by Clare London
Quiet corner or not, it was only a matter of time before he was spotted. The lights of London up the Mall toward Trafalgar Square were like a distant multitude of stars fallen to earth, fluorescent squares shining in office block windows, distant car headlights arcing across the road, colorful lights looped over the awnings of late-night restaurants—and, right beneath him, a torch held by a police officer, aimed right into his face.
“Good evening, sir,” said a low, sardonic voice.
“Get down from there! Get down right now!” another, younger voice shouted at him from behind the light.
“I… I can’t.” Matt didn’t know whether his teeth chattered from the cold or from fright. “I’m stuck.”
“Coming in or out, sir? Don’t bother answering. That was a rhetorical question.” The first man lowered his torch and came into Matt’s view. He was a stocky, no-nonsense-looking officer, in middle age, his expression more bemused than fierce. “Keep your hair on, PC Jenkins. I don’t think this one’s a terrorist.”
“We can’t take that risk, sir! Not with the Commonwealth meeting today.” Both men were armed, and the second police officer looked young and terrifyingly eager to shoot Matt where he hung. Matt flung up his hands in the universal sign of surrender. Unfortunately, that unbalanced his upper body, and he sank farther down between two of the spikes. He yelped as a sharp edge grazed his crotch.
The older policeman sucked in a breath. “That’s not going to do anyone’s crown jewels any good, sir.”
“I’ll call for backup, Sarge,” PC Jenkins said, fumbling with his radio. “The others are by the front gate.”
“In a minute, lad,” the sergeant said soothingly. “Let’s see what we’ve got here first. There’s no damage done yet. Apart from this chap’s jeans, that is.” And he chuckled softly.
Chuckled? Matt would have protested at the inappropriate joke, but he was hardly in a position to complain. What would the offense be? Breach of the peace? Trespass? Indecent exposure? “Do you think…? Could you just help…?”
The sergeant raised his eyebrows. His mouth twisted briefly as though holding back a smile, and he reached up and unhooked Matt’s jeans from the railing. Matt straightened, then toppled back over onto the pavement side, falling to the ground with an ungainly thump. PC Jenkins jumped back a couple of steps and gripped the top of his holster, as if Matt might launch an attack.
Matt didn’t feel like launching anything except a groan of humiliation. He hauled himself to his feet and stood in his most unthreatening position.
“Is he carrying explosives? A gun? Maybe a spray paint can or two?” PC Jenkins peered at Matt with blatant disappointment, as it became increasingly obvious Matt had no weapons of mass destruction on him—apart, perhaps, from his own stupidity. Matt knew there’d been several incidents over the years of people breaking into Buckingham Palace. There was the infamous time a man got all the way through to the Queen’s own bedroom, and the time a homeless man broke through the railings and was found sleeping in the grounds. But Matt just stood there, with his jeans ripped in three places—one embarrassingly under his balls—and nothing else to show for it.
“I’ve not got any of that.” Oh God, but he’d made a mess of this. “I just wanted to get in and deliver a message.”
The sergeant raised his eyebrows. “Are you protesting against something?”
“Protestors can be very militant,” PC Jenkins insisted, with what sounded like hopeful zeal. “He could be concealing explosives.”
“The tracker would have spotted them by now. Or the dogs would have sniffed him out.” The sergeant snorted. “And there’s precious little room inside those Marks and Spencer briefs for anything else.”
Matt flushed in the darkness and clutched his jeans more tightly around his hips. Not that he wanted to be mistaken for a terrorist—he suspected he would have been facedown on the ground by now if they thought he was, nose into the gravel, handcuffs snapped on faster than he could have said “I’m a bloody idiot”—but it looked like he couldn’t even attract attention for the wrong reasons.
The sergeant took Matt’s wallet and noted down his details, while PC Jenkins, obviously itching on a cold night to see some action, trotted off to fetch more of their team.
“You don’t need reinforcements,” Matt said hurriedly. “I’ll come quietly.”
The sergeant nodded. It looked like he was still trying to keep a straight face. “So, humor me while we wait. What’s this all about? I can’t smell booze on your breath, lad. Are you high on something?”
“No way!” Matt said forcefully. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with Prince Arthur.”
“Oh yeah? Friend of his, are you? Oh wait—if you were, you’d have his phone number, wouldn’t you? Most people use phone and email nowadays as the most sensible methods of communication.”
Smart-arse. “This is really urgent,” Matt said sharply. “I’m working with him on a project for the wedding. Jewelry for him and Paolo Astra. I’m a consultant for Starsmith Stones.”
The policeman paused in taking notes and looked at him more closely. “Starsmith, eh? Yes, I’ve heard of them. The stuff’s too expensive for me and the missus, but it’s classy. Their people have been on the guest list a couple of times, indeed. But those meetings have all been held in daylight hours. Unless of course you’re a vampire consultant.”
“Ha-ha,” Matt said harshly. “I tried the normal ways, believe me.”
He’d had an astoundingly frustrating day. Acting on Dad’s advice, he’d decided to stay in London and help sort things out with the palace. He reckoned he could put forward a good case for them continuing to work with Starsmith. He didn’t feel like talking personally to Joel just yet—what was he going to say? Would that cold, hateful look still be in Joel’s eyes?—but he wanted to help his team. My team. Funny how he hadn’t put that into words until after he’d left. But they’d all worked so hard, and Joel had been so excited about the commission and so alight with pleasure over the designs….
Well, enough of that. The whole day had been wasted in insuperable bureaucracy and dead ends. He’d tried to contact the prince in those sensible ways the sergeant suggested, but he’d been politely but firmly turned away every time. Email and phone had met with the same result, with a promise that his message would be passed on, but in the tone that suggested unless the matter was of international importance, he would have to take his turn before anyone replied. He might have got a quicker answer if it were a matter of national security—but again, the voice implied if that were truly the case, they would be sending around the combined might of the Metropolitan Police instead.
Looked like that was happening now anyway.
Matt had also tried Paolo Astra, but the man was almost always with his fiancé in these months leading up to the wedding. He’d cancelled any public engagements, and he also had a private secretary who was much less polite than the palace’s and, after Matt’s tenth phone call, threatened to have him physically restrained if he came anywhere near the opera star.
Matt had started to panic. What was happening about Project Palace? About Starsmith? About Joel bloody Sterling? His phone had run out of battery shortly before lunchtime—he’d done nothing but send emails and make calls since he got up, and he realized just before it died that he’d lost his charger in the panic to leave Dan’s. He took one last look at Joel’s YouTube ranking and was relieved to see it’d been supplanted in popularity by a sneezing horse on Horse Guards Parade. But the palace might still be offended at Joel’s outburst. Or, for that matter, the fact their latest royal treasure was adorning a teddy bear’s T-shirt in souvenir shops across the capital.
He found himself at a small café on Trafalgar Square as the evening wore on. He was meant to be looking for a shop to buy a replacement charger, but he’d lost heart. Nursing coffee after coffee, his misery matched the increasing darkness of night. Maybe it was the result of all that coffee. Maybe he was swamped with anger that
no one wanted to help him. Maybe he was just confused, trying to hang on to his anger at Joel when all he could remember was the man’s smile, the way he placed a hand on Matt’s shoulder while they were working, and how he talked so animatedly when they relaxed at his flat, about his plans for Starsmith, for collections they could work on in the future. And the fabulous, toe-curling, heart-thrilling sex? He didn’t dare think of that in public. That would have led to indecent exposure. It was all swiftly followed by the ache in Matt’s heart when he remembered their growing intimacy—so brief, so fast, yet so deep—and the fact he’d probably thrown all that away when he marched out of Starsmith’s office.
Whatever the reason, he’d been reading one of the newspapers left for patrons in the café, and seen that the Royal Family was at Buckingham Palace over the weekend. On the heels of that came the idea to go there and try to see the prince face-to-face.
And look how well that had gone. Now he was being held at gunpoint on the wrong side of the palace defenses, his nerve shot to pieces, his jeans ripped, a stray dog sniffing suspiciously at his leg, and what looked like a passing tourist videoing him on his phone. Looked like he’d be joining Joel in the YouTube charts by morning.
The sergeant chased away the dog, referred the tourist to PC Jenkins, to politely but firmly suggest the video would be better deleted, in the national interest, then returned to Matt’s side. “They’ve all left, anyway,” he said, not unkindly. “The Queen left for Windsor a couple of hours ago, and the delegates have gone back to their hotels. Didn’t you see it on the news? The talks ended early but very positively. A great success for the Commonwealth.”
No, Matt hadn’t seen. He’d been sitting in a café, nursing an out-of-date newspaper and his pride. And concocting a ridiculous escapade. Now he had one ear cocked, waiting for the sound of sirens coming his way. “I don’t suppose I could just go—”
“No way, lad. You just stay there while we decide what to do with you.”
The sergeant’s radio crackled. He listened carefully to a message of some sort—it was too low for Matt to hear the words—and his brow furrowed with a deep frown. He gave a glance Matt’s way a couple of times. Then he shrugged, silenced the radio, and lodged it back on his belt.
“Well. Wonders will never cease.”
“Sorry?”
“Apparently, I’m to show you inside.” He smiled ruefully. “Jenkins will be very disappointed.”
“What?” Matt couldn’t parse this development.
“I know, it’s a mystery to me too. But someone inside the palace has seen what’s going on and has asked for you to be escorted inside.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
IT was one long, stately corridor after another, but Matt didn’t fool himself. He was still in custody. Two business-suited secretaries accompanied him from the minute he entered the palace, and a security guard had taken up position behind him. He still had time to be impressed and intimidated by the historical building. It was too grandiose for his personal taste—too many decorations, too many inherited styles—but he suspected that reflected the many generations of royal persons who’d marched these same corridors. Its majesty swamped his senses. Magnificent overblown portraits, dark wood embellishments, sumptuous velvet curtains and upholstery on the occasional chairs, the faint aroma of polish, and the tap of his feet on parquet floors.
They finally stopped at a door that looked no different from any of the others. One of the secretaries knocked, then entered and pulled the door half-closed behind him. Matt heard him announce, “Mr. Matthew Barth, Your Royal Highness.”
What the fuck? Matt jumped with shock when the door opened again and he was beckoned inside. It was another large room with high ceilings and traditional furnishings, but with a more personal atmosphere. A wooden desk hosted several modern monitors, and one wall held shelves stuffed full of DVDs and glossy hardback books. A couple of suits hung on hangers behind the door, and a gorgeous vase of blowsy flowers dominated a small table by the window. In one corner was a sofa and a couple of comfy-looking armchairs. A pile of magazines lay on one of the cushions. Matt was startled again when he recognized a popular GLBT title.
Two men stood beside the seats—Prince Arthur, with Paolo Astra at his side. Despite the late hour, the two of them were still dressed formally. They were scowling.
Oh Jesus. It was going to be the death penalty, after all!
“Mr. Barth,” the prince said coolly. “Or may I call you Matthew?”
Dumbly, Matt nodded. They could call him Queen of the Bloody Fairies if they liked, and if it’d keep his head on his shoulders. He tried surreptitiously to hide the flap of loose material on the thigh of his jeans.
One of the private secretaries nudged him. “You address the prince as Your Royal Highness. Then after first introduction, sir.”
“It’s all right, Cotswold. We have already met.” Prince Arthur turned to the secretaries. “Thank you both. We’ll take it from here.”
The men didn’t move. Instead they looked doubtfully between Matt and their precious charge. Like PC Jenkins, they probably still suspected he was a terrorist.
“For heaven’s sake,” the prince said more warmly. “You may wait outside the office, then. But Paolo and I wish to talk to Matthew confidentially. And undisturbed.” He waited until the secretaries had reluctantly withdrawn back out into the corridor, then took a seat in one of the armchairs. Paolo tilted his head, indicating Matt should join them.
Matt didn’t dare. He stood stiffly, aching with embarrassment, facing the two important men and their stern expressions. What could he say? “Sir, I apologize for being here. I apologize for trying to break into the palace. I apologize—”
“Matt. Please. There’s no need.” The prince held up a hand, and he was smiling now. “And we don’t stand on so much ceremony when we’re in private.”
“No. Really. Sir, I mean. God. I just thought I’d wander around the palace, see if I could spot someone to help get a message to you. Then I saw the railings, and they didn’t look that high, and I thought, how easy would it be to hop over and talk to someone at the front door? And then I found myself doing it….” He flushed with humiliation. “It was so, so stupid of me.”
“Yes, it was. And you wouldn’t have succeeded anyway. Luckily we were joining the family here today, and also staying on for the night. It meant we caught the message relayed to the Palace Household office and realized who was—” Prince Arthur pursed his lips politely, then continued. “—attempting to gain entrance.”
“Sod it. I mean, sir. I wasn’t thinking straight. I haven’t been thinking straight at all, to be honest. Of course, you’d see it as breaking in, a potential terrorist threat, a lunatic approach—”
They weren’t listening to him. In fact, they were both laughing.
“Come and sit beside me,” Paolo said in his richly melodic, accented voice. “I think it best. Before you have a further accident with your… um… eccentric clothing.” He led Matt to the sofa with his hand briefly at the small of Matt’s back, a little too familiarly. When Matt glanced over at the prince, Prince Arthur sighed but still smiled.
“Paolo has always had an eye for attractive men, Matt. I hope you don’t mind his attention. I can assure you….” And the prince’s voice tightened, though still pleasantly polite. “It is purely platonic.”
Paolo laughed, his head going back, his eyes sparkling. He bowed to the prince, a little more casually than the secretaries had. “Of course, my love.” When they smiled at each other this time, there was understanding and love in the look. Paolo liked to play, it seemed—but only within the rules set by the prince.
The prince turned back to Matt. “So, tell me what’s going on.”
“I needed to see you. I couldn’t get through the official channels.”
The prince frowned. “No one has informed me you were trying to get in touch.”
“You must have a mountain of correspondence every day, sir. And I under
stand you don’t want to be bothered.”
“Matt, you’re not a man who bothers people, at least not deliberately. It must be important. Is it about the project?”
“Or,” Paolo interrupted with a different kind of sparkle in his eyes, “is it about the video?”
There was a sudden, pregnant silence. Paolo grinned and picked up a small tablet from the side table. He held it out so they could all see the screen, then pressed Play.
It was awful. This was the second time Matt had watched Joel’s meltdown, and it felt worse than before. He could see the anger and distress in Joel’s expression and hear the tremor in his voice. However, with some distance now, he could admit….
“It’s pretty bloody funny,” Paolo said, echoing Matt’s secret thoughts.
“Poor Joel,” the prince said reprovingly, but he was also smiling.
“It’s when he rips off the bear’s arm,” Paolo said. “Look at the grimace on his face! The way he grits his teeth. It’s worthy of one of those London gangland movies you like so well.”
“You do?” Matt asked of the prince, startled. He couldn’t imagine this elegant, sophisticated man settling in with popcorn and a beer to watch Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels.
Prince Arthur frowned at Paolo. “Enough, dear.”
Matt groaned inside at that frown. It was because of the video. Things were worse than he’d imagined. “I know you can’t overlook such an appalling misjudgment on Joel’s part, but my God, the fault lies not only with the bastard who stole the design, but with those morons in the shop who didn’t think to help Joel, just taking fucking photos like he’s this week’s entertainment. They should all get a fucking life, in my opinion!” Too late he realized he was swearing—had done, several times—in front of a member of the Royal Family.
Paolo was laughing heartily and didn’t seem to mind.
The prince’s look was more thoughtful. “You and Joel….” The quirk of his eyebrows made it more of a question than a statement. “I think you care for him?”