desk.
‘So, Naughty Nick is in trouble again,’ the smiling chat show host said. ‘It appears the rambunctious royal has no qualms about adding to his wild image.’
‘We saw a lot of this sort of behaviour from His Royal Highness when he was a teenager,’ said the well-groomed woman seated beside him. ‘That was before his military service. Despite the fact that he served honourably and well, was even hailed as a hero while serving in the Middle East, it seems that now he’s left active duty he’s looking to resume his former lifestyle.’
‘The palace has declined to comment,’ added her companion, ‘as have the police. But the video we have shown is not the only evidence of the altercation. The internet is this morning buzzing with images of the prince’s night out.’
‘Of course,’ the woman continued, ‘witnesses said His Highness didn’t actually hit anyone.’
‘But you have to wonder what would have happened if his security detail hadn’t hurried him away.’ The pictures started to run again as the male commentator continued. ‘Just last month, you will remember, the prince was seen …’
Lauren had heard enough. She switched off the set. A few moments later, her phone rang again.
‘Well, did you see it?’
‘Yes, Maria, I did,’ Lauren replied. ‘I don’t suppose he’ll be in a particularly good mood this morning. I wonder if I should even go in. He may be too busy to sit for me.’
‘Or too hungover,’ Maria chuckled. ‘I’ve got to go to work. Have fun. You’ll have to tell me everything tonight!’
Fun, indeed. Lauren expected her day to be anything but fun. She walked back into the bedroom and looked around. The room was a mess, the bed piled high with virtually every item of her limited wardrobe. She glanced down at herself. Following yesterday’s discussion on protocol, she had been trying to come up with more suitable clothing for a day of official functions at the palace. But her wardrobe just didn’t run to business suits, smart skirts or tailored slacks. She was a jeans and leather boots girl, and that’s all there was to it. Her few skirts were invariably short or black or both. Nothing would make them conservative. Her working clothes were mostly paint-spattered and frayed at the edges.
‘Forget it.’ Lauren slipped out of the skirt. ‘After last night’s carry-on, His High and Mighty-ness is hardly in a position to criticise others.’ She would wear whatever she wanted!
About an hour later, Lauren presented herself at the palace staff entrance. With his usual thoroughness, Courtauld had arranged security clearance and a card that would give her access for the time it took to paint the portrait. As she queued, Lauren listened to the conversations around her. She was curious about how the palace staff would view Prince Nicolas’s latest exploits. She heard plenty of conversation about the weather, sport, fashion and other men, but not one word about His Royal Highness. Apparently loyalty was a prerequisite for a job behind the palace walls.
She found her studio easily and paused before going inside. The door across from hers was closed. She wondered if she should knock, then glanced down at her watch. It had just turned nine o’clock. She very much doubted that the prince would be at his desk yet. Even if he was, he would probably be in no mood for casual chat, or to sit for her. Lauren didn’t fancy being polite to a hungover prince. She had better things to do.
Inside her own space, Lauren pulled some clothes from her tote bag. She hung a black skirt and white blouse carefully in a corner of the room, berating herself for being a wimp. The shoes and stockings that completed the ensemble were her final concession to the realities of the job. She felt a little more comfortable with a set of ‘presentable’ clothes on standby. If she was going to shadow a prince she had to look reasonably well dressed. Sometimes, she hastened to add. When she wasn’t in the privacy of the studio. Here, she could be herself. She had to be. She wouldn’t be able to work in the confines of her ‘proper’ clothes.
Lauren ran her hands down the front of her faded and paint-spattered T-shirt. Time to get to work.
She reached for the roll of canvas that lay against one wall. She still had no idea of the form her portrait would take. What pose would suit her subject. Or what background. But she did know one thing. If this portrait was to hang in the royal collection, it had to be big. She unrolled a large stretch of canvas and began measuring timber for the frame.
Lauren was on her hands and knees, struggling with a large staple gun when she heard a knock on the door behind her.
‘Come on in!’
Without looking up, she welcomed her visitor with instructions.
‘I need some help. If you kneel at that corner of the frame, and take hold of the canvas, I can staple this end. Hold it tightly – I don’t want to lose tension.’
Her visitor moved quickly to obey. Lauren felt the strain taken from her hands, freeing them to staple the folded canvas in position. Moving quickly sideways, she added staples either side of the hands gripping the corner of the frame.
‘Thanks. You can let go now.’ As she rocked back on her knees, she saw Prince Nicolas kneeling on the floor opposite her. She should have recognised those hands. She had drawn every line of them in intricate detail.
‘You Royal Highness …’ she stammered. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise …’ She laid down her tools and started to scramble to her feet.
The prince rose with casual grace, and stretched down his hand. To refuse would have been rude. Lauren held up her hand, and allowed him to pull her to her feet.
‘Good morning, Miss Phelps.’
Prince Nicolas ran his eye over her tattered jeans and paint-stained shirt. The corner of his mouth twitched. In disapproval? Lauren quickly removed her hand from his.
‘Good morning,’ she said, because there was nothing else she could say.
‘I had no idea that painting also involved carpentry.’
‘I have to prepare the canvas,’ Lauren said, lifting the frame from the floor. She carried it across to the easel, and leaned it carefully in place. ‘This is about as big as I can make it. I’ll re-stretch the canvas one more time, then prime it. I’ll make a second one the same.’
‘A second one?’
‘I like to have one ready, just in case,’ Lauren said.
‘In case of what?’
‘In case of anything. Now, we should discuss the type of portrait you want. If you haven’t given it much thought, now would be a good time to start.’
‘I have been thinking … about the painting. I hope you don’t mind – I was in here yesterday. I am very impressed.’ The prince indicated her sketch of his hands.
Lauren moved closer to study the sketch. It hadn’t taken long to do, yet she was pleased with the result. Even more so now she compared her drawing to the real thing.
Prince Nicolas moved across the table where Lauren’s brushes and paints were waiting for the work to begin. He stood looking at them for a minute. He seemed to be waiting for her to speak. Lauren didn’t quite know what to say. She wasn’t going to mention the events she’d seen on television this morning. The prince would probably have more than enough people mention it to him today. She would give him a break. And besides, it was none of her business; she was only here to do a job.
‘So, have you any definite ideas or particular preferences for your portrait?’
As the pri
nce turned back to her, Lauren tried to read his thoughts. Was he pleased she had chosen to forgo the obvious comments?
‘Before you get started,’ he said, ‘there is something I want you to see. Come with me.’
Lauren followed the prince out of the room, and down the corridor. In silence they descended a set of stairs and turned a corner. They were in the long gallery Lauren had seen so briefly on her first visit. Royal faces from ages past looked down at them as they passed.
At last they stopped in a small alcove.
The woman in the painting was no more than twenty years old. Her face slightly flushed with wind and exertion. She leaned against a wooden gate, laughing. Her dark hair fell in luxuriant waves, obviously just freed from the straw bonnet she still clutched in her hand. Her long white gown was blown by the wind, to reveal a shapely ankle in a satin slipper.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Lauren breathed.
‘She is beautiful.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Sophia, the Grand Duchess of Kautenstein. When this was painted, she was still Princess Sophia, the youngest daughter of Gerard II. She is my great-great-great-aunt – or something similar. Courtauld will know.’
‘This isn’t in any of the books about the royal collection. I’m not familiar with it.’ Lauren leaned closer to study the signature in the bottom corner of the painting. ‘Nor with the artist.’
‘Ah, that would be because of the terrible scandal.’ The prince’s tone was low and conspiratorial.
Lauren cast a sideways glance at her companion. He was smiling up at his pretty ancestor. The smile softened his face, making him seem younger.
‘Tell me about it,’ she said.
