“One of the usual rebel neighborhoods?”
“Yeah. Up in Helstern.” He cleared his throat. “I have more news. None of it good.”
“Hit me with it.”
“The medics who tended to Arabella when she was…”
Xavier winced. Arabella had been found comatose on the bathroom floor in the suite she’d shared with Edward.
On the journey over to the hospital, she’d passed away.
“What about them?”
“They’re all dead.”
Stillness overcame him. “What?”
“You heard me. They’re all dead. The EMTs that tended to her, the doctor who declared her dead upon arriving at the hospital. Even the doctor who held the post-mortem. All of them, Xavier.”
“That can’t be possible.”
“Well, it is. I’m looking at their death certificates as we speak.”
“Explain,” Xavier demanded curtly.
“The doctor who declared her dead died in a car crash in Vancouver. A few months after Arabella passed, she emigrated.”
“So, it was an accident.”
“Yeah, it looks that way. But the EMTs? One died on the job. The ambulance drove over a section of the road that was being maintained and hadn’t been properly signposted. It went nose-first into half-set concrete.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah. I’m looking at the pictures. It was bad business. The front end of the ambulance was completely smashed up, and the back end of it didn’t fare much better.
“As they were on their way to an emergency, they were all seated up front. They didn’t stand a chance.”
Xavier rubbed the back of his neck, uncaring of the soil dirtying his fingers. “And the rest?”
“One died on a beach, of all places. A jet ski veered into waters that were designated for swimmers. The pathologist died on site at a restaurant—he was allergic to peanuts, and his meal had been contaminated.”
Unease filled Xavier. “They’re all plausible.”
“They sure are. That’s why they’re fucking clever. Separately, you wouldn’t think anything of them, would you? Just bad luck. But together? When you think of the connection?”
“But Arabella was sick, Edward. There’s no reason to think there’s some kind of conspiracy going on where she’s concerned.”
“Well, these death certificates tell me otherwise. And it’s not like I even know. I wasn’t here, was I?”
“No,” Xavier whispered softly, getting to his feet now so he could begin pacing. He needed to do something, anything to burn off this energy that was overwhelming him. “What does Uncle Philippe say?”
“I don’t think Drake has told him yet. I only found out because he was with me when he got the call on the last death. I knew something was wrong so I asked him. He was so surprised by the coincidence that he told me.”
Jesus, for a man like Drake to be perturbed, that meant there was more credence to Edward’s shaky supposition than Xavier wanted to believe.
“But why?” he repeated, staring down at the floor as he tried to process why someone would kill four medical professionals who’d been in contact with the Crown Princess.
“I don’t know. But Drake’s investigating.” He sighed. “Not that it feels like enough. And combined with what he uncovered before, gossip that Arabella might have been murdered, this just stinks even more.”
“Gossip is gossip. It isn’t fact. He was stupid to have told Uncle Philippe that. It wasn’t relevant to anything, and all it did was stir up the old man’s unease. You know how protective he is of you.”
“I do, but not even Drake can avoid a King’s dictate,” Edward said wryly. “If father wants to know something, then he’ll find it out, one way or another. Drake might have the balls to stand up to him, but his assistants don’t.”
Xavier smirked a little at that. Philippe hid his tenacity behind a benevolent façade. But the man made a bulldog look lazy.
When he went after something, there was no getting in his way. And where his children were concerned, he was even worse.
“Jesus, this is a lot to take in,” he said slowly. “De Montfort meeting with a goddamn UnReal, and now this? Is it connected, do you think?”
“I don’t see why.”
“Who else would kill Arabella?”
“To get to her father? You know, L’Argeneaux is a man with as many enemies as friends.”
Xavier stared uneasily at a tree in the near distance. “No. I disagree. His enemies are too damn frightened to do anything against him. And if they did, it would be in a business setting, maybe a political one. Nothing like this.
“There was no reason to kill Arabella. She was useless. A pretty bauble.” He should have felt guilty at dismissing his cousin’s dead wife that way, but it was the truth, and there was no point in hiding from it.
Edward sighed. “She had connections. You can’t hide from that.”
“I’m not. I just don’t understand why those connections might be what got her killed.”
Silence hovered between them a second as Edward processed that. Then, he gritted out, “I need to tell Perry and George.”
Surprised that George hadn’t been the first one informed of this news, Xavier couldn’t deny the warmth that filled him at his cousin’s revelation.
Learning that he was Edward’s first port of call deepened his voice with emotion as he murmured, “You know they’ll freak out.”
“George might. I doubt Perry will,” Edward said, his tone considering.
“What makes you think that?”
“I usually think about a normal woman’s reaction to something and then flip it on its head. That tends to be how she’ll respond.”
Xavier’s lips twitched because there was no denying the truth in that statement. He grunted. “She’ll be frightened.”
“Maybe. But I can’t keep it from her.” Edward grew quiet, then he said, “You scared she’ll call things off?”
“No.” The word fell from his lips without him having to give it a moment’s thought. “Are you?”
“No. I just wondered if that was why you were against my telling her.”
“I’m not against it, per se. I’m just… it seems foolish to tell her something that we’re not certain about.”
“Nothing is certain, Xav. You know that. And keeping her out of the loop is one great way to piss her off. If I tell her this, then at least she’ll know I’m willing to share.”
“Why are you?” he asked quietly. “Willing to share, I mean. You weren’t with Arabella. I know because you two barely talked, even weeks after you were wed.” The telltale signs of intimacy had never manifested between his cousin and his ex.
There had always been an invisible wall between them.
Sometimes, when he’d watched them interact, Xavier had wondered if they’d even had sex. It was like they were two wraiths passing through each other’s lives, intent on not disturbing the other too much.
It had upset him to see that, if he was being honest. Edward was too good a man to be wasted on a vapid woman who was more interested in her appearance and idle court gossip than anything else.
Not that he’d not been saddened to hear of her passing. But he wouldn’t deny that he’d known Arabella’s death had freed Edward in a way that divorcing her wouldn’t.
And he was well aware how that thought process made him seem. It was why he kept his opinion to himself.
“Perry’s different,” Edward said after a few moments. “I know she thinks she’ll be a terrible princess, but we both know that’s bullshit. She cares too much. About everything. She won’t fail. If anything, she’ll use her new position to help her achieve her goals. That makes her night and day to Arabella.”
Xavier murmured, “I agree. The DeSauviers are about to be up to their eyes in charitable organizations.”
Edward snorted. “I can see it now. She’ll singlehandedly transform our reputation.”
“It’
s a delicious kind of irony, really,” Xavier murmured, lips twitching.
“What about her isn’t?”
Though she knew George shouldn’t be there, and from the disapproving glances Marianne and the rest of the staff kept shooting his way she could tell they concurred…but she wanted his opinion.
Ever since he’d told her that he’d picked her wardrobe with the intent of getting her out of it, she’d wanted him to see the dress.
Which, up to now, was the only aspect of the wedding he hadn’t actively been involved in. She’d liked the idea of the three men seeing it for the first time together, on the day itself…but now?
She wanted him to see her in the swathing folds of lace and silk and only God-knows-what-else. Why? She needed help telling his mother she loathed it.
And yeah, she knew that made her sound like a big fucking kid. Ball-less and lily-livered, but… Marianne, for all her icy politeness, was a she-devil sent to terrify Perry.
Well aware there’d come a day when she’d have to stand up to the older woman, Perry had decided it was for the best not to come to blows over the dress, and to just get George involved.
Especially after the prenup debacle.
Perry hadn’t sulked even though Marianne had tried to screw her over, but she was aware that any complaints about this dress might be construed as her being a diva over what had gone down in Drake’s office.
That totally wasn’t the case, of course. Still, Marianne wasn’t to know that, was she? It wasn’t like women couldn’t be petty over the most stupid of shit, after all. And Perry was capable of being petty too, just not when she could understand her in-laws’ motives.
She’d freakin’ kill to protect her men. Why wouldn’t Edward’s parents?
This was the fourth dress fitting. The first had been a nightmare, and she’d ceded to Marianne far more than she should have. But what did she know about wedding dresses? Royal ones that were fit for a princess, at that? She’d listened, and now she was paying the price for it.
The dressing room was white and bright. It showed all a woman’s flaws, which made it her idea of a nightmare.
Around the large space there were low sofas, and Marianne and one of her friends, a Guardian of the Keys and Marchioness, Louisa Patrice, was seated at her side. George filled another seat, as did Cassie. Perry had invited her new friend to the second dress fitting, in the vain hope that two of them could bulldoze Marianne’s sway…
It hadn’t worked.
Still, having Cassie here made the torturous event fun. She hadn’t exactly seen a lot of her since they’d met up for coffee, save for these dress fittings, but she felt the stirrings of a friendship regardless.
And it helped that George, Edward, and Xavier liked and knew her well, too.
Perry stood on a low platform in the center of the room, which only enhanced the idea that this was her version of hell on Earth.
There was no escaping the fact that she was the center of attention, and that every eye in the room, including those of the four dressmakers, each wearing neat pinnies that had pins and needles tucked into the thick cotton aprons, some with pens tucked into smart buns, was fixed firmly her way.
Two of the dressmakers had helped her into the dress, and now they were pinning it in place so the end look could be envisioned. Each appointment, she’d had to be taken in a few notches more. The stress of the upcoming wedding hadn’t helped her appetite, and for once in her life, she’d been losing rather than gaining weight.
Who knew that getting married to a prince would be the best diet aid in the land?
When the dressmakers stood back after she’d been pinned and prodded, the dress finally falling into place, she turned around and stared at the back wall which consisted of nothing more than a mirror.
She grimaced at the sight of herself.
George, in the reflection, got to his feet, and walked around her.
The silence in the room was almost deafening, then he folded his arms, turned to his mother, and glowered at her.
“You’ve made her look like one of those dolls they used to put on top of toilets.”
Perry coughed. “How do you know what they looked like? I can’t imagine the royal potty was decorated with tat.”
“I’ve watched movies,” he retorted grimly. “What the hell is this, mother?” His demand included a wave of his hand that encompassed the entire frou-frou disaster.
And, boy, he wasn’t wrong.
The dress was so, so, so BIG. Capital letters big.
Like a meringue and a tutu had exploded and had babies that were really fucking ugly.
“She looks regal,” Marianne declared, getting to her feet and managing to look better than every single woman in the room, despite being double some of their ages.
Dressed in a demure pale mauve pantsuit, she looked like class.
Perry wished she could say the same.
“She might do if she was your size, mother, but Perry’s…” He eyed her breasts. “Well, she’s not you.”
She had to curl her lips inwards to hide her smile.
With the meringue-tutu skirt, the sweetheart neckline made her already large boobs look like pillowy mountains.
And not in a good way.
She dreaded to think what she’d look like when it came time to add a train to the disastrous ensemble.
“No, quite simply, no,” he declared, and Marianne huffed.
Was it wrong that Perry wanted to climb him like a tree at that moment? God, he was so fucking sexy when he took charge, making a damn queen bend to his will.
Ugh, now was totally not the time to be feeling horny.
Focus, Perry. Focus! she told herself.
“And who gave you the decision over yes or no? This dress has taken weeks to make.”
“Well, it will take hours to unmake. I wouldn’t let an enemy walk down the aisle in this monstrosity; never mind a dear friend!”
At her back, Cassie started hiccupping. Perry shot her a concerned glance, then rolled her eyes when she realized the other woman was trying, and failing, to hide her laughter.
To the seamstresses, George was kindness itself as he murmured something gently in Veronian. They nodded, bobbing their heads as they studied the skirts, looking wherever he pointed, pulling at the dress and peering at him to see if they’d gained his approval.
“A princess has yet to walk down the aisle with that style,” Marianne retorted crisply.
“Well, it’s time for a change. Some women suit this kind of…” His eyes grew hazy as he tried to come up with a word, “whipped dessert of a dress, but Perry isn’t one of them.” The best friend a woman could ever have, and one of the loves of her goddamn life, peered up at her, confusion in his eyes as he demanded, “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Shit, he knew her too well.
Ordinarily, she’d have been all over this. The first to complain about the ridiculousness of having a short-ass in a dress that was taller than she was. But Marianne was…
Well, she was kind, but she was also really fucking strict. Saying no to her was like saying no to the principal. Or the Dean at her college lab.
So, so, so hard.
She pulled a face. “I didn’t want to disappoint anyone.”
“Aside from yourself, you mean?” he declared gruffly. “Perry, you do realize the world’s cameras are going to be upon you. We might not court the press usually, but a Royal Wedding can’t not be publicized. You’d have been photographed looking like…” He blew out a breath as he took in the whole Pavlova effect. “…this!”
Cassie’s hiccups cascaded into outright laughter now, but George just stacked his hands on his hips as he turned to her. “And you. I know you’ve been coming here with Perry. Why the hell didn’t you say something?”
Though she was still snickering, Cassie pointed to Marianne. “Your mother didn’t want to know.”
The Queen folded her arms across her chest. “I asked Perry repeatedly if she was
content with the design.”
Feeling a little helpless, because Marianne really had asked, Perry murmured, “She did, George. Honest.”
“Then why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because whenever I pointed out styles I liked from the magazines I was looking through, she said they weren’t appropriate. And hell, what do I know? She’s the one who’s done this before. It would have been stupid not to take her advice into consideration.”
Marianne sighed, apparently bored with the conversation, then reeled something off in Veronian. One of the seamstresses disappeared from the room and returned with a notepad. The pencil that had been sticking out of her bun was now in her hand as she scrawled something onto the page.
She passed it to George, who studied it, pointed at some lines on the drawing which the dressmaker promptly addressed, nodded with satisfaction, then gave it back to her.
She guessed she should have been pissed at his highhandedness, but hell, she was relieved. It wasn’t like she’d passed this first Herculean task, was it?
She’d pretty much failed at the first hurdle.
Staring at the design, though, she felt tears prick her eyes. “It’s perfect,” she whispered, and was grateful he’d come along this morning. He’d used the excuse that they hadn’t hung out in ages because he’d been too busy with organizing the wedding, as well as the new duties his family were imposing upon him.
Four times this week he’d taken a seat at Parliament—a task he loathed. He’d also had to host an event in one of the palace ballrooms, and had been sent out on an official visit to open a hospital.
George was not a happy bunny.
Still, happy bunny or not, she wanted to ride him into next week.
“You like it? Genuinely? I’ll tell them to change it if you don’t,” he prompted as she stared down at the clean and simple lines of the dress.
Shoestring straps connected to a simple bodice that was shaped and boned in at the waist before gently flaring out into a mermaid skirt. Before him, she hadn’t realized she was suited to tight-fitting skirts, but she was. The skirt would cling to her thighs, but she had freedom around the feet.
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