Royal Treatment (Royal Scandal Book 3)

by Parker Swift

  “Ew. Stop being vile. I don’t want to hear about it.”

  “I didn’t say anything!” I protested.

  “You did. You think I don’t know that look, Miss Lydia Bell? You shall not ever allude to my brother’s…my brother’s…well, I can’t even say it.”

  “Fine,” I huffed out between chuckles, “but then no more wedding talk.”

  “You,” she started firmly—you could really imagine Emily commanding a room someday, she was so no nonsense sometimes—“are evil. And I’m questioning this entire enterprise,” she said. “Now. Let’s get some coffee, shall we? And for lord’s sake, let’s change the subject. How’s the store going?” she asked as we walked into the cafe.

  She was referring to the store I helped open for Hannah Rogan, an up-and-coming fashion designer. It was her first brick-and-mortar store, a flagship in Mayfair, and it was my idea. In what felt like a crazy how-am-I-so-lucky-to-get-my-dream-job kind of moment, we’d gotten the investors on board and gone to work. We’d rushed the launch—something that was only possible with the help of Dylan’s contacts in the design world—in order to open before Christmas, which meant we were past the “new store” phase, settling into being part of the couture London shopping scene, and I was finally getting over the feeling of not believing it was really happening.

  “Well,” I said. “I mean, I think it’s going well. We’re moving merchandise, and the press has been decent—”

  “Decent?” Emily asked skeptically, eyebrow fully raised. “I’d say a full-page full-on crush piece in the Sunday Times is a bit more than ‘decent.’” Emily had been incredibly supportive, bringing in her posh posse of school friends and talking up the store. And as one of London’s “It Girls,” her opinion mattered. “Also the fact that she is sending you to New York to open a pop-up store is a solid indicator that Hannah thinks you’re doing well. When is that happening again?”

  “First week of May—wow, next week actually.” Hannah and I had been planning the pop-up store for months. I’d be gone for a month, preparing the store, launching it, and breaking it down. The goal was to showcase her spring line as well as some resort wear for summer. It’d been my idea—part of my big “say yes to everything, go after things I want, enjoy pre-duchess life” plan. “I can’t believe it’s coming up so soon—we’ve already shipped the merchandise. Your brother would obviously prefer I not go, or I’m certain he’d come with me if he weren’t so busy. He’s convinced I’ll get mugged or lost or who knows what, As though I didn’t manage to live my life perfectly safely before he came around.”

  “What? My brother is being overprotective? Impossible!” We both laughed—if anyone knew Dylan’s protective side as well as I did, it would be his little sister. “I will say you’ve made him far more reasonable. At least he has the good sense to say, ‘I know you won’t listen to me,’ before he tells me not to take the Tube at night or tries to interfere in my dating life. Thank you for that.”

  “Yeah, poor guy. He knows I’ll give him the death glare if he goes too far. I’m half tempted to walk around bad neighborhoods at three in the morning just to drive him crazy.” Emily looked at me mischievously as though she wished I really would—she had the terrorizing look of one sibling out to torture another, which always made me laugh. “Anyway, I’m hoping that announcing the New York pop-up might even drum up business here.”

  “You know what would ensure a steady stream of customers for the foreseeable future, don’t you?” she asked, and I prepared to take mental notes. “For the director of sales to be involved in a stylish and fabulous wedding-of-the-century to her famous boyfriend,” she finished, smiling in victory.

  I couldn’t help smile through my sigh. “You never give up, do you?”

  “Never,” she replied, and we leaned on the counter in the window of the cafe, chatting. And she was right. I knew much of the press attention we’d gotten so far, any puff pieces about the launch, had something to do with the fact that I was linked with the Dylan Hale, the preternaturally gifted architect, the rock-my-world-attractive 17th Duke of Abingdon, and irresistible former bad boy.

  Chapter 4

  Dylan

  Lydia had spent the morning before work with my sister, but I’d spent it dealing with the last of the legal proceedings against Tristan Bailey.

  The case was pretty open and shut—I mean the arse had confessed in front of three witnesses. He had cyberstalked and harassed Lydia for a month, taking and recording private, personal photos and videos, threatening her, scaring her, all in an attempt to dismantle our relationship, fuck with me, and ultimately expose me. Had his stunt succeeded, the company that had been in my family for three generations, Hale Shipping, likely would have gone to him. And because of the unfortunate deal my father had made with the Bresnovs, the Russian criminals who had bailed the company out, Tristan could have walked away with my estate, Humboldt Park, as well. The whole disaster had been thwarted, thank god, but even after Tristan was behind bars, there was still plenty to sift through, plenty of damage to undo.

  I’d spent lunch with Jack Bickford, the MI6 agent I’d been working with on the Bresnov case, who was also a mate from my Cambridge. In reality, if it weren’t for Jack’s involvement, I probably wouldn’t have even listened to the mad plan the agency had up its sleeve. After that lunch, I’d found my way to Will, at the restaurant. I’d needed, wanted, to run the entire situation by my best friend, make sure I wasn’t completely mad to be even considering what I was considering.

  “Am I completely mad for even considering this?” I asked him, taking a sip of an amarone he was thinking of adding to the wine list. We were sitting at one of the rear tables, away from the bustle of the chefs at work in his kitchen.

  “Take me through it again.” Will leaned back, patient.

  “Well, the goal is get to this guy, King. Russian, ruthless, and so far, the highest-ranking identifiable member of Eastern European organized crime. He’s been untouchable for over a decade and essentially, from what anyone can discern, the boss. Six different human-trafficking rings are associated with this fucker—”

  “Christ.” Will rubbed his forehead, as disgusted with the concept as I was.

  “Right, so according to Jack, the problem isn’t evidence, it’s actually getting their hands on the fucker—they’ve been trying for a decade with no luck. There’s a chance their man, an undercover agent who’s been on the ground in Moscow for over a year, will get close enough to isolate him. If that works, I’m off the hook.” While Will had been becoming a restaurateur, and I’d been building my firm, our friend Jack had managed to work his way into the upper echelons of Britain’s foreign secret intelligence service.

  “Got it. We’re hoping for Moscow Man to succeed.” Will took a sip of the wine and made a disapproving face.

  “Yes, well, I have a feeling if that were a real option, Jack wouldn’t be talking to me, and yet here we are. Their backup plan, so to speak, is to get at King through the Bresnovs, who have climbed the ranks in recent years and apparently have rather reliable access to him. And to get to the Bresnovs, they use me. From what I understand, I am the only uncompromised asset with direct contact with these people, thanks to good old Dad.”

  “So how would this all work?” Will looked partially alarmed and partially skeptical that any of this was real, which mirrored how I felt exactly.

  “Essentially, when they get word that King will be in London, I’d approach the Bresnovs and offer a deal good enough that they’d want to include King in the negotiations. I’d say I’d need to meet King directly—apparently Moscow Man is confident all this can be done. I meet with King, then Jack and some other agents follow me, intervene before anything foul happens, and all is well.”

  Will was looking at me as though I were definitely a touch mad for considering this. “And then you’re in the clear. With King apprehended, MI6 would have no use for the Bresnovs anymore—they would swiftly be taken into custody. You’ll be able
to remove Humboldt from Hale Shipping’s assets without any risk of the Bresnovs trying to retaliate, and you finally get the company back in order and get out of the goddamn shipping business. Easy peasy.” He wiped his hands back and forth, mocking the idea that wrapping up this insanely complicated situation would be at all easy.

  I rolled my eyes at him. “That is the idea, yes. They have plenty of evidence against the Bresnovs—needing them as bait I’m afraid is the only reason they haven’t been taken in. And if I were to make any moves on putting Humboldt back in my name, it would alert the Bresnovs that I am no longer willing to play ball with them, alert them to my involvement, and presumably put this whole plan at risk. So, according to Jack, the agency is hoping that I continue to sit tight and play nice with these Russian arses until this is done.” I finished the glass of wine and went to work on some pork-belly-related appetizer Will had made. God, he was a good chef.

  “Crikey. Does Lydia know about this?” Will leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. I nodded. “Is she all right with it?”

  I sighed, exhaling deeply. I knew the plan made Lydia nervous. Every emerging detail added to the feeling of risk. “She is.” I sighed again—I hated thinking about the fact that Lydia would be affected by this. “She knows I need to do this. But I also know she’d prefer I not be involved. She doesn’t want me to know she’s nervous about it, but I can tell she is, of course. I mean, Christ, every time I think of the massive amount of utter crap I have going on in my life, it’s utterly clear that it’s a full-on miracle she’s agreed to marry me at all.”

  “Well, that’s true. She’s measurably superior to your sad arse.” Will took another swig of his wine. “Look, mate, I’m not sure you have much of a choice. You could refuse, of course, but it honestly seems like the fastest route to having this all sorted. And it’s Jack, right? I’ll concede that it sounds exceedingly idiotic, even for you, but I can’t imagine that Jack would ask you to do this if there were a real risk.”

  I nodded. “And according to him and his team, after this there won’t be much left of this branch of organized crime once King is out, and those that are left will be rather relieved he’s gone. The agency will provide some cover, deny my involvement, obviously. So after the actual event, the risk of retaliation is minimal.” Even just saying it out loud I felt satisfied, albeit no less apprehensive. I could do what they needed me to do. And I would. But there wasn’t a moment I thought about it that I didn’t resent the fuck out of my father for leaving me in this position. “Thanks, mate.” I ran my hand through my hair—this whole plan would have been fine before Lydia was in the picture, before it felt like I had anything to lose.

  We spent another hour talking about the restaurant and a new sous chef he was hiring. We chatted about a redesign he was thinking about for his house in Camden, and whether I thought he could accomplish an addition. And eventually we made our way to the kitchen, where in spite of my protests, Will insisted on trying to teach me how to make something involving braised rabbit and polenta.

  * * *

  On my way home I sent Lydia a quick text to see if she was close. After my day I wanted to lose myself in her, completely.

  TUESDAY, 6:15 pm

  Home soon, damsel? I’ve got something in mind that I’d like to do to that pussy of yours.

  TUESDAY, 6:16 pm

  How am I supposed to keep working when you say things like that?!

  TUESDAY, 6:16 pm

  Now you’re getting the idea.

  This. This is what I needed—just texting with Lydia already had my shoulders unwinding.

  TUESDAY, 6:16 pm

  Sadly (for me), I’ll be home late tonight I think.

  TUESDAY, 6:17 pm

  Be good then, baby, and later I’ll show you what I had planned.

  TUESDAY, 6:17 pm

  Always talking such a big game, Hale.

  I didn’t have a chance to reply, when my phone rang.

  My goddamn mother.

  The woman had been perpetually absent, grieving in absentia, floating between Cannes, Paris, and occasionally Italy with friends, generally avoiding her new reality: a dowager duchess. We’d speak for a few minutes a week about Humboldt, but otherwise in classic fashion we were staunchly avoiding the issues running beneath our conversations as of late. We were grieving in parallel, dealing with life without my father in our own ways. Lydia encouraged me to be patient with her, reminded me she’d just lost her husband, but fucking hell, the woman was so self-absorbed it was shocking she remembered she had a son at all.

  “Hello, Mum,” I said, trying to disguise the disappointment I had at the interruption.

  “Are you alone?” Her subtext was clear—Is Lydia there? My mother knew Lydia lived with me. Knew without having asked, never having confirmed, and never once inquiring about our relationship. However, I was certain she still had no idea I’d asked Lydia to marry me. Finding out that Lydia would be the next Duchess of Abingdon was going to ignite a fight I wasn’t looking forward to. The fight would of course be worth it—I didn’t give a shite what my mother thought. But Lydia wanted us a secret, as much as it killed me, and I didn’t trust my mother not to use that secret against us, against me, as soon as she knew.

  “Yes, Mum, Lydia’s at work. What can I do for you? How’s Cannes?”

  “Crowded. I called to talk to you about Humboldt.” No she didn’t. “But now that I have you, I also wanted to ask you about Prince Arthur’s party on Thursday—” Ah, there it was. The queen’s husband’s annual charity event was two days away, and obviously my mother saw it not as a philanthropic affair but as a way to further her bloody agenda. It was a command performance—I was duke, and I’d be there. My mother knew that.

  “What about it, Mother?”

  “You’re not going alone, are you? It’s getting a bit ridiculous, snubbing people the way you have been.”

  “Mother, I’m not taking anyone to the party, and not inviting women to things for meaningless dates could hardly be described as snubbing them.”

  “Dylan, you can’t afford to continue on this way.”

  “What are you saying, Mother?” It was truly astounding how quickly conversations with this woman devolved into something unpleasant. Either that or I’d just honed my ability to cut through her crap.

  “Dylan, don’t be coy. You know as well as I do that it would be wise to think about the future, that this party might be an appropriate occasion to bring a companion with you, an appropriate companion. I know we all have our way of grieving, Dylan, but it’s time you take things more seriously. It’s time you tie up loose ends, wrap up this thing you’re doing and—” Fucking Christ.

  “Let me stop you, Mother, before this gets any more unpleasant. And let me remind you that Lydia and I—”

  “Dylan—”

  “Fucking hell—” I was practically shouting. We were speaking over each other—our mutual frustration the only clear signal. She was going on about me inviting someone or another, but I’d stopped listening.

  “Mother!” I said the word loudly and clearly enough to stop her in her tracks. “We’ll speak when you get back about the changes at Humboldt. Safe travels.”

  Hanging up on my mother was not something that came easily—I’d worked for years to learn to do it without flinching. But at this point, the skill was well honed, and I did it without a second thought.

  She had never been so blatant about Lydia before. The day had just gone from shite to a fucking rageful disaster.

  * * *

  It was nearly nine when I heard the telltale sounds of Lloyd pulling the Jaguar into the garage and the car doors closing announcing Lydia’s arrival home. She’d have anyone believe she was carefree about her work, but I saw the way she snuck in extra hours, got up early, sent emails from her phone while she dressed for work. She was a tigress, determined, and it was fucking sexy.

  Of course she’d said she’d take the Tube home, but I’d sent Lloyd. It had nothing to d
o with keeping her safe, or not entirely. I had actually gotten better about tamping down my overprotective tendencies. No, I simply wanted her back in my bloody arms as soon as was humanly possible.

  And there she was in the doorway to my study not a moment later. Her long legs in one of her deliciously trim little pencil skirts, the kind that hugged her ass in a way that bloody well undid me. Blue high heels that most girls wouldn’t dare think of. Some kind of floaty blouse with animals on it—the woman was a savvy wildcat dressed as a sweet innocent.

  And she looked tired—her hair falling across her shoulder, resting on the top of her breast, looked like at some point in the day it had been in a bun. She’d pulled the pins out, and now I needed to do the same with the rest of her body, still wound tightly from her day.

  “Get over here,” I said, patting my lap. She snickered one of her cheeky laughs and rolled her eyes, but she still kicked off her shoes and came to me—I fucking loved that she came to me. Nothing in the world felt better than being able to touch this woman when I wanted to, the privilege of getting to end my days with my skin on hers.

  She crawled onto me, her petite frame fitting perfectly over mine, and nestled her face into the crook of my neck. Fuck, just the feel of her warmth calmed me down. The floral smell of her, the subtle feel of her eyelashes fluttering against my neck. She was a like a goddamn Xanax, the way she relaxed me. Her body shifted with my exhales.

  “Hi,” she said softly, and she turned to unbutton my shirt, starting at the collar and loosening my tie.

  “Damsel,” I whispered firmly, ready to take her, ready to command her. I took her earlobe between my teeth. I wanted to forget about my mother completely. I was mortified by my her snobbery, hated that she was so predictably horrible. I leaned in to start kissing Lydia’s soft neck, but then I noticed she’d stopped her unbuttoning.