Chapter Four

I saw the ghost two days later.

Or, what might have been a ghost. There was no other explanation for seeing a dead man, was there?

Ten months ago, the previous April, my sister’s fiancé, Christian Fraser-Campbell, had left her at the altar, which promptly traumatized the whole nation of Drieden. Here they’d been, happily anticipating a royal wedding, with all the romance and drama, and then…all the tea towels had been for naught.

Months later it was reported that Christian had taken his own life. I tried calling Thea, using the only number I knew (and the only one that wouldn’t go through thirty secretaries), but there was no answer and I didn’t try again. Perhaps she didn’t want to hear from me. Perhaps it was my cowardice, or my misplaced guilt that this was the one thing I couldn’t help her with.

Either way, given that I was in the middle of my own marital drama, I was not entirely sure of all the details surrounding Christian’s death. The newspapers were certain, however, that he was dead. Which made seeing his ghost in Varenna that much more shocking.

I remembered vaguely that he’d had a sibling. Perhaps this was another relation of some sort. Another Scottish duke or earl on holiday.

In February. In Italy.

Or perhaps I was missing home. Missing family. It happened more often than I cared to admit, and today there had been a story in the Driedish newspaper that only my siblings would appreciate. The groundbreaking of the historical monument that Thea had presided over had dug up bones. Archeologists were shouting that the monument’s location was near the spot where one of our ancestors, the one who had founded the House of Laurent, had died in a battle.

This was why reading the Driedish newspaper was not healthy for me. I wanted to gossip about the discovery with Thea, Henry—even Sophie. No one laughed at the antics of our family tree like my twin brother Henry. No one took them as seriously as Princess Thea, heir to the throne.

So that explained it, really. I read an article about Driedish history, which made me think about Thea, remembering the last time I saw her on her wedding day, and of course this would make me recall her long-lost fiancé. Obviously, this would make me see his face in a nearby café during my morning walk to the market.

I did a double-take when I saw the man. So similar to Christian, yet leaner, perhaps. More unkempt. An air of nervousness that the urbane Christian Fraser-Campbell had never given off.

So I continued my day. A quick stop at the ATM. A new automatic coffee pot for the rental apartment, as the last review had said the current one was “glitchy.” Rain started to fall, cold and offensive. As a Northern European myself, I found the very idea of Italian rain to be extraordinary. To my mind, Italy was supposed to be languid heat and endless hazy days. It should not have winter of any sort.

But I kept thinking of Ghost Christian. It wasn’t him, I knew that for a fact. All the news outlets had reported his death by suicide.

I decided to go the long way back home. Call it restlessness, call it boredom, but four months of doing nothing but hiding like some overly dramatic diva of Italian cinema was wearing thin.

Thin enough that I walked through the freezing rain to settle the question once and for all.

I passed by the café again; it was rather sad-looking in winter. The awning was bedraggled and a tent of clear plastic formed a kind of a vestibule around the door. I gazed in the window where I had seen the Ghost’s reflection and saw nothing but mine.

Whoever the man was, or whatever resemblance he bore to my sister’s dead fiancé, would be a mystery I would never solve.

I turned back to the street that led home and smack. Someone ran into me. A man, a bit taller than me, his face turned down as he clutched his coat around him in the rain.

“Pardon,” he said.

In English.

And with a Scottish accent I definitely recognized.

I grabbed at the man because he stumbled as he coughed. But then his face lifted and I knew that this was a ghost. Or a long-lost twin. One of those highly unlikely possibilities now was 100 percent.

The name Christian got stuck in my throat. Ghost or long-lost twin of Christian Fraser-Campbell—his name wouldn’t be Christian…would it?

So he was the first to speak. “Caroline?” He croaked. “You aren’t—”

He broke off in another fit of coughing.

It would be rude to ask, “Who are you?” so instead I stuttered. “You’re not…I mean, how…who…” He rubbed his eyes and looked back at me. “Christian? How are you?” I finished lamely, as if we were old classmates who had just run into each other at the cinema.

“Fine, fine,” he said, but his voice was rough and raw and I saw now there was purplish bruising under his eyes.

I knew this man. He knew my name. Somehow, improbable as it was, my sister’s ex-fiancé was not dead, as the whole world believed, but very much alive.

With me. Here. Now.

He started coughing again and I realized he really was ill and had no place standing in the winter rain rushing in off the lake.

The next thing I realized was huge.

Princess Caroline of Drieden and Christian Fraser-Campbell were standing in the street. In public. And we were the potential news story of the decade.

“You must come back with me,” I heard myself saying. “You’re too sick for this weather.”

Of course, I was tremendously concerned about the health and wellbeing of this man who had been just hours away from being my brother.

But it would be a lie if I said I was unconcerned about anyone seeing us together.

After I half hauled Christian through the town then up to my apartment, he passed out in my spare bedroom.

For nearly an hour, I couldn’t relax. So many questions were flying through my mind, not least of which was—what if whatever Christian had was contagious?

To be fair, I didn’t know where this supposedly dead person had been. If this was a case of some sort of zombie virus, I didn’t want to be cavalier about it.

I went over the possibilities. One—Christian Fraser-Campbell had an identical twin brother that no one knew about. One who answered to the same name. Coincidentally.

Two—Christian Fraser-Campbell had committed suicide but had been reanimated by either a zombie virus, a mad scientist or some miraculous act of God.

Three—Christian had faked his death. Because that was something it was well known almost-royal princes did all the time. /sarcasm font/

Still, of the three explanations, when the one about a faked suicide seemed most likely…I got a funny feeling in my stomach. This was a Big Deal. I could see the headlines now. Classy ones, of course, not those tabloid conspiracy-theories ones. An exposé on the stress of public life, perhaps, or the need for more mental health care among Europe’s aristocratic class.

And not to brag, but…I had tons of expertise in those two topics. A yelpy groan broke the silence. I ran into the spare bedroom and saw that Christian had reanimated himself. He was still pale and sweaty, but his eyes were clear and bright.

I picked up the glass of water and aspirin I had left earlier and offered them to him. “Do you think you can manage these?” I asked.

He nodded, gave me a small, grateful smile and took the pills and water.

“Do you think—” I broke off, not sure how to phrase my question. “This is probably just the flu, right? I mean, you haven’t been in an equatorial jungle or around any secret government labs?”

I got a frown and a little shake of the head, which I chose to interpret as a negative response to my question. “Can I get you anything else? A cup of tea? Some toast?”

Christian made a face. “I think I just need some sleep. That is, if you don’t mind me being here?”

“Of course I don’t,” I assured him. “You must get better.” I smiled. “There will be all the time in the world to catch up.”

A wretched cough erupted from him and I stayed until he could recover his composure, in case he wanted to take me up on that offer of tea.

But he said something I never expected.

“Clémence Diederich.”

Now it was I who needed some water. “What?” Maybe it wasn’t what it sounded like.

“Or is it Cordelia Lancaster?” Christian grimaced. “I haven’t seen her in a bit, though.”

It felt like the bottom of my stomach had just disappeared. “I don’t—”

He cut me off. “I know, Caroline. I know your secrets.”

I should not have been so terrified of a thin, pale ghost of a man.

“How?” I managed to ask.

He waved a hand. “Unimportant.” Christian’s wide, serious eyes met mine. “But I need your help. Clémence’s, that is.”

If I had known everything, I wouldn’t have offered my assistance so readily. But as I said, I was bored, and concerned about this man who had almost been my brother-in-law and who seemed to be on the brink of death.

“Yes, what is it?”

“I want Clémence Diederich to tell my story. The true story.”