by Rachel Hauck
“And I, you, but I’m fairly certain I’m falling for you.”
She reached up and brushed his hair away from his face. “I’m afraid we’re Niagara Falls meeting the Grand Canyon.”
He captured her hand in his. “Two forces of nature to be reck-oned with.” He kissed the back of her hand. “I think we can make it work.”
“Hey, zero to sixty, I may drive fast, but my heart putts along at a steady thirty miles per hour.” She withdrew her hand from his.
“All right.” Tanner gripped the cart handle and pushed toward the door. “At least you’re moving.”
Thirty miles an hour. Straight for his heart.
TWENTY-THREE
At last, a voice message from Daddy.
“Reg, sweet pea, we keep missing each other. Sounds like you’re doing good over there. We miss you but are so proud of you. What’s that, Sadie? Oh, she sends her love and a friend from the bank brought in a picture of you from a Hessenberg paper. It looked like you showed that photographer who’s boss.” Daddy yawned into the phone. “Give a buzz tomorrow or something. Love you.”
“What’s going on?” Louis trapped Tanner on the other side of his desk. “You’re humming.”
“Nothing’s going on.” Tanner reached behind his desk to the printer. The archbishop sent over the swearing-in oath and a ceremony script for review. “Slept well last night, ’tis all.”
Louis made a face. “You look happy, not rested. You do realize it’s Monday morning.”
“Are you saying I’m usually unhappy on Monday mornings?” Tanner eyed his aide.
“I think my phone is ringing.” Louis turned on his heel and made for the door. “And there’s a gentleman to see you. He apologizes for coming unscheduled.”
“Who is it?” Tanner glanced at his watch. Dickenson was on his way with Regina.
“Sir Thomas Blakely.”
“Of Blakely Oil?” One of the few remaining family-owned oil companies in the North Sea region. “Did he say why he is here?” Sir Blakely was the senior member of the company’s board of directors. The president and CEO. Tanner couldn’t imagine what sort of errand Old Man Blakely would see to himself.
“No, but he seems to have something on his mind.”
“Send him in, please.” Tanner slipped on his suit jacket and squared away his tie. Sir Thomas Blakely. Had he come to give a donation? Set up an arts or education trust? The museum had recently petitioned patrons for donations.
Tanner greeted Sir Blakely as he entered, wearing a fine-tweed suit and leaning on a brass-handled cane. “My apologies for coming unannounced, but I was driving past the manor when I had a revelation. So I asked my driver to turn in.” His hazel eyes sparkled with a youthful vibrancy, and his voice sounded strong and clear. “I’ll have a seat, if you don’t mind. My assistant is sending over documents for you to see.”
“Please, make yourself at home. Do you care for a spot of tea?”
“Just had mine, thank you.” Blakely sat on the couch, favoring his right hip, then folded his hands on top of his cane. “You see, I’m preparing to retire in a year.” He pointed at Tanner. “I’ll be eighty-one next year, thank you kindly, and I’ve been at the helm of Blakely Oil since I was twenty-five when my father dropped dead from a sudden heart attack.”
“You’ve had quite a career, Sir Blakely.” Tanner took a seat across from the oil magnate. “I studied your international commerce work at the law college.”
“Did you now, my boy? Indeed, indeed.” For a moment, his stare seemed to fix on something only seen in his mind’s eye, then he gazed at Tanner. “Well now, why I am here? You see, I ordered an audit on all financial records dating back to when my grandfather founded this company with little more than a dream. I want to make sure things are spit-spot before I hand the reins to my son and grandson.
“In doing so, the accountant came across our usual odd stockholder who seems to have vanished from the face of the earth. But Grandfather also offered his investors bearer bonds. Most of those have been cashed out, but we’ve one bond account held in escrow for more than a hundred years. Though curious, we never did much more than speculate about the account owner. But the auditor noticed not one thin shilling had ever been drawn by the bond holder.”
“More than a hundred years? Fascinating.” Filler conversation, waiting for him to go on. Did Blakely come to sign over the account to Tanner’s office? Otherwise, the Minister of Finance resided on the third floor.
“We talked of putting out a search for the bond holder, but then I remembered that Grandfather kept a register of those early investors. I’ve kept it in my safe at home.”
Louis knocked on the door. “These came for you, Sir Blakely.”
“Thank you, young chap.” He pointed to Tanner with his cane. “Give them to this lad.” Louis arched his brow and passed over the single folder. “You see,” Sir Blakely went on, “Grandfather and Prince Francis were chums. Both were fascinated with the newfangled automobile. When Grandfather went to find his fortune in oil instead of gold, Prince Francis offered his assistance. I remember my grandfather telling me as much when I was a boy at his knee. He was always saddened over the prince’s final lot.”
Tanner opened the file to find a piece of paper listing the bond numbers. And three photocopies of handwritten letters. Two from the senior Blakely, Artimus, to Prince Francis, and one from Prince Francis to Blakely—dictated to Otto Pritchard.
They all contained brief exchanges about life and seeing one another in the spring season, but nothing to indicate a financial partnership.
Tanner studied the bond numbers. Simple, thousand-pound bonds.
“Do you believe these bonds were purchased by Prince Francis?” he said.
“I’d hoped to tell you for certain, but when I checked Grandfather’s registry, he’d only marked the bearer bond numbers with initials, not names. You’ll see the copy there, in the back.” Blakely tapped the back of the papers with his cane.
Handy tool, a cane.
“Any that would match the prince’s?”
“Not one that we could make out.” He stomped his cane. “But these are the only bonds we believe have never been collected upon. The timing is curious, what with the prince fleeing in the dead of night to never return. Either he left the bonds behind or passed them on to his niece, Princess Alice. Or even Princess Esmé.”
Possible, possible. At this stage, Tanner would believe just about anything. A pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? Why jolly well not?
“How much is in escrow?” Tanner worked a few numbers in his head. If Prince Francis invested several thousand, maybe tens of thousands, that was a tidy sum for any man, even a royal man, pre-1914. And the bonds would be worth millions today given the success of Blakely Oil.
“A hundred million dollars.”
“A hundred million dollars?” Tanner launched to his feet. “You’re joking.”
“I am not,” Sir Blakely said. “My barrister recommends we possess the account as it’s been a hundred years with no activity. He claims it’s a dead account and we should petition the courts to make it legally ours.”
“A hundred million seems pretty alive to me.”
The old Sir of European Oil chuckled. “I quite agree. But my thinking is if the bonds do belong to Prince Francis’s heir, and if we’ve found the princess . . .”
“We have, sir.”
“Then I’d like to honor my grandfather’s friendship with the prince and let the money go to his heir. Let the princess reap the reward. Her uncle’s trust in my grandfather was the first seed of our success.”
“Except we don’t know the whereabouts of the bonds.”
“Might the princess have them? Among her things in America? Perhaps her grandmother, Princess Alice, left them to her without her realizing it. Children often sneer at old things like bonds and papers left to them by their elders.”
“But you’re quite sure these bonds belonged to the prince.” With a si
gh, Tanner sat back. “Sir Blakely, we’ve lost so many of Prince Francis’s records. He kept few diaries, wrote few letters.”
“No, I’m not sure, but Grandfather once told me the prince invested in his hunt for oil. So I do believe those bond numbers did belong to him.”
“But, sir, in the last one hundred years, cleaning and construction crews have gone over every inch of the palace and this manor. Rebuilding. Remodeling. Repairing. No bonds were ever found. For all we know, the prince took the bonds with him. They could’ve been destroyed or lost.”
“Ask the princess. Perhaps she knows.” With a groan, Blakely stood.
“I will.” Could those be the bonds she mentioned to him the other day? But she didn’t actually have possession of the bonds. Just read about them in the entail. Besides, Tanner doubted a former accountant would disregard old bearer bonds if she found them. Maybe her father had yet another box of secrets in the attic. Or maybe they were in some safe deposit box in an unknown bank in some unknown country. Tanner made a mental note to make sure Louis inquired about bonds when collecting data on the prince’s trust.
“In the meantime, our princess is a millionaire a hundred times over if she can find those bonds.” Blakely inched his way between the couch and end table, aiming for the door. He peered back at Tanner.
“Well, what’s she like?”
“Sh–she’s beautiful. Smart. Funny. Kind.”
“The one for the job?”
“Very much so.”
“Good.” He jabbed the air with his cane. “Once it’s all sorted out and that blowhard Seamus Fitzsimmons is put in his place, I’ll have Her Royal Highness to our cottage for tea.”
Tanner smiled. The Blakely cottage rivaled the palace in size and opulence. “I’ll tell her, sir. I’m sure she’d like that very much.”
She’d agreed to take the Oath of the Throne.
King Nathaniel II was eager to make her “official” with her legal and royal status restored, demonstrating to the people that Hessenberg was moving forward.
Court petition or not, Reggie was restoring their sovereign, independent state status. Nathaniel said this move would also dampen the discontentment Seamus Fitzsimmons was inspiring.
But now that Reggie walked beside Tanner toward the Wettin Manor chapel, fear waged war in her soul.
She wore one of the Melinda House dresses but had refused the fancy high heels and wore her boots instead. She needed to walk in her own shoes. Otherwise, she didn’t think she’d make it.
Tanner gave her a weird once-over, eyeing her boots when he picked her up. He started to say something, then thought better of it. “Shall we be off?”
But from the moment she got in his car to entering Wettin Manor, Reggie felt odd, out of sorts, as if this commitment might somehow steal her very essence. Not define it.
She felt ill. Weak. Would she ever be Reggie Beswick again?
“Wait, wait.” She whirled around and retreated down the hall, her boot heels thudding an anxious fleeing resonance against the marble floor. “I can’t, Tanner. I can’t.”
“Regina, love, talk to me.”
She ducked into a small work area containing a copier and a coffeemaker. “First, stop calling me love. It’s too . . . too personal. Second, I can’t, I can’t.” She tried to draw a solid breath, but her lungs refused to function.
“You’re panicking.”
“No, no, I’m pretty sure I’m not panicking.” She lunged at him, arms flailing, eyes bugged. “I’m freaking out.”
“So you’ve changed your mind? You don’t want to take the oath?” Tanner held his voice steady, his shoulders square.
“No. Yes. I can’t.” She held her arms by her side board-stiff, her hands balled into fists, examining her thoughts through the broad lens of her fear.
“If this is about Seamus—”
“Forget Seamus. This is about me.” She relaxed, breathing out. Then in. “About losing myself, about never being able to go home again.”
“Regina, you can go home anytime you like. Well, almost anytime.” Tanner smiled, trying to draw her in. He’d said nothing so far of their conversation in the ballroom and his declaration of love. Which was fine with Reggie. She had enough on her mind. “You’ll have your own Royal Air Force One.”
“In my heart, Tanner. I’m talking about home in my heart.” She folded both hands over her heart. “You know, when you’re down or blue, and you call up friends and say, ‘Let’s do something.’ Or on a crisp spring afternoon, you ride your bike through the old neighborhood with the sun and breeze in your face, remembering how you laughed and ran around with your friends like banshees all summer long. Or you wait in the longest line at the grocery store because you want to check out with your favorite cashier. Or the afternoon you find an old shortcut through town that you’d forgotten.
“How will I do that here? Where will my memories and thoughts go on a quiet Sunday afternoon? Who will call me up and say, ‘Come to the house for dinner?’ ”
“I’d very much like to ring you for dinner.”
“Besides all of this, there was no light . . . no sign.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’d asked God for a sign. It’s silly, I know, but I need some confirmation that I am supposed to be the princess because he wants me to be, not because Prince Francis wanted to restart his royal line long after he’d gone.”
“And you didn’t get your sign?”
“No.” With a sigh, she leaned against the wall. “You’d think the good Lord would indulge me considering this princess business came out of the blue and all. And because I just might end up with my head on the guillotine.”
“The guillotine was torn down in the 50s, you’ll be happy to know.” This time a wink accompanied Tanner’s smile.
Reggie sneered at him, then broke into a grin, unable to hang on to her tension. “Fine, then I’ll end up on the guillotine of the press.”
“Is that what this is about? The press conference this afternoon? We’ve rehearsed. I’ve prepared you. You’re ready.”
“Tanner, you’re all about the surface stuff, going through the motions. I’m talking about my heart, my identity. My whole world is changing. I’m surrendering to another way of life, to another country, to giving up friends and forging new relationships.”
“Yes, Regina, your whole world is changing. But isn’t that what courage to step into your calling is all about? Discovering the truth and doing everything in your power to obtain it? To live it?”
She dropped down to the only chair in the small office space. “You make it sound so noble. Yet I feel so frail and weak.” Unworthy. “I just ask God for a small sign, a light, or something miraculous.”
“Regina,”—Tanner knelt next to her, his tone full of comfort, his manner masculine and confident—“maybe this is a leap of faith. No signs. No safety nets. Just faith.”
She breathed in, dabbing her fingers under her eyes, catching her tears. “I can’t go forward, but I can’t go backward either, no matter how hard I try to work it out in my head. I close my eyes and try to freeze time on the night I was arguing with Urban about the Vet, right before you showed up. But I can’t. Bam! There you are in my mind’s eye and everything fast-forwards to now.”
“Because once you know who you really are, you can’t go back to who you thought you were.” He slipped his hand into hers. “This is your struggle. You can’t go back.”
She pulled her hand free. “This habit of telling me how I feel has got to go.”
“Am I wrong?”
“Which is even more irritating. No, you’re not wrong.” She flicked his forehead with her finger. “But you should be.”
“So what do you want to do here?” He rubbed the spot on his forehead where her flick landed.
“I feel like I’m betraying myself by even considering this princess gig.”
“Wait here, please. I’ll be right back.” Tanner strode out of the cubbyhole room an
d down the hall.
“Sure, fine, whatever.” Reggie propped her head against the wall. If this decision wrecked her, how was she going to act as proper Head of State?
She was doomed. Hessenberg was doomed.
“Regina?” She gazed toward the door. Tanner entered with a tall hello! gorgeous blonde with summer-sky blue eyes. “This is Susanna Truitt, King Nathaniel’s fiancée. Susanna, Regina Beswick, Princess of Hessenberg.”
“Lovely to meet you.” Susanna smiled and curtseyed.
“You too.” Reggie curtseyed back.
“You don’t curtsey to Susanna, Reg . . . oh, never mind.” Tanner checked with Susanna. “Bring her down when she’s ready?”
“I will. You tell those blokes to be patient, hear me?” Her sweet Southern voice filled the small space, and Reggie scooped Susanna up in a giant hug.
“Oh, thank you, thank you. It’s so good to hear your voice, the sound of home.”
“Oh, the sweet sound of the South.” Susanna returned Reggie’s hug, her gentle laughter soothing the edge from Reggie’s tension.
“How do you do it?” Reggie released Susanna and leaned against the wall. “Leave it all behind?”
“In my case, falling in love helped.” Susanna folded her arms and joined Reggie against the wall. She wore a rich, royal blue dress with a V-neck and long sleeves. “I had months between meeting Nathaniel and getting engaged. By the time he proposed, I missed him so much I’d have lived on a desert island if he’d have asked. Besides, being the wife of the king doesn’t have the same pressure as being the heir, Regina. Can I call you Regina?”
“Are you kidding? Regina, Reggie, Reg . . . shoot, I’d answer to ‘Yo, Bubba’ about now.” Reggie laughed, exhaling into Susanna’s calming presence. “So you fell in love. With a prince.”
“And they say it only happens in fairy tales.”
“Are you adjusting to royal life?”
“I am. Little by little. The people are lovely and welcoming, though I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to the photographers.”
