Chapter Twenty-Nine
Habit made me read the newspapers the next morning, but I knew what I would find. I girded myself with strong Driedish coffee, an extra shot of farm-fresh Driedish cream- and butter-slathered brioche and began to read the sensational stories about me.
Oh, one could almost hear the heavy breathing of the so-called journalists as they all gushed and critiqued and speculated about my sudden reappearance in Drieden. So many theories were presented as facts, I almost forgot they were talking about me. After all, I sounded utterly fascinating. According to “sources,” Princess Caroline (that would be me) was recovering from a complete facelift, a stay in rehab, a monastic epiphany and had been, improbably, carrying on a months-long affair with Karl Sylvain von Falkenburg. All at the same time! It was really quite impressive of me to juggle all that at once. I should offer an on-line course—how to reach spiritual enlightenment, achieve sobriety and meet the love of your life in sixty days. Guaranteed results, no refunds.
Further, Karl and I had been having secret assignations at his country house in Devon, my estate in Botswana and, of course, my friend Ari’s yacht in Greece. I did not, as far as I knew, have a friend named Ari. Devon sounded uninspiring, but Botswana was probably lovely in February. I made a mental note to contact a local real-estate broker for more information.
It was as bad as I feared. The photos were clear and unambiguous. Me smiling at a man. My arm tucked in his. His arm circling my shoulders. To my credit, one could hardly tell that it was freezing outside when Karl and I had viewed the battle site or that I had been the dummy who had forgotten a winter coat.
And while the media was concerned with my “ability to love again,” they were similarly fascinated with Karl’s vast business holdings, his wealth and his corporations. Yes, for every mention of one of my past (and failed) relationships, there was an equal description of Karl’s biotechnology “empire” or his business “genius” of identifying genetic sciences as the next health revolution of the twenty-first century.
This, as we all know, was completely fair and balanced. /sarcasm font/
The press would have learned by now where I was staying and that Felice was here, too. Speculation would be rampant about…something. I couldn’t imagine what new rumor would be concocted next. Mother–daughter facelifts were so five years ago. Perhaps she was here to help me plan my next wedding—a beautiful affair in a garden somewhere.
And if this was in the newspapers, it was around the globe. On television, the internet. Elena and Signore Rossi and all the people in Varenna who had treated me like a normal person would all now say, “Aha! That’s who she is! I knew she reminded me of someone famous.”
And if my photo was everywhere, there was no way it wasn’t in the middle of Drieden City. At the royal palace. On Big Gran’s desk.
Yes, my grandmother the Queen kept abreast of the news herself, even if it hadn’t already been presented to her on her morning breakfast tray. I looked over the edge of The Driedener at my own room-service tray. I supposed it wasn’t the worst habit to emulate.
So.
What next?
I pulled my computer over and tapped the table idly, brainstorming a few possibilities.
Two, three, four minutes went by and I realized…my options had narrowed considerably. The number of places in the world where I could escape public scrutiny had been winnowed…again. As for my quiet journalism career as Clémence Diederich, that would be a bust unless I could research and interview in disguise.
Basically, my career options were now limited to professional fashion plate, trophy wife or reality-show judge.
Just like that, I had become my mother.
And when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, there was a very officious knock on my door. I tightened the belt on my robe, checked the peephole and saw the unmistakable stern mien of yet another palace official.
After I opened the door, I was handed a note. Written with a fountain pen on cream linen stationary, sealed with a red wax signet ring.
Okay, I’m exaggerating slightly with the red wax seal. Honestly. This is the twenty-first century. Every royal I know would use a vegan soy blend for their signet seals.
I felt a bit sick after the door closed and I was left alone with the note. Yes, I had been accompanied (for lack of a better word) by a palace bodyguard (even if he was on sabbatical) in recent days. And yes, I had seen my sister, even flown with her to a royal residence (even if it was a strange, inhospitable and useless island.) But this physical link to the palace-with-a-capital-P, to the place where I had grown up, made me queasy.
Once they start sending you notes on official stationery via stone-faced courier, the trap had been set. Zing. There went the steel teeth snapping around my ankle.
They knew where I was. Hell, everyone knew. This time, there would be no sneaking off. Not without some extensive planning and significant bribes.
I settled in, took a deep, calming breath or six and opened the envelope.
It wasn’t from my grandmother. It was from my sister.
A handwritten note.
Quaint and formal and civilized, practically delivered on a silver plate by a liveried butler from the next Queen of Drieden.
So why was it making me cry?
In the span of the last hour, I’d been detached, amused, appalled, afraid, exasperated and more.
But this simple, stupid note from my sister made me feel all the feels. It was like we were back in grade school, before we were allowed to text or email. The mention of Lucy…oh, dear Lucy. Our cousin, and Thea’s right-hand woman, who had always been around the family.
And Sophie. My heart swelled. Our youngest sister. It was so like her to immediately hear news and reach out to someone for, as Thea said, “all the gossip.” And when I had a new cell phone, she could call me, and we could laugh and share who we’d just seen out at the ballet or in Paris while shopping on holiday.
My sweet family. Imperfect they may be, they cared. They wanted me here, home, in this life with them. Even if I was a disowned, disreputable widow of a princess.
Well, maybe they wanted me. Thea still had to have a chat with Big Gran, after all.
What do you want?
My own voice chided me, echoing through my skull like the February wind that was currently whipping down the Comtesse River outside my window.
I carefully folded the note. I loved my family. I always had. Yes, even when my own grandmother decreed that I was no longer good enough to be part of the clan. I still loved the rest of them.
What do you want?
I wanted what all women want. Safety. Happiness. Love. The basics.
And those things would be impossible if anyone threatened either of my sisters again.
Whatever type of life I was going to have, it wouldn’t be possible until all dangers were met and eliminated.
Which meant I still had to ensure that Christian Fraser-Campbell was dealt with.
Those damn reporters had been damned bad luck. Grandmama and I had believed that Christian had approached me because I was safe but, now, with every photographer stalking me, it had made my goals much more difficult.
But, I realized, not impossible.
I went down the hallway and knocked on Mother’s door. After a length of time that could only be explained by the fact that she was likely still sleeping, the door opened. Sure enough, her lavender satin sleeping mask was pushed only partly back on her blonde curls, and matched the lavender and amethyst negligee she wore. “Darling, at this hour?”
“It’s nearly ten, Mother,” I said as I brushed past her into the room. “And I need your help with something.”
“Karl von Falkenburg is just a man, darling, I’m sure you know what to do with him…”
I rolled my eyes, as I was fairly certain she was joking. Mostly.
“I need to get away. For a few days. Somewhere private.”
“With Karl?”
“No,” I said firmly. “That needs to die down. I need to be alone. And I don’t have access to royal properties…”
Felice smirked. “I know just the place.”
After my mother made the arrangements, I returned to my room and withdrew Sergei’s cell phone from my handbag. Guilt flashed through me as I remembered my sister’s promise to get me a new phone to protect me from the likes of gossip reporters like Cordelia Lancaster. Little did she know…I already had a cell phone given to me by her worst enemy and, well, Cordelia Lancaster was me.
The cell phone still showed a full charge. Technology had gotten truly amazing recently. I carried it next to the window and called the only number that it had saved.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Voicemail.
I didn’t bother with a message and simply hung up.
Next, I called Astrid with Felice’s cell phone, hiding in Felice’s bathroom. It felt very cloak and dagger, but after Thea’s note about the bugged hotel lines I couldn’t trust them again. Strangely, Felice acted like people borrowed her cell phone and made calls from her bathtub everyday.
“What about your man, your bodyguard? He’s coming with you?” Astrid asked me. I told her that I hadn’t seen Hugh since he’d left me the day before, that he had been mad about me leaving the hotel with Karl without proper security.
“Not Karl Sylvain von Falkenburg?” Astrid asked.
“You haven’t heard the news, then? The press has us married and already on the outs, I believe. We may even be having affairs with other people. It’s difficult to keep up.”
“Interesting.” Astrid sounded distracted, but she probably didn’t care about celebrity gossip, unless it involved knights of the Round Table. “When you have a date confirmed with Christian, let me know. We’ll need to get my people on it.”
I packed quickly. The few things that I’d ordered from my favorite stores in the city barely filled a small carry-on. Then I called for Felice’s car and driver. Back to the parking garage; the hotel’s security staff had cleared the floor of reporters. Felice’s black-windowed Audi waited. When I approached, an arm reached out from behind me to open the door for me. I looked to thank the person and saw a very familiar face.
Hugh.
He hadn’t shaved off the auburn goatee but he had put on his dark bodyguard sunglasses. “Hello there,” I said, reaching for nonchalance even as my pulse thumped against my skin at the sight of him again.
“My lady,” he murmured as he opened the car door.
I slid in the backseat. Waited.
The driver opened the door. The driver got in.
He was broad, solid, and his brown hair was longer than it should be, curling over his collar.
I opened my mouth to say something but found my heart lodged solidly in my throat. Hugh still had his sunglasses on, but as he pulled out of the parking garage I could tell from the dip of his head that he was looking in the rearview mirror.
At me.
“How did you know?” I asked, lifting my chin. I wasn’t apologizing for anything. I was a free woman, and I didn’t have to have protection everywhere.
“A little birdie told me,” Hugh said shortly. Hm. That was annoying. But it was the price to pay, I supposed, for staying at the Hotel Ilysium.
“I can help you drive,” I offered.
He huffed a short laugh. “No, thank you.”
“You didn’t complain when I drove you to Grandmama’s.”
“No, I did not.”
Silence. Semi-awkward.
“Do you even know where you’re going?” I asked, suddenly aware that maybe he didn’t and he’d just slid into the driver’s seat and was taking me someplace awful. Like an archeological dig. Or worse. To the palace.
“The Château de Dréuvar.”
“Dammit,” I muttered, more annoyed now. “Is Stewart fine with you taking the car?” I asked.
“Stewart?” he asked.
I gritted my teeth. “My mother’s driver.”
Hugh’s eyebrows drew together over the sunglasses. “I was supposed to ask?”
I laughed, despite all the warring impulses that rose in my body. To reach out. To make a connection. To break free. To build walls.
To fall in love with this man.
This is what it had been like, when he’d been mine…my bodyguard, that was.
A gently warming sun. An easy repartee. A keen awareness.
I needed to shake this off. I couldn’t let Hugh Konnor break my heart again. He might take his job seriously, but I couldn’t misconstrue his devotion to his job as devotion to me.
He had been perfectly clear that all he wanted to do was protect me. More importantly, he wanted to stay close in case Christian Fraser-Campbell ventured near.
And if my plan worked, that would be happening very soon.