Crowned: Gowns & Crowns, Book 4

by Jennifer Chance

The room plunged into darkness.

  “Why, Prince Aristotle, I’m sure I’ve never seen you dance for so well and so long. What has gotten into you?”

  Ari smiled down into his mother’s happy face, his heart lightening to see her deep contentment. “You’re enjoying tonight, aren’t you?”

  “I can’t imagine why,” she said, not trying to dim her grin. “All the men I love most in the world are under one roof, safe, and for the most part as happy as I have ever seen them. We’ve had great success winning over the council to the idea of a National Holiday to celebrate your homecoming, and there is good discussion on expanding the homecoming theme to imply a greater inclusivity of any returning national. The idea is already gaining momentum.”

  “Good,” Ari said. “Because a national holiday marking my return after dumping my own plane in the ocean isn’t all that impressive of an accolade, I have to tell you.”

  His mother laughed and he turned her again, scanning the crowd absently as they danced. He hadn’t seen Francesca in over an hour—not that he would have been able to break away, but still. He liked knowing she was in the room.

  The queen caught him looking. “You shouldn’t be so obvious, Ari,” she said, though her gaze remained merry. “Francesca knows you have obligations to perform. I had the same challenges with your father when he first asked me to marry him. It was an absolute chore to make myself scarce until he needed me.”

  Ari lifted his brows. “And you put up with that?”

  “Oh, I would have done about anything for that man,” she said, her voice going suddenly soft. “Even leave him, if I thought that would be best.” When she glanced back at Ari, her eyes were a little misty. “I would want someone like that for you too, you know. Someone who would do whatever it took to make sure you were safe.”

  He grimaced. “I haven’t forgotten everything, Mother. Especially not your penchant for matchmaking. If you like Francesca so well, why have you thrown half of Garronia’s marriageable daughters at me this evening? Which, by the way, I wasn’t aware we were inviting. Since when did you become close personal friends with the Ramanos family?”

  “The girls will be fine, and they need the practice,” his mother said blithely. “You’ve done a credible job not betraying your interest in Francesca too overtly. I think we can probably get three or more official balls out of this if we play our cards right.”

  He stared at her, horror-struck. “Tell me you’re joking.”

  Her laughter filled the space around them, competing with the music. “That’s up to you, I should say. If you don’t make your move…”

  They danced for the remainder of the song, then parted, his mother curtseying gratefully as the crowd applauded with genuine delight. The music shifted then to faster-paced traditional reels, and Ari stepped pointedly off the dance floor. Francesca still had not put in an appearance and that felt…odd to him. Granted, she had no reason to be at his beck and call, and yet it felt strange to have her absent for so long a time.

  He spied Dimitri standing by the large French doors leading out to one of the courtyards, and angled his way.

  “Finally tired of dancing?” the captain joked as Ari approached him. Then his face went instantly serious as he caught Ari’s expression. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing—it’s probably nothing,” Ari said, lifting a hand to massage his temple. The jagged knife of pain was back, poking at him insistently. “Have you seen Francesca recently?”

  Dimitri frowned. “No. I thought she was with Lauren—”

  As one they scanned the room, and Dimitri spotted Lauren first. Nicki, Lauren and Emmaline, actually, all clustered at one of the large banquet tables. They weren’t eating but talking to a man who looked like the chef, who was gesticulating wildly, his face beaming with joy.

  Dimitri grimaced. “Why do I get the feeling they’re planning another party?”

  “But if Francesca isn’t with them, and they’re not concerned, she can’t have been gone long, right?” Ari tried to squelch his growing panic. “One of the women’s restrooms?”

  Dimitri cocked a glance at him. “Her friends could check—and would.” He narrowed his gaze on Ari’s face. “You’re concerned. Legitimately concerned.”

  “Something about this isn’t right,” Ari muttered. He stepped closer to Dimitri, keeping his voice low. “The night that I left—I asked you about it already. Nothing was wrong you said. Nothing out of place.”

  “Not that I knew of, but I wasn’t with you.” Dimitri shook his head. “I was tied up on assignment. I couldn’t believe it when I’d learned the next day you’d taken off.” By unspoken agreement they’d started walking through the ballroom, the area a little clearer now that so many people were on the dance floor. “I didn’t think I’d ever forgive you,” Dimitri said. “I certainly did not forgive myself.”

  “You did nothing wrong,” Ari said, for easily the twentieth time. “You said yourself, you weren’t with me that night.”

  “I should have been,” Dimitri said gruffly. “I should have.”

  They reached the girls a minute later, and within thirty seconds of Ari giving his halting request, Lauren and Nicki headed out. Emmaline stood with her hand half-raised to her face a moment longer. “There are only two bathrooms she could have used,” she said. “I need to tell Kristos.”

  “No—” Ari began, but Emmaline shook her head.

  “He’d want to know,” she insisted. “You’d want to know. Stefan too.” She gestured. “Not your mother, not yet. But the rest of you have worked too long together to stop now. Stefan will be able to tell us if anyone else is missing from the ballroom too.”

  Ari blinked. He hadn’t thought of that, but she was right. “Go,” he said, as Dimitri touched his arm.

  “Through there,” he pointed. “Corridors to the interior courtyard, but could as easily be someplace Francesca would have wandered by mistake. She’s not as familiar with this palace.”

  They strode quickly through the room and entered the hallway, immediately struck with the silence of it. “No one would have seen her leave or come back from here, too many people focused on the center of the room.”

  “And the music dims quickly. Still, she could hear it. She wouldn’t have gotten that lost.”

  “Dimitri!” Lauren emerged from another door at the end of the long hallway that ran alongside the interior wall of the ballroom. “No and no on the ladies’ rooms. Nicki is going after Stefan. What can I do?”

  “Tell Emmaline and connect with Stefan.” Dimitri tapped his ear. “I have him on closed circuit mic, but he’s with the US ambassador. I don’t want to interrupt that if Francesca is simply out for a stroll. But once he gets clear, Emmaline is going to ask him to see if anyone’s left or anyone’s shown up that we didn’t expect. Have him hail me.”

  “Right.” Lauren strode up to him and, standing on her tip toes, placed both of her hands on his face, then kissed him fast and hard on the lips. “Go save people. You’re good at it,” she said.

  Then she swiveled on her heel and was gone.

  Ari stared for a moment after her, then turned in time to see Dimitri staring too. “You are never going to get over her, are you?” he asked as they headed deeper into the Visitors’ Palace.

  “Never in my lifetime,” Dimitri sighed.

  They strode through the hallways, unconsciously picking up speed as each new corridor yielded no Francesca. Ari was ready to start shouting her name when Dimitri held up a hand. “Something’s wrong here,” he said, frowning at the empty hallway. Two doors flanked the hallway, both of them shut tight. The corridor was empty except for a stand of flowers, molting onto the floor. “Those leaves aren’t right, on the floor like that.”

  Ari stared at him. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  Dimitiri shook his head. “You haven’t been with the queen in the year since you’ve been gone. The palace is only so big, and she spent entire months of her life pacing it and this one as well. Any
thing out of place, anything askew, she fixed. It became the standard. Those leaves—that would have been caught, no matter how deep we are in the Visitors’ Palace.”

  “I’ll go one further,” Ari said, as his gaze landed on something that glistened about twenty feet beyond the stand, next to another set of facing doors. He strode forward quickly and bent down, scooping it up in one motion.

  He tossed the earring to Dimitri. “Francesca was wearing that. She was here.” The two of them stared at each other a long moment, then started moving.

  “Courtyard,” Dimitri said.

  “Has to be,” Ari agreed. Their strides picked up as Dimitri’s earpiece crackled, and the captain put his hand to his head.

  “Dimitri,” he barked. He pulled out the earpiece so Ari could hear as well.

  Stefan’s cool voice sounded over the device. “Everyone accounted for, save one,” he said steadily, but there was no denying the cold anger in his voice. “Silas Saleri.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Fran sat in the corner of the room, her skirts pulled around her like a heavy blanket, her hands shaking so hard that she couldn’t even form them into fists.

  Think, I have to think!

  She should get up, she knew she should get up. Get up and rage and scream and pound on the door and stomp. She couldn’t be far from the grand ballroom. Someone would hear her, surely!

  That was the problem though. Someone would hear her. The same someones who’d thrown her in here, who’d told her to stay quiet.

  No one else would hear her except them, she suspected.

  “Think, think,” she muttered. She needed to stay centered, calm. She wasn’t harmed, not really. She wasn’t bound. She wasn’t naked. All of that meant these were not men who planned to assault her, at least not right away.

  She didn’t think they would assault her either, and she clung to that thought, that shred of rational understanding, as the minutes dragged by and the screams built up in her throat. Screams that no amount of logic could quite chase away. Stuffing her fist into her mouth, Fran forced her hiccupping breaths to slow, her mind to detach. Detach the way she’d helped others detach. Others who’d gone through much worse than this, so much worse. She could handle this, look at it rationally, dispassionately. She’d been thrown into a room, her elbows skinned. She hadn’t been hurt.

  You’re all right. You’re okay.

  The shaking wouldn’t stop though, couldn’t stop, not yet.

  But there was still something she could do. Move. She could move.

  It took another few minutes for Fran to act on what her brain was urging, but at length she blew out a deep breath. She leaned over to brace herself on the concrete floor, then worked herself up against the wall. Standing was better, standing was stronger. She could stand. She would stand. She didn’t have to cower in the dark. She would stand.

  And the room wasn’t completely dark either, she realized. There was a thin line of light at the base of the door, though—it wasn’t full light. Her guards didn’t have the lights on in the hallway. That meant once again, they must still be close to the ballroom. That was good, that had to be good.

  Fran couldn’t hear voices but she knew—she knew she wasn’t alone. Someone was standing watch.

  Think, think.

  She wasn’t an unplanned abduction. That bag. The chloroform. Someone had watched her, had seen her leave the ballroom. Had seen her and followed her and—

  That bag, she thought again. The chloroform. Enough to knock her out, but not keep her out. They’d left her awake. That had to mean something. They’d left her awake. Awake and dressed and not. Hurt.

  You’re all right. You’re okay.

  With halting steps, Fran explored the concrete room. There was nothing in it. Not a chair, not a bed, not storage boxes. Nothing she could use as a weapon, nothing that could be used against her. They’d bring their own weapons though. The stories…the stories Fran had heard, the haunted eyes of the service men and women. The stories.

  But those weren’t her stories. Wouldn’t be her stories.

  You’re all right. You’re okay.

  The door opened and Fran whirled, fear and adrenaline jacking as she opened her mouth to scream, to shout, to blurt and cry. But the flashlight was so bright—so bright! And her scream died in her throat as an overhead light flooded the room. She crouched back at the sound of heavy feet stomping onto the concrete floor, then straightened and forced her eyes open.

  She registered two men standing on either side of the door…then a third stalked into the room. A third man so perfectly, so impeccably dressed—a man she’d seen before—that Fran’s mouth couldn’t form the words at first.

  Finally, she blurted. “Mr. Saleri?”

  “Count Saleri,” the old man snapped, and he gestured to the two guards to leave. They did, silently, shutting the door behind them as Fran gaped at him. This man…he was old! He was rich! What was she doing here?

  “Count Saleri,” she managed, hating the way her voice sounded, thin and pitiful and weak. She sounded like she had when she was a little girl. A little girl who’d gotten backed into one too many corners, a little girl afraid. A little girl who’d finally came out swinging though, who’d finally learned how to fight.

  Fran straightened a little further, holding onto that thought.

  “That’s right,” Saleri said coldly. “Names are important here in Garronia. Names mean something. Ranks mean something. Which you clearly don’t understand. None of you do.”

  Fran’s brains were scrambling, trying to understand. This was an old man, or old enough. Easily close to sixty. Edeena’s father. A royal. A count, related to the queen. They’d never even spoken to each other, so how…

  “What do you want from me?” she asked.

  “To leave and never come back would be a good start,” Silas sneered. “I’ve given up on Ari marrying my daughter. But we can’t have the Andris line sullied twice with American whores.”

  Fran’s eyes flew wide, her fear suddenly shoved back by the powerful punch of anger. There’d been the bag, yes. The bag and the darkness, the drug, the concrete room—but now this man, this ridiculously-dressed man with ribbons and silk and gleaming shoes was calling her and Emmaline whores? On what grounds!

  Saleri’s face twisted as regarded Fran with disdain. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re all trying to do. The Andris family was weak, broken, desperately trying to recover from their son’s death. His death!” Silas balled his hands into fists. “He should have stayed dead if all he was going to do was come back and complete the ruin of his life he’d started by rejecting my Edeena.”

  “Edeena?” Fran’s hands flailed, as if they could grasp some sense from the thin air. “But what—”

  Moving was the wrong thing to do. Silas reacted instantly, pulling out a gun so fast that Fran blurted a cry.

  “Silence!” He hissed and despite herself Fran froze, her eyes on the gun, the gun that wasn’t shaking, wasn’t wavering, no matter how old Silas was. The count was former military—obviously former military—and he was pointing a gun at her.

  Relax, relax, she implored herself. A lot of men carried guns, even back at her father’s bar. Most of the time it was for show, the weapons never loaded. That had to be what was going on here, too. Silas was a count. He wouldn’t shoot her—he wouldn’t.

  Taking a deep breath, Fran squared her shoulders. She stepped deliberately to the side and Silas followed her with the gun. “So now what?” she asked quietly. Steadily. “You’re going to kill me, Silas?”

  “Don’t call me that,” he growled, but the gun stayed on her. The gun and the glare of a man she was beginning to realize was profoundly, intensely unstable. As if the bag and the chloroform hadn’t been a clue.

  She tried again, schooling her voice to its most soothing register. “Okay, then what—”

  “Be still!” he snapped. “You have no understanding of your place. I looked up your life, you know, your
pathetic life in pathetic Michigan. Your family has done nothing of merit—there’s barely any information out there about them. Your house is an anonymous pit of squalor in a development little more than a shantytown. You have no sense of your history because you have no history. So how dare you trot yourself in front of an actual prince, preening like some little dog in heat, when he’s still trying to recover?”

  Sudden anger flashed through Fran, cooking her from the inside. “You don’t know me, Count Saleri,” she said, as calmly as she could. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “I know everything I need to know. You’re a cheap, American, gold-digging whore.” He fairly spat the words, and in that moment, Fran saw him, truly saw him.

  And she knew this man. Not specifically Count Saleri, martinet of some tiny little hamlet in a kingdom halfway around the world, no. But a grouchy old man who’d let life get the better of him—yeah. She knew that guy. The kind of man who’d taken in every good thing and spilled out nothing but bad from it, who’d dragged defeat from the jaws of victory so many times, he was sure life itself was out to get him. She blinked and didn’t see Silas Saleri in front of her any more, she saw Bill Lakshi, the drunk at the corner of the peeling counter, blearily taking a swing at anyone who drew near. She saw Mark Hayward and Bob Gutz, leaning over the pool table cracking up over their own dirty jokes as they spit tobacco juice into glasses she’d have to wash later. She saw Dave Cline, right before he left to go beat up his wife for the last time. The night he later got in a truck and killed himself when he’d run off the bridge.

  And not just himself, either.

  No, that would have been too much of a kindness.

  Silas’s voice rose, cutting across Fran’s thoughts. “I said listen to me, you stupid girl. You don’t know anything about nobility. You don’t know anything about class. If you really cared for Aristotle you would leave him alone to marry someone of his station, someone who could expunge the shame that you disgusting people have already brought this country, infiltrating the royal palace like you own it when you are nothing. You are dirt. I should kill you now to rid us of the plague you’re bringing to our shores.”