Chapter Eleven
The apartment on the Via Gionovia wasn’t as isolated as Mother’s Tuscan villa, nor was it as anonymous as my Varenna house, but hopefully it would serve, for a few nights at least.
As exhausting as the trip from Florence had been, I would not let myself collapse in a heap and sleep, like I had when I escaped to Mother’s last hidey-hole. First, I had to make sure all measures were taken to…secure the perimeter.
No, I did not know what the hell I was doing. I was an exiled princess, not a security expert, but I forced myself to go through the apartment and ensure all the doors were locked. All the windows were shut tight. All the security systems were set appropriately. Or not set. Or at least not silently triggered, bringing down a small army in the middle of the night.
This lavish apartment had been where I’d lived for over a year when I studied in Rome. Back then, I still had guards, but they’d taken a smaller apartment on the floor below. It was a risk for me to come back here, but a measured one. After all, it had been seven years since I’d left Rome and, besides my mother, there was little chance that any other member of the family had spent a significant amount of time here.
As I walked through the apartment’s halls, I stared up at the paintings that hung around me. Since I’d been an art history student when I’d lived in Rome, I’d taken time to go through this collection, here.
The Rome apartment was part of my mother’s portfolio, but it was not one of the properties that she’d acquired during her marriage to my father, Prince Albert of Drieden. No, she’d received the apartment as part of her Sevine inheritance.
Let me explain. Although I was born royal through my father’s line, my mother’s family was, if not royal, almost equally distinguished, and extremely wealthy. The Sevines of Drieden had been merchants involved in shipping goods throughout Europe and the Far East. Reportedly, the king at the time wished to ensure that such wealth stayed in Drieden. Thus, the Sevines received titles in the early seventeenth century, and for four hundred years their fortunes were permanently intertwined with the Royal House of Laurent…until my mother, Felice, divorced the heir to the throne.
Thus, the Roman apartment was decorated with lesser European artists and Sevine family acquisitions over the centuries. Some of them felt like old friends, as I had given them names when I lived here. There was “Franco, the Duke of Snooty.” And there was the Loose-Lipped Lady of Lalique. My sister Thea would probably know if there were historical figures of note in the paintings. Me, I just saw color, texture and composition.
When I was sure that no one could enter the apartment without my knowledge, I retreated to the relaxing pale-apricot bedroom I had used years before. The wide bed beckoned me, with its taupe upholstered headboard and thick satin draperies that hung from the canopy. But before I allowed myself to swan-dive into those luxurious linens, I took a small tablet out of my bag.
If I had been careful with locking the doors and windows of the apartment, I was similarly cautious with connecting to the internet here, using software that would protect my location and search history. When my parents divorced, I had learned too much about the capabilities of third parties to access presumably private information.
I yawned. Just a quick check of my accounts and I’d feel comfortable enough to sleep.
My finances were secure. No one had accessed those, thankfully. The only email account I had used since Stavros’s death was the one for the Varenna rental account, but I wanted to make sure there hadn’t been another last-minute registration.
Sure enough, there was one new email. I clicked.
I reread the email four, five times before the shivering started. A million questions zoomed around my head, like cars on a race track. Who was this from? For a brief moment, I thought it was from Konnor. An apology from him made me briefly warm and emotional but, re-reading it, I knew the language wasn’t right. Hugh Konnor didn’t use words like “exquisite” and “inexcusable,” and he’d certainly never apologize for leaving me.
The truth crept up on me like the slow, cold tide of the Northern coast of my homeland. Only one person would have used my full name on this account. Only one person.
One person who once had the title of Duke of Steading. Before he faked his death.
Christian Fraser-Campbell. And he… I pulled my knees up tight to my chest as I reread the line again: Signore Rossi says he hopes to see you again.
Was it a threat? Or more empty pleasantries? Or…
My fingers itched for a telephone. But who would I call now?
The palace.
That answer came far too quickly. The memory of that line of pale, stern palace security at the train station sent another shiver down my spine. Once I called and made the request that they go check on the Rossis, then I might as well just book a first-class ticket back to Drieden.
Who else?
The Varenna police.
Yes. Of course. I could place a quick, anonymous call. My Italian was nearly perfect; no one would connect the former Princess Caroline of Drieden with a concerned neighbor who simply wanted to ensure that Elena and Signore Rossi were fine.
The telephone in the kitchen had a different line from the rest of the residence, I remembered. Perhaps it would be an extra shield of anonymity, I reasoned as I hurried out of the bedroom and down the hall.
I referred to my tablet for the number of the Varenna polizia before lifting the old-fashioned receiver from the wall-mounted telephone and punching the digits in. One ring, two rings, a women’s voice answered.
“Buona sera,” I said, right before a man’s hand reached out from the dark and hung up the receiver.
I screamed.
“Your Highness.”
I swung around and punched Hugh Konnor right in the nose.
“Stop doing that!”
I flung the phone at his chest for good measure but, since it was attached to the receiver with a cord, it sort of boomeranged back and clunked against the wall.
But it was oh so satisfying when Konnor reached up to his nose with a scowl.
“Get out!” I yelled. Then I changed my mind. “How did you get in?”
“A key,” he growled, still rubbing his face.
“Always with the keys. I’m telling my mother.” I paused. I knew how that sounded. But still, my mother needed to know she had given way too many keys to her houses to way too many men. Although…knowing my mother, it wasn’t exactly surprising.
I mean, I was here. And I, too, had used a spare key.
Konnor still sounded miffed when he said, “This property belongs to a former future queen. The manager responds well to a palace identification. Especially when it’s for the security of an heir to the throne.”
“I’m not—”
“Yes, I’m clear on who you are not,” Konnor said grumpily.
“I’m not clear on why you’re here. When I’ve explicitly told you I don’t want you around me!” My voice rose substantially, possibly into the screeching area of volume. But me playing coy and femme fatale and bratty princess hadn’t convinced him that I was serious, so now he was getting the real Caroline. The one who wasn’t afraid to sound like a fishmonger’s wife.
“You’re Princess Caroline of Drieden! You don’t get to choose that!” He actually pointed a finger at me. Like I was a naughty schoolgirl. Pointing fingers made my blood boil.
“I do!” I threw my arms out. “Or I did, before you came along and ruined everything!”
“Your Highness.” He used the title with gritted teeth. Apparently, he was now going to be stubborn about that as well. “Your life is in danger and I took an oath to protect you, no matter if you throw a tantrum or not!”
“So you’re just following me around now? What happened to your search for Christian, then? Wasn’t that your raison d’être? What happened to that?”
Konnor’s jaw worked. “I’ll resume it when you’re safe.”
“When I’m safe?” I laughed bitterly. “When I’m locked away on some distant royal estate? I’m not good enough for the palace, remember. But I’m sure Big Gran and Father would love to send me away. Like to Perpetua, where they sent Thea—when she’d done nothing wrong, except pick a jackass fiancé.”
A curious expression flashed across Konnor’s face when I brought up that cold island, but it dissipated when I decided I had more to say. “Besides, it’s not me that I’m worried about.” I pointed at the dead telephone in frustration. “I was trying to check in on my neighbors in Varenna.”
“Why? What happened?” Konnor focused on me like he was a shark and I was bloody chum.
Oh, right. I might have not thought through this bit as carefully as I should have. But that’s what happens when bullying palace bodyguards busted into my not-so-secret getaway spot.
“It’s nothing.” I tried to brush him aside, but he was quicker than I’d expected a man of his size to be. His hand shot out and immediately latched around my wrist. Pulled me closer, as he looked me over for, I don’t know, obvious signs of violence or infection.
“What. Happened.”
I may be stubborn, but the specter of Signore Rossi’s kind face got the better of me. I got an email, about the apartment, there was something in it about my neighbor, Signore Rossi, and…” I met his eyes and knew if I didn’t tell him the truth, he’d find it eventually, even if that meant he barged into the headquarters of my email service provider, flashed his stupid identification badge and received access to my messages.
“If I show you, do you promise to call Varenna police for me?” I asked, hoping that at least my immediate concerns for Signore Rossi would be addressed.
Needless to say, that question did not erase the ferocity on Konnor’s face, which deepened once I showed him the email. Thankfully, he immediately whipped out his cell phone and placed a call to the Varenna police, handing it over to me only when I waved demandingly and started shouting Italian into his ear.
The receptionist promised to have an officer check in with the Rossis and, after hanging up, Konnor pulled the tablet back to his lap and studied the email.
“Steading?” he asked.
“Christian’s ducal title,” I reminded him.
“He’s using it as a message.”
“To me?” Well, sure, I guess. It was in an email to me.
But Konnor dismissed that. “No. To your sister’s new chief of security.”
That was strange. “I thought you were assigned to her.”
Konnor was clicking through my emails. “I am,” he said. “But so is he.”
“Who is he?”
“When you go back to Drieden you’ll meet him.”
Ha. “Nice try. I’m not going back.”
He closed my tablet and looked up at me. “This isn’t a joke. For some reason, Christian is coming after you. This matter he wishes to discuss—”
I needed to steer him away from that. “Could be a simple discussion. Perhaps he thinks I’ll be able to smooth things over with Thea.” It wasn’t too strange an idea. Everyone in the family thought of me as a peacekeeper. Someone who could be counted on to mediate both sides in rough times. Even Mother had leaned on me after the divorce, using me to talk to Father, to Sophie’s tutors, even to Big Gran’s advisors, on her behalf. I had been exceptionally good at all these tasks, since I was the only daughter to be rewarded with the keys and codes to Mother’s extensive network of hidey-holes.
Which, unfortunately, had been infiltrated by an annoyingly persistent Hugh Konnor. Bastard.
“He’s threatened your neighbor. Hopefully, that’s all he’s done. But Caroline, you have to believe me, he’s capable of much worse. And until you’re safe, I can’t stop him.”
“That sounds like a personal problem, Hugh.” For some reason, I emphasized his first name, as it was not lost on me that he deigned to call me Caroline whenever he wanted to convince me to do what he wanted. “And honestly, it seems like you don’t know how to catch up with Christian anyway. You’ve been chasing him for six months and didn’t get close enough until he surfaced, ostensibly, to meet up with me.”
Konnor seemed to shrug that off, like the stubborn man he was, but a tiny flame of an idea had sparked in my brain.
No. I couldn’t.
You can.
There was no way.
But there is.
Okay, then. Here went nothing.
“In fact, you know what? I have an idea that will help you achieve your goals—both catching Christian Fraser-Campbell and keeping me safe.”
He couldn’t help but look curious. Because what I was offering was irresistible to a man like him.
“What is your idea?” he asked reluctantly.
“I’ll email Christian back. And set up a meeting.”