by Rachel Hauck
“What do you think they’re singing?” he said. “The bells?”
She peered into his deep brown eyes. “I’m not sure, but in my head I hear, ‘Glory to God in the highest. Peace on earth, goodwill to men.’ ”
Clive inclined his ear. Was there a soft mist in his eyes? “ ‘Glory to God . . . peace on earth . . . goodwill to men.’ ”
“Such a beautiful, powerful sound.” One that reminded her she had a secret.
“I know it’s late, love. As I said, I’ve this thing tonight, Children’s Literacy Foundation Art Auction at Royal Galaxy Hall. Would you care to go? You do owe me a dinner.” Clive splashed Corina with his smarmy Hollywood smile.
“I don’t know.” She patted her messenger bag. “I should get these notes organized.” Besides, Stephen would be there. According to the LibP.
“Pffftt.” He waved her off. “Let them simmer. I find things are more clear when I leave them be.” He stood, reaching for her arm. “Come, I need a date tonight or I’ll be mobbed. A beautiful lass is the best deterrent. Besides, you can dispel the rumors. Tomorrow the headlines will be ‘Is She the Prince’s Girl or Clive Boston’s?’ ”
“Very droll, but I’m not interested in any more headlines.”
“Do you protest because your prince is the foundation’s patron?” Clive folded his arms and leaned against the ornate iron pole holding up the awning.
“Clive,” Corina said with a punctuated sigh, “I think you have a thing for the prince yourself.”
His hearty laugh garnered the attention of those around them. The whispers started. Clive Boston. “It’s just I know what I see.” He tapped the corner of his eye. “I see love.”
“You see nothing,” Corina said, standing, slipping her iPad into the messenger bag.
“There are none so blind as those who will not see.”
“Whatever, Clive.” Blind or not, he’d managed to circle the conversation back around to the beginning. Speculation about Stephen. The truth? She wanted to see him. Save for the annulment papers, last night’s hasty good-bye in the amber lights of the Manor might have been their last.
“Come, I’ll drive you home.” Clive roped his arm around her, steering her away from the café toward a private car park. “I promise to be a perfect gentleman.”
“In the car or at the auction?”
He squeezed her shoulder. “Then you’ll go?” He clapped his hand over his heart. “Be still. I may never recover.”
“As a friend.” I am a married woman.
“But of course.”
Clive drove a Lamborghini, which had more horsepower than the Cathedral City streets could contain. Corina gripped the door handle as the actor gunned the gas, then eased off, then gunned it again to the rhythm of a blaring Steven Tyler song.
“Which hotel, love?” he said. “The Wellington or Royal Astor?”
“Neither. I’m at this quaint inn called the Manor between Gliden and Martings.”
“The Manor? Why aren’t you at The Wellington? Or the Astor?”
“The Wellington was booked. I never made it to the Astor.”
His expression said he didn’t believe her, but he zipped on through traffic, jerking the wheel of the Lamborghini as he changed lanes, belting out “Walk This Way” an octave higher than Steven Tyler.
When he turned down Market Avenue, he cut across two lanes to a flurry of car and lorry horns, careened around the corner to Crescent, and crashed-stopped on the curb by Gliden. He leaned to see out her window. “Where did you say you were staying?”
“There.” She rapped her window, pointing out the small, thick-beam structure. “The Manor.”
Clive turned down the music, squinting. “Corina, sweetheart, I see nothing between Gliden and Martings but a narrow, old alley.”
“Where are you looking? It’s right there.” She powered down her window and pointed. “It’s small but you can’t miss it. See the light in the window?”
He jerked back into his seat, revving the engine. “If you don’t want me to know where you’re staying, lass, just say so. But making up a place? Tsk, tsk, I thought more of you. After all we meant to each other this afternoon.”
“Clive, I’m not making it up.” She brushed her hand over the chills skirting down her arm. “Watch, I’ll get out and go inside.”
“You’re going to go inside? Of what?” He motioned with his palm up. “An alley between two department stores? Love, if you need a place to stay, I’ve a spare room.” He surrendered both hands as if warding off her protest. “Strictly platonic. At least for the first night.” He winked. “The guest rooms are on the other side of the house.”
Corina glanced toward the Manor’s front window where she could see Brill sweeping the lobby. “You really don’t see it?”
“Lamb, I do not and I’m a bit concerned if you do.”
Corina popped her door open and slipped the strap of her bag over her shoulder. “See you tonight? I’ll hire a cab. Meet you there?”
“Corina, darling, I can’t leave you by a curb. What will the prince say if anything happens to you?”
“Thanks for the ride, Clive.” She slammed the car door and turned for the Manor as he sped off. If she’d not spent the last four hours with him, she’d believe he was pulling her leg with this no-Manor manner. But he’d been somber and sincere all afternoon once he’d settled down, letting his heart open, becoming her friend.
So, if he didn’t see the inn, then how did Stephen? What about Thomas? A shiver descended on her thoughts.
What’s going on?
Adelaide’s piquant face appeared at the door. “You coming in? Supper’s on soon.”
“Y–yeah, sure.” Corina glanced back at Clive’s car, the red taillights disappearing, and crossed the threshold of the Manor.
TWENTY-ONE
The curved steel of Royal Galaxy Hall, designed to look like a spacecraft, embraced Corina as she walked through the doors.
The futuristic structure cast a cold blue glow over the five-hundred-year-old streets, over the ancient thatched roofs that still existed in the historical district of Cathedral City.
Corina snapped pictures with her phone, musing about the significance of architecture. How it represented where a people had been while speaking of where they are going.
Circulating through the showroom, the music thumping and bumping, she searched the guests for Clive. He’d texted, asking her to meet him by the children’s finger painting display. But she was fine with viewing the gallery on her own for a few minutes. She might even buy a piece. The Children’s Literacy Foundation was a worthy cause and she’d always wanted to collect art.
Cathedral City had been home to some of the world’s most beloved renaissance artists. History credited them with moving Brighton out of the Dark Ages toward enlightenment.
At the children’s display, Corina loved the finger paintings. Such creativity. Especially the one of Jesus with a giant S on his chest. Maybe that one was coming home with her.
Around the wall to a display of acrylic by thirteen- to fifteen-year-olds, Corina ran into a group of men in tuxedos. Clive?
But he was not among them.
That’s when she saw the Pissarro, one of the Impressionist paintings up for auction. Oh my, it was the “Rue du Roi—Avenue of the Kings.”
Her heart filled with memories as she moved closer to inspect the piece. God, what am I to do with this?
The historical scene of the Avenue of the Kings from the top of the Braithwaite Tower, with the horses and carriages standing in the gaslights after a cleansing rain, was magical. Glorious. The view Stephen and Corina experienced the night he proposed. And it was to be auctioned.
“Extraordinary piece, isn’t it? Eighteen ninety-eight.” A woman wearing a Children’s Literacy Foundation badge joined Corina. “We are blessed to have it. The piece was lost for the last five and a half years.”
“Lost?”
“Construction workers found it in an old ware
house on the north side of the city. No one knows how it got there. We believe it belonged to a private collector, but we can’t find the records. Can you imagine? The workmen brought it to us, suggesting we auction it tonight on behalf of the foundation. We will find a permanent home for this beautiful piece.”
“This is my favorite view in the whole city,” Corina said.
“Mine as well. My husband proposed to me on the Braithwaite.” The woman sighed. “Do be sure to register if you haven’t already. The auction starts in thirty minutes.”
“Thank you.” Corina watched the woman until the crowd folded in behind her, then turned back to the painting.
The woman’s husband proposed to her on the Braithwaite? The painting was lost for five and a half years? It was too much. Too much. Was she to consider these signs or mere coincidence? Everything around her pointed to Stephen.
But he’s not looking, God.
Flushed and trembling, awash with sentiment, she missed him. Missed Carlos. Even that crazy Diamatia that became her wedding gown.
“This is my favorite place in the whole world,” she said as he slipped his arms around her waist.
“Will you miss me?” He set his finger under her chin and raised her face to his, bending for a kiss. He looked resplendent in his dress uniform, a gold royal braid across his chest.
“With every fiber of my being.”
Holding her, he leaned against the twisted wrought iron railing that hemmed in the Braithwaite terrace, and they gazed into the glittering Rue du Roi.
“So beautiful.”
“This is Cathedral City.”
The bells chimed. Nine times. She rested her head against his chest, listening to his heart beat in time with the bells. How could she be so very happy yet so very sad?
“The Pissarro.” Stephen’s voice floated over her shoulder. “One of my favorites.”
Corina turned to find him standing several feet behind her, surrounded by somber-faced auction types—a woman in a long white gown that washed out her pale complexion and a set of tuxedoed men.
Their eyes met, but for such a brief moment she wasn’t sure he saw her. She started to address him, but the group moved, Stephen with them, without a word or glance toward Corina.
Thomas trailed behind, giving her a sweet nod hello.
She smiled, but barely, inhaling the truth. Stephen would never truly acknowledge her in public. Why should he? They were over.
“Don’t give up, love.” Clive leaned against the display wall, his face lit up with a cheeky grin.
“There you are. Where have you been?”
“Seriously, Corina, back alley drunks are more aware of what’s going on than you.”
“Don’t start with this Prince Stephen business again.”
He laughed and joined her, facing the painting. “We’d make a good couple, you and me. A power duo.”
Corina regarded him for a moment, assessing his vulnerability. He’d confessed during their interview that he’d given up on love after an intense Oxford-years heartbreak.
“Clive, you rapscallion.” Corina manufactured a solid, jovial laugh. “You’re just dying to add me to your string of brokenhearted babes, aren’t you?”
He collected himself, the light changing in his eyes. “You found me out, sly lass. But it was worth a try. I’ve no American heiress in my stable.” He kissed her cheek, whispering in her ear. “But if you change your mind . . .”
Corina squeezed his hand. “You’ll be the first to know.”
“If you’ll pardon me, I’ll see what other beauties are about. Shall we catch up later, have an appetizer or two and call it dinner. You are supposed to be my date.”
“Say nine o’clock?”
“Perfect.”
Oh Clive. No wonder he hid from the press. He was hiding from himself.
“How did it go? With Clive?” This time when she turned, Corina found Stephen standing alone, his arms clasped behind his back. “Did he ask you to marry him? He’s known for spontaneous proposals that don’t go anywhere.”
“At least he’s honest about it.”
Stephen scoped the area with a sly glance, then leaned toward her. “Nathaniel and Susanna are taking a few days at Parrsons House. You’re invited. If you care to come.”
“I’m invited. By the family I rudely walked out on Sunday night?”
“Don’t make us out to be insensitive clods.” Agitated, he shifted his stance, taking the weight from his booted ankle. “Do you want to come or not? Nathaniel and Susanna want to leave tomorrow.”
“Do you want me to come?” Their eyes met, but only for a moment.
“I–it might be pleasant.”
“Your confidence is killing me.”
“Hey, do you want to go or not? Never mind, I’ll come for you at eleven sharp.” He walked off into a gathering of well-dressed men and women, waiting in audience for him, cameras flashing.
Corina bit back her grin. She was spending time in the country with her husband and his family. How lovely.
Now, to register for the auction and see about acquiring a treasured Pissarro.
TWENTY-TWO
Gigi
Her nose for news itched like a flea-bitten hound. Gigi pushed away from her desk and walked toward the window, hands on her hips, watching the river lap against the embankment.
The front page of the Informant ran a grainy image of Prince Stephen at a fund-raiser last night, and don’t you just know, Corina Del Rey stood in the background.
Something was up, yet something also lurked beneath the surface.
Not to mention her boots-on-the-ground minions were failing her left and right. Not one had any intel on Corina or the prince.
Reaching for her phone, Gigi fired off a text to Corina.
ART AUCTION? W/ PRINCE. DO TELL.
NOTHING TO TELL.
Gigi paced to the window. Twin sailboats glided down the river toward the arched causeway, cutting through shards of sunlight.
She was just going to have to be persistent. Back at her desk, she fired off an e-mail.
To: Madeline Stone
Subject: Love this recipe
Any intel on Prince Stephen and Corina Del Rey will be well worth your while.
GB
Wednesday evening, as the sun set over the country estate, Stephen bent over the makeshift boules court.
A bit of Joplin ragtime played from under the lawn tent, where Mum and Henry reclined, holding hands in the space between their chairs, listening to music and watching the game.
A breeze chugged up from the surrounding valley, cool and sweet, fragrant with the dewy, dark earth of Brighton. Caught in the current, Corina’s long, free hair billowed behind her back as she looked on, waiting for Nathaniel and Stephen to set up the court.
The drive to Parrsons from the city this morning had been pleasant, as if they’d determined without words to just be, forgetting the difficulty between them.
But being around Corina reminded him of why he adored her. She challenged his carefully carved spaces. She made him laugh. She made him want to be more, to test his boundaries, to be the man he was meant to be.
“Okay, we’re ready,” Nathaniel said with one last inspection of the court.
Susanna stepped foward, tossing the metal boule ball in her hand. “I say girls against boys.”
“Susanna,” Corina protested with a wave of her hands, “I’m horrible at this game. I couldn’t hit that little red jack-thing if I was standing over it with a hammer.”
“I’ll take my chances.” Susanna’s expression made Stephen laugh. She was so utterly American. I’ll take those odds and win anyway.
“Susanna, really, I’m horrible.”
“Sounds fair to me.” Nathaniel kicked four balls toward Stephen. “Winners earn bragging rights. Without one word of complaint from the losers.”
“You’re on, Mr. Big Stuff.” Susanna shook on the deal, giving Nathaniel’s hand a hard squeeze. “Georgia Girl
s verses Brighton Boys.”
“Wasn’t there a song about that?” Stephen said, snapping his fingers, humming, laughing.
“Not yet,” Susanna tossed him a wink. “Now, move aside men. Corina and I are going to practice. Corina, sugar, all you have to do is roll the ball to the red jack there in the middle. Feel free to knock the guys’ balls to kingdom come.”
“Susanna, really.” Corina ran her palms down the side of her shorts, nervous. “I’m horrible.”
“Corina, you’re not supposed to smack talk yourself. Come on.”
Stephen strained forward with each of Corina’s boule rolls, willing the ball toward the jack. But she was right. She wasn’t very good.
“All right,” Susanna said, popping her hands together, her voice every bit like Coach Stuart’s. “You’ll get it. Let’s practice again.”
“Enough practice. Let’s play.” Nathaniel moved to the top of the playing lane.
Stephen watched his prim and proper brother, the disciplined King Nathaniel, grinning. The man was every bit as competitive as his wife. And twice as competitive as his brother. No way did he want to lose this little lawn tourney. He bowed toward his wife. “Ladies first.”
“We’ll take it.”
Stephen captured Corina’s hand as he walked past and whispered, “You can do this.”
“If you say so.” Her response was soft against his soul, her warm gaze peaceful. “But I’m not proud. I’m willing to let Susanna carry me.”
He laughed, releasing her hand, and joined his brother. Another time, in a life undisturbed by war, this game would be Brighton princes against their princesses.
She was his wife but not his princess. An honor he’d robbed from her.
“It’s ladies against the gents, I see.” Mum walked out from under the lawn tent and joined the women. At fifty-eight, she was graceful and elegant in her linen slacks, cashmere sweater, and pearls. The Queen of Brighton, having lived with Dad for over thirty years, first as he was the crown prince, then king. After his death, Stephen wasn’t sure she’d ever laugh again. But she’d found a new joy in Henry’s love.
