The Mediterranean should be calm.
And yet, Maxence could hear a storm raging.
Dree pointed beyond the cheering crowd to the statue of Maxence’s ancestor once removed, François the Malicious. The noble lord had stolen the fortress from another Genovese family by dressing up as a humble monk and conniving his way through the gate, where he’d murdered the guards and flung open the defenses to allow the Grimaldi army to pour through. The plaque at the base of the statue read Malizia, a reminder that Maxence had read a thousand times.
She said, “There’s that creeper again.”
Maxence chuckled, a pinpoint of levity in the tumultuous day.
They walked a few more paces. The roiling sea of faces around them wove in and out of Maxence’s vision as he strolled, seemingly unconcerned that the mob might spill over the ropes and drown them in a sea of bodies.
Dree slowed, examining the bronze statue beyond the throng of watchers. The figure itself was about ten feet high, so François the Malicious was always looking over a crowd surrounding the castle gate.
Dree looked up at Maxence. “Is that why you wanted to be a priest? Like François the Malicious, your grandfather or great-uncle or whoever he was, who disguised himself as a monk so the guards would think he was harmless?”
Maxence stopped walking, shocked into stillness. “What?”
“No, seriously, that’s pretty much what you did,” Dree bantered on. “All these years, you told everybody you wanted to be a priest so they would think you’re harmless, and yet you ended up on the throne as the sovereign prince. Did you want to be harmless, or did you know you were dangerous and just pretending to be harmless so they’d let you inside the gate so you could take the throne?”
Maxence started walking again. “That can’t be right.”
“No, really, it all fits. You pretended to be a monk so you could take the fortress.”
“No, that’s not it. That’s not it at all,” Maxence growled.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Enthronement
Maxence
After a brunch reception for some of the more prominent Monegasque nobles and foreign dignitaries, a few hours had been left unscheduled so Maxence could rest before the ceremony.
Maxence and Dree napped in their apartment.
She held his hand while they slept.
Then, after another shower and shave, Tommaso dressed Maxence for the evening.
Tux.
Decorations.
Royal orders and medals.
On the other side of the bathroom, stylists surrounded Dree in a blizzard of makeup powders, hair spray, and the red silk of her gown.
Because they weren’t married yet, Dree couldn’t take an official part in the ceremonies, so she was sitting in his cousin Alexandre’s box with his wife, Georgie.
Casimir and Arthur hadn’t managed to bring their wives to the enthronement, owing to concerns with Casimir’s law practice and Arthur’s new baby, who was now three months old, but Gen and Rox had already sent in their RSVPs for the wedding in two months.
Every previous enthronement of a Prince of Monaco had taken place in the throne room. However, the last few months had caused such trauma to Monaco’s citizens, what with the foreign divorce of the heir apparent to the throne and then the deaths of the sovereign and the heir. Thus, Maxence had decided the enthronement ceremony should be an elaborate, public celebration to end the mourning period and allow people to begin to move on from their grief.
To accommodate hundreds of citizens and honored guests, the spectacle had to be moved to the Court of Honor, the courtyard inside the palace walls.
Plus, Maxence had enhanced the ceremony somewhat.
It wasn’t for his own aggrandizement.
In the past, after the new prince took the throne, the nobles would swear a personal oath of fealty to the new sovereign, and it all became rather, well, authoritarian-strongmanish.
This time, things would be different.
Maxence was given a few moments alone to pray at Saint Jean Baptiste’s chapel, a small church within the palace’s walls on the far end of the Court of Honor, before the enthronement ceremony began.
This, at least, was traditional.
Silence hovered in the air of the small church, pressing on him from all sides.
Maxence prayed in the chapel, unfurling his arms out from his sides as the crucifix loomed above him, silent.
Each breath was one of his last before he accepted the throne and entered history. He wasn’t resentful or opposed to becoming the sovereign prince, but he was mindful of what he was accepting that day.
His watch chimed, indicating that the Monegasque nobles had made their grand entrances and taken their seats at the front.
Maxence emerged from the chapel on the side of the palace’s inner courtyard at precisely seven-thirty. The sunset slashed the sky above, but the castle walls darkly shadowed the area inside.
Spotlights centered on Max.
Trumpets played a fanfare.
Oh, it would get better from there. Max had conferred with theatre artists, and together, they’d written a proper pageant.
When Queen Elizabeth had crowned her son Charles as the Prince of Wales, she’d created an entire ritual that had never existed before entirely for the publicity and amusement of the people of Great Britain. Why shouldn’t Maxence update the current enthronement rite and make a spectacle of it for his country?
That was essentially his job now, to make a spectacle of himself for his country.
That, and to moderate the prices of olive oil and sea bass, of course.
Maxence walked the long red carpet to the center of the courtyard alone. As it was after six in the evening and these proceedings were a royal and state event, attire for the evening had been designated as court dress, which meant white tie with decorations, the highest level of formality possible. As such, Maxence wore a white tie and tailed tuxedo because he’d chosen not to go with a pseudo-military uniform.
Someone with eventual plans to burn down Monaco’s monarchy and install a democracy, or at least a constitutional principality, shouldn’t dress like a military dictator at the first chance possible.
Maxence also wore every one of the few royal orders he’d been accorded over the years as the spare heir in waiting. A dark olive ribbon with a narrow red stripe wove under his collar and white tie, holding the silver and gold fillagree cross of the Commander in the Order of the Crown, a third-degree rank of a second-class organization. He also sported a row of miniature medals on the left breast of his jacket like a military “salad” block. A new one for the Order of St. George of the Kingdom of Hannover had arrived a week ago by courier with a note promising his reception into the order the next time Maxence was at Schloss Southwestern.
Spotlights bearing down on his head warmed his scalp as he walked through the cool evening air toward the dais erected at the base of the two grand staircases curving from the ground up to the loggia on the second floor of the palace.
Camera flashes sparkled out of the silent crowd, twinkling at the edges of his vision, but he kept his eyes on the shining throne which had been hauled out of the throne room and placed under a blaze of theatrical lighting for the ceremony.
An orchestra seated behind the staircase on the right played classical music as he walked, as solemn as his expression. This formal investiture would emphasize the gravity of the passing of the throne to the next generation, while the evening’s festivities and tomorrow’s national picnic would celebrate renewal.
As he reached the dais, two men were waiting for him at the base of the stairs.
His cousin Alexandre wore his blond hair tied back in a tight ponytail at the base of his neck. Refusing to cut it for even this ceremony was perhaps his best act of rebellion. He also wore a white tie tuxedo, though his red and white sash ran diagonally across his chest under his black jacket, pinned with a badge on his right hip, and a silver and green star was pinned on t
he left side of his tailed tuxedo jacket. Those diamond-encrusted decorations were the emblem of a Knight Grand Cross of the Order of St. Charles, the highest rank of the most elite order Monaco awarded. His smirk suggested he knew Maxence was glaring at it.
The other man was a white guy who was mostly bald, a little portly, and shorter than Alexandre, as most people were. Prince Albert, Maxence’s final uncle, was the youngest son of Max’s grandfather Prince Rainier III and had been sixth in line for the throne only a few months ago. After Pierre had committed suicide in December and Prince Jules and Marie-Therese were in jail and awaiting trial, Albert had suddenly leapfrogged to the number three position after Alexandre. After Maxence’s investiture and thus his removal from the line of succession, Albert would rise to second in line. He still looked vaguely stunned about it.
When Max reached the two men, they bowed slightly from the waist, and the three of them continued to the throne area together.
At the dais, Maxence stepped up the short risers carefully because tripping and falling on his face, perhaps breaking his neck, might be seen as evidence of his lack of divine right of kings.
Waiting for him at the top of the dais and standing beside the throne was Maxence’s old friend from seminary, a slight, bookish-looking nerd. The white, heavily embroidered papal vestments swaddling his thin frame seemed to be wearing him, but he smiled as Maxence climbed the stairs.
As always, Maxence knelt and kissed Pope Vincent’s casually offered papal ring. While he was kneeling, the pope said a quick blessing and anointed Maxence’s forehead with a cross of holy oil.
After Maxence stood, the theatrical lighting suspended on cables above the curved double staircase and blasting from arrays on tall poles blinded him, but his eyes adjusted after a moment. He faced the audience for the first time and attempted to appear to be regally surveying his subjects, but he was really looking for Dree Clark.
Dree was over to the left, wearing a dark red, strapless gown belted at the waist with a white sash. She sat beside Alexandre’s wife, Georgie, in the royal box set aside for the Duchy of Valentinois. Dree was smiling at him, not grinning like a loon, but a knowing, secret smile that he picked out of the hundreds of faces in the palace courtyard.
The bonnes soeurs Ndaya and Disanka sat with them after meeting Pope Vincent earlier, and they were the very definition of dignified grace that evening.
As the next two people in the line of succession, Alexandre and Albert were presented with a dark red pillow holding the Collar of the Order of Saint Charles.
The livery collar wasn’t a chain for Max to wrap tightly around his neck. Rather, it was a carcanet, a long, flat chain of enameled medals consisting of red and white diamond checkerboards interspersed with red ovals bearing two stylized Cs, the monogram of the chivalric order of St. Charles.
They picked up the long chain from the pillow and held it suspended between them. Maxence bent slightly from his waist as they lifted it over his head and draped the yoke on his shoulders, the center object swinging down to tap his chest lightly.
Maxence straightened, having bent as an heir but rising as a sovereign.
The tidal wave of white light rushed from every camera and phone in the courtyard, documenting his first moment as the Sovereign Prince of Monaco.
He stepped backward, feeling for the throne with the back of his leg, and lowered himself, literally taking the throne. He rested his hands on the cool metal arms.
The camera flashes intensified, a wall of white light flaring within the courtyard of the palace.
The applause and cheering were cut short by a shriek, followed by a concerned mutter that turned to shouts on the left side of the box seats for the nobles of Monaco.
Maxence stood, trying to figure out what was going on.
Rogue Security commandos and Monegasque military troops converged on him, but he shoved them aside and ran toward where Dree was clambering across chairs and knocking velvet ropes out of her way.
He set a course through the gawking crowd to intercept her, and they arrived at the roped-off box seats assigned to Lady Valentina Martini, who was lying on the ground and clutching her chest. A look of sheer terror contorted her face.
Behind Maxence, his Holiness Pope Vincent asked the crowd over his microphone if there was a doctor in the house in Italian and then Spanish.
Dree was already on her knees, pressing her ear against Lady Valentina’s chest with her eyes squeezed closed.
Medics raced from the first aid station Dree had insisted on behind the staircase, lugging boxes of various kinds. When they arrived, she tore into the boxes, finding first a small box with many wires, which she peeled stickers off of and then flung leads onto Lady Valentina’s skin. Luckily, white tie formalwear for ladies usually specifies a low neckline, and Lady Valentina had chosen a white gown that allowed Dree to apply the EKG leads quickly.
Lady Valentina closed her eyes and went limp.
After a glance at the readout, Dree glanced up at Maxence, who was holding back the crowd with his long arms. The grim determination in her blue eyes froze him. She yelled again for a doctor.
Maxence looked over the crowd to see if anyone was fighting their way to the forefront, but no one was. Dammit, none of his useless cousins had gone to medical school.
Dree grabbed another box out of the crate that the medics had brought and prepped the defibrillator by squeezing green electrode gel onto the paddles, mashing them together, and then shouting, “Clear!”
The other EMTs that had been assessing Lady Valentina’s condition sprang back, their hands up and visible, as Dree applied the paddles to the noblewoman’s chest and shot the electricity into her body.
Lady Valentina’s chest rose with the jolt of electricity.
Dree dropped the paddles and reached for the EKG, assessing the waves on the small screen. Her shoulders dropped with relief as Lady Valentina’s eyes fluttered open.
Maxence grabbed Dree as the crowd rushed forward and Rogue Security pushed them back, hugging her and telling her how magnificent she was.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Dial M
Dree
Dree tried very hard to behave like a professional nurse practitioner.
Her hands were shaking as the EMT crew wheeled the stretcher to the ambulance to transport Lady Valentina Martini to the Princess Grace Hospital. Her Ladyship was strapped down and arguing with them that she didn’t want to miss the rest of the enthronement.
Maxence stood with his arms out, catching Dree, and he enfolded her in his arms when her choices had seemed to be going with the ambulance or collapsing into a puddle of tears in the courtyard. He made sure she was okay, gently smoothing her hair back into the chignon that the stylists had so carefully crafted. After a few minutes, Dree was steadier, and Georgie led her back to the box seats from where they’d been watching the ceremony.
Casimir and Arthur leaned forward from their seats behind the two women, clapping her on her shoulder and congratulating her on a job well done.
Georgie held her hand during the rest of the ceremony.
It took a few more minutes for Dree’s professionalism to fully kick back in. She didn’t know any nurses at the Princess Grace Hospital who she could call for inside information about Lady Valentina’s condition, so she stewed in worry, instead.
As far as the ceremony went, Maxence had evidently been well and officially throned. After everyone returned to their seats, a soprano sang a hymn, some speeches were given, and then a choir of little boys did some singing. Then there was another speech before the nobles left their seats to raise their right hands and say an oath to the Constitution of Monaco rather than the prince personally, and then a string quartet played a thing, and then, finally, Maxence gave his short speech that she had watched him practice in front of the bathroom mirror for a week.
However, he gave the speech with an interesting addition he’d never practiced in front of Dree, and her jaw dropped.
&nb
sp; Maxence spoke into the microphone, and his voice rang across the inner courtyard of the palace. “Tomorrow, I plan to sign my first order as the Sovereign Prince of Monaco. I will establish the Crown Council as a standing legislative body. The members will be elected from the citizenry rather than inherited by the nobility. Elections will be held each year on May nineteenth, six months from Monaco’s national day. The Crown Council shall pass laws and manage Monaco’s treasury.”
The crowd gasped.
Some of the nobles were half-standing, staring at each other.
Dree hung onto the silk swag around the private box, almost laughing in delight that Maxence had sprung this on everyone.
Maxence stared down the whole crowd.
Then, the orchestra played the national anthem, the “Hymne Monégasque,” which ended with the lyrics, “And nothing will change, As long as the sun shines; God will always help us, And nothing will change.”
Dree was almost cracking up as she sang the lyrics in Monegasque with the rest of them because whoa, Nelly, a whole bunch was about to change. Maxence had set the country on the path to being a democracy and making himself a figurehead.
About half the crowd whistled and cheered when the song was over, including Dree.
The other half sat in stunned silence.
Afterward, Dree and Georgie, plus a few other nobles who had been invited, walked with Maxence toward the palace gates.
Rogue Security operators flanked them.
As they passed through the small alcove by the gate, Maxence dragged Dree back into the shadows, holding her hand and pressing her to his chest, and he told her how magnificent she had been when she had saved the life of Lady Valentina Martini. “You’re perfect, and you’re the love of my life.”
Between insisting on having the first-aid station and then saving Lady Valentina’s life with it, Dree felt halfway competent. Whether or not she ever got the hang of being a glamorous princess seemed irrelevant. Her own skills were enough.
Reign (A Royal Romantic Suspense Royal Secret Billionaire Novel) Page 16