by Rachel Hauck
Stepping out of his hotel into what seemed like a cloud fallen to earth—how did they endure this humidity?—he motored west, according to the rental car’s GPS. The investigator’s report indicated Miss Beswick spent Friday evenings at the shop where she worked.
Easing through downtown and weekend traffic, he passed the university, Florida State, where flags and banners waved from windows and walls bearing the likeness of a Native American.
It was American football season, and Tanner felt the exuberance of the city in his chest. He recognized the sensation from his nearly two decades in the rugby leagues.
His emotional memory stirred, lifting its head. He wondered . . . might he pop in on the game? Maybe Miss Beswick—
An icy chill froze his musings. Hours on his own in America, and already he was mentally straying off course.
Stay on task! Focus.
This was how he failed so miserably before, how he ruined his life’s calling. Ten years later, after being given a second chance, being shown grace, he found he was no more mature than he was at twenty-two.
Look, something shiny. And off he’d go.
What had the last ten years been about if not disciplining his emotions and thoughts, his body to be in control?
To be worthy.
Tanner cut the SUV through the dark swags descending on the city. Along the curb, the streetlamps began to glow with a low burn.
He practiced his introduction again. On the flight over, he’d written it out a dozen times and read it aloud while pacing the customized fuselage, envisioning himself repeating the words to Miss Beswick, who may or may not be aware of her destiny.
Assuming she knew nothing, Tanner attempted to front-load his speech with backstory, which took entirely too long. She’d think him crazy long before he got to, “Are you the true great-granddaughter of Alice Edmunds, born December 10, 1897?”
He possessed a good memory and had memorized the dossier and the details of his future princess. Now to relay them to Miss Beswick in an appealing manner.
Regina Alice Beswick. Born March 21, 1985. Only child of Noble and Bettin Beswick. Bettin was killed in an auto accident in 1997.
Great-grandmother, Alice Edmunds, died a year later in February 1998. Age one hundred and two months.
Education. Graduated Florida State University. BA Finance. CPA accredited. Senior associate, Backlund & Backlund. Resigned six months ago. New occupation. A motorcar garage owner.
Father, Noble, owned plumbing company. Stepmum, Sadie, bank president.
His mind’s eye studied Miss Beswick’s driver’s license and graduation photo. Pleasant enough. Lots of red hair and blue eyes, like Princess Alice.
As he continued driving west, the city sights and sounds began to fade into a rural area with houses set back off the road, guarded by trees and all sorts of brush. Was this right? Had he not been paying attention? He glanced at the GPS. The direction arrow remained on course.
Exhaling, he released his taut grip on the wheel. It wouldn’t be the first time he missed his mark because he’d been mentally reading a document or rereading a book he’d memorized.
The mechanical GPS voice spoke. “Turn right in half a mile.”
Tanner closed his mental dossier. His mission was about to begin.
Focus.
He inhaled long and slow, filling his lungs to capacity. Can. Not. Fail. A single word dropped from his lips. Wisdom. He needed wisdom. His request was not a prayer, exactly. Because Tanner had an arrangement with God. They’d leave one another alone. Stay in their mutual corners. However, his subtle petition today was for the princess. For Hessenberg.
Tanner’s thoughts and energy converged on his heart. Miss Beswick, prepare yourself for the truth.
The GPS directed, “Turn right in five hundred feet.”
Scanning the landscape, Tanner spotted a circle of lights above a wide square of yellow light. An open door of some kind. People were moving in and out.
He turned right when the GPS commanded and bounced down a gravelly driveway, parking beside the farthest car out.
A slow, investigative approach to the facility would serve him best, allowing him to observe the crowd, even Miss Beswick. He hoped she’d not left already.
The atmosphere was lively, bouncing with music and the fragrance of American pizza. Tanner had it once and rather fancied it.
Just find the redhead. Please, let there be only one . . .
To his left, under a cold, bare light swinging from a narrow light pole, a crowd gathered around what appeared to be an old Corvette.
There was a bit of excitement about it, voices rising and falling. Curious, Tanner moved closer. He fancied classic cars as a youth, but preferred newer models these days.
Casually moving into the crowd, Tanner stood shoulder to shoulder with a black gentleman who wore his cap backward and studied the car.
The old Corvette needed work, but was a rare beauty.
“What year is it?” he whispered to the man.
“’Fifty-three. One of the originals. Handcrafted.”
Tanner whistled. “Lovely.”
The man peered up at him. “Not from around here?”
“No, sir.”
“Name’s Al.” He offered his hand.
“Tanner Burkhardt,” he said, clasping his hand with Al’s rough, firm grip. “I just arrived from the Grand Duchy of Hessenberg.”
“Hessenberg?” The man’s brown eyes widened. “That’s a far piece to come for an evening in Reggie’s Court.” He laughed, a smooth sound that made Tanner think of jazz. “But Reg swears folk’ll do just about anything, go anywhere, for a slice of pizza.”
“Reggie’s Court, did you say?”
“Ah, we like to rib her, call the Friday night gatherings ‘Reggie’s Court.’ But it’s just folks getting together to talk cars and such. Which is why you showed up, I reckon. Do you have friends here?”
“Actually—” Tanner hesitated. Should he obfuscate the situation? Agree with Al that he came to talk about motorcars? Carve out more time to observe? No, best get on with it. “Actually, I’m looking for Miss Regina Beswick.”
The man reared back. “Miss Regina Beswick?” His chuckle rumbled in his chest. “I’m not sure she’ll answer to that, but you can try.” He pointed to the Corvette. “She’s under there.”
“Under the car?” Tanner bent to see through the shadows, finding a thin light beam and a body crawling along.
“Urban,”—a strong, Southern-accented voice fired from underneath the chassis—“did you check the oil before you drove this across town?”
From among the men gathered around, one stooped to respond. He looked like a professional with his trimmed hair and fine-weave slacks.
“Of course I did.”
A barrister. Unless Tanner missed his guess, which he was confident he hadn’t. He’d worked with men like . . . this . . . Urban. That’s what she called him, correct? Tanner recognized the lawyer kind, his kind, even in America.
“He’s the car’s owner,” Al said. “Just bought it off his brother-in-law and drove it over to show us.”
“And Miss Beswick is . . . inspecting it?”
“Urban thinks he can restore it himself. Reg is convincing him he needs to let us do it.”
“I see.” So, she restores cars. Fascinating. And how serendipitous—perhaps even divine—to find an open spot next to Al.
Miss Beswick scooted out from under the car. One of the men standing around jumped forward to help her up. Dried grass and leaves clung to her mussed burnished hair while a wide river of motor oil sleeked down her face and neck.
“Rafe,” Al said in a low voice, “run get Reg a towel.”
“Reg, what’d you do to my Vet?” Urban dropped to his knees and peered under the car.
“I touched the oil plug and it shattered.” Miss Beswick wiped the oil from her face with the edge of her top. “Did you put new oil in on top of the old, Urban?”
The man ju
mped to his feet. “The dipstick said the oil was low, so I added a quart.”
Definitely a barrister.
“The dipstick? Urban,”—Miss Beswick laughed, her white smile breaking up the dark smears of motor grease on her cheeks and around her mouth—“you’re the dipstick. The oil was low because it’s old and tacky. Probably been in there for years. You’re lucky you didn’t blow the engine on your way over here.”
She walked around the car with a casual survey of the group, her gaze landing and lingering on Tanner.
Their eyes met, and for a moment he thought she might speak to him. “Who are you?” Or “Can I help you?” Was he ready to respond?
Would the truth spill out, right here and now, like the oil on the ground? Like the oil on her face?
Tanner inhaled. Exhaled. Waiting. Braced and at the ready, his nerves pinging. A fluttery and funny sensation tickled down his ribs. Anticipation. Was he about to meet Miss Beswick, the heir to the Hessenberg throne?
The wind whispered between them, stirring up the fragrance of the sun-baked earth. Miss Beswick smiled, sparking a light in her eyes. They matched the same brilliant blue Renoir painted of Princess Alice.
Miss Beswick was beautiful. Much more than Tanner imagined, and the flutter in his chest confirmed what his eyes beheld.
When she moved on, he exhaled. Thank goodness. He needed to collect himself and meet her in a tamer setting. Perhaps without grease on her face. Without the thunder of his own blood pulsing through his ears. Yet the fluttering burn in his middle lingered. Tanner pressed his fingers to his breastbone. He wasn’t given to nerves, really. Or heartburn. Must be his body was out of sorts from the travel and time change.
Or it might just be that he found her striking and sublime. Even covered in motor oil.
“Urban,”—she patted the barrister on the shoulder—“tell me this. If you bought a Rembrandt, would you let a kindergartner with crayons restore it?” The man, Rafe, showed up with the towel, tossing it to Miss Beswick.
“Not the same, Reg. I don’t know anything about art.”
“You don’t know anything about restoring cars either.” A thin laughter rippled through the crowd.
“I can learn. Get help.”
“From who? Us? Not for free.”
The man scoffed. “Fine, I’ll pay for the help.” He motioned to the car. “This is my midlife crisis because my wife won’t let me trade her in for a younger model.”
Tanner’s laughter fed the fluttery feeling in his gut. How fortunate to happen upon this scene and a chance to observe Miss Beswick.
This Urban was a straight shooter. As was Miss Beswick. She got down to business. Mustered no dancing about. He best take note.
“Urban, how old are you? Sixty, sixty-one?” Miss Beswick folded her arms, the oil-stained towel dangling from her hand.
“Urban,”—Al cupped his hands about his mouth—“give it up. She’s going in for the kill.”
“I’m not scared, Al. This isn’t my first rodeo.”
Al nudged Tanner. “Urban prosecuted a serial killer early in his law career. It was a big deal, very salacious, lots of media hoopla. Took the jury less than two hours to come back with a guilty verdict. He’s been on top ever since.”
“Can she convince him?” Tanner said. “Will she win?”
“Urban knows the law. He don’t know squat about restoring cars, and he knows it. Reggie knows it. And he knows she knows.”
As the evening light faded to a deeper shade of midnight blue, the barrister finally dropped the car keys into the palm of her hand.
The crowd cheered and swirled around Miss Beswick, congratulating her.
Shoulders bumped Tanner’s, and he was shoved along toward the red barn with the rest of them.
When he saw a break in the crowd, he sidestepped out of the fray and caught the trail of Miss Beswick as she hurried toward the open barn doors where gold light spilled from the wide lamps.
Urban walked on one side, Al on the other.
Tanner veiled himself in the shadows of a large tree, watching, deciding how to approach. Observing was one quality of his nature he rather liked. It gave him an advantage on the rugby field, in the courtroom, and now in the Minister of Culture’s office.
Urban and Al exited after a few moments, heading toward a truck. Others in the party began to clump in smaller groups, then make their way toward their parked motorcars.
Tanner urged himself forward. Now or never, chum.
In the barn, he found Miss Beswick in a long, narrow room, some sort of makeshift office, working on a computer. She looked around when he rapped lightly on the door frame.
“Hey,” she said. “Come in.” She stood, offering her hand. “Have we met? I saw you out there, with the Corvette. Friend of Urban’s?”
“No, I’m not. And we’ve not met previously. I’m . . .” The moment his hand touched hers, he lost sense of self. The floor beneath him seemed to turn to putty, making it impossible to stand without wavering. “Tanner Burkhardt.” He jerked his hand away, stepping back, looking for solid ground.
“Reggie Beswick,” she said. “Do I detect an accent? British?”
“Hessen. I’m from the Grand Duchy of Hessenberg.”
“Wow, really? What can I do for you? Have a seat.” She motioned to the chair behind Tanner as she kicked out the desk chair for herself.
Tanner sat, calming his nerves. What was it about this woman that unsettled him? This wasn’t the first time he’d met a royal. Or a beautiful woman.
“My great-grandma was born in Hessenberg,” she said.
“Indeed. Did she tell you much about it?” Tanner collected his professional decorum, trying to remain focused on his mission but feeling as if he were sinking in her presence. Every time she smiled, he lost a piece of his mettle.
She shrugged with a glance back at the computer, moving the mouse, then typing. “Just that it was a beautiful place.”
“As it remains so to this day.”
She turned to him, smiling, which ignited a buzzing thrill around his heart. Tanner swallowed, reaching for his attaché case. Guard your wits.
“I’m sure. Gram didn’t talk about it much, at least not that I can remember. I was twelve when she died and didn’t care that much about our family history.”
“Miss Beswick—”
“Hey, you seem like a nice man, but please call me Reggie or Reg. This Miss Beswick business has to go.”
“Right, well, you see . . .” Tanner retrieved the king’s letter along with the carefully preserved original entail. Let the eloquence and power of the original document speak. “I’m here on urgent, official business. Are you aware of the 1914 Entailment between Brighton and Hessenberg?”
“Sure, from history class. But it’s been awhile. Why do you ask?” She rolled her chair backward, reaching for a small refrigerator. “Want something to drink?”
He was parched, but he wanted to tend to business first. “No, thank you.”
“What kind of urgent, official business?” She retrieved a water bottle and scooted toward him, leaning to see the documents, sprinkling the air with the slightest scent of lilacs.
“You recall that Hessenberg became a part of Brighton in 1914 when our Grand Duke, Prince Francis, signed over his land, which was the whole of Hessenberg, to the King of Brighton.”
“Okay.” She sat back, taking a swig of her water. “Duke’s own land, right? The duchy was his to do with as he pleased.”
“Yes, exactly. Brilliant.” She was making his job a mite easier. “Prince Francis feared the coming war and was ill prepared to build a worthy military, so he aligned with King Nathaniel I of Brighton.”
“What did you say your name was again?” Regina wiped one hand on her jeans and reached for the papers. “May I?”
Tanner hesitated, but released the documents. “Tanner. Tanner Burkhardt.”
“Well, Tanner Burkhardt, what does any of this have to do with me?” She drank some more
water, her eyes on the king’s letter. “Why is it addressed to me?” Drawing closer, she pointed to the king’s cipher. “From the King of Brighton?”
“Because he wrote it to you.”
She laughed. “The King of Brighton wrote me a letter?”
This wasn’t how Tanner planned to tell her, but so far this approach was working. “Go on. Read it for yourself.”
She set down her water with an unsure glance at Tanner then regarded the letter.
“Dear Miss Beswick, on behalf of Brighton Kingdom . . . receive my servant Mr. Tanner Burkhardt . . . my official ambassador . . . inform you . . .”
She stopped reading and the light in her countenance dimmed.
“What? This is crazy. No way . . . no way.” She gave Tanner the letter, her arm stiff. “Is this a joke? Who hired you?”
As if on cue, a dark-haired chap, one of the professionals who’d been by the Corvette, stuck his head through the doorway. “Reg, some of us are going to a movie—” He drew back when he saw Tanner.
“Mark, did you do this? Hire this guy?” Miss Beswick snatched the letter back from Tanner and waved it about. “What kind of joke is this? A princess? Please, come on. It’s not my birthday and it’s not April Fools’, so what gives?”
“Hi.” The chap offered his hand. “Mark Harper. Please pardon the insane woman ranting in front of you.”
“Tanner Burkhardt.” He shook his hand. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Harper.”
“Mark. Please call me Mark. Mr. Harper is my deadbeat ole man.”
“You didn’t do this?” Miss Beswick said with more letter-waving.
Mark patted Tanner on the shoulder. “Have you ever seen me before in your life?”
“Yes—”
“Aha!” She waved her finger at Mark.
“Out by the Corvette a few minutes ago.”
“Aha yourself, Reg.” Mark jabbed his finger at her. “Let me see this letter.”
“Nothing doing.” Miss Beswick jumped up onto her desk chair, balancing precariously. “This sounds exactly like something you’d write, Mark.” She glared down at Tanner, then read the letter with an exaggerated Hessen accent. “On behalf of our two nations, we implore you to take your rightful place as heir to the Grand Duchy of Hessenberg and her throne.”
