Battle Royal

by Lucy Parker

  Sylvie sat down at the little desk in her dressing room and spun the chair in pensive circles. He certainly hadn’t given any indication of it today—she’d never seen him display nerves in any situation—but she’d almost guarantee Dominic also had a meeting coming up at the palace. The man who’d hand-delivered her instructions hadn’t divulged the names of other contenders for the contract, but Zack was right—De Vere’s was a shoo-in.

  For the short list.

  As a contestant on the show, as Dominic had just helpfully reminded her, she’d only made it to the penultimate episode.

  When it came to this contract, she was taking out the title.

  Chapter Six

  “In a battle all you need to make you fight is a little hot blood . . .”

  —George Bernard Shaw

  Let the battle commence . . .

  St. Giles Palace

  4:25 p.m.

  Meeting with Candidate: Mr. Dominic De Vere

  Dominic had anticipated the intense secrecy surrounding the Albany contract. He hadn’t expected to feel like a character in a straight-to-TV espionage film. He’d been asked to drive to the Givran hotel at quarter to four, after which he’d sat in the bar for fifteen minutes before he’d been approached by an unsmiling couple in head-to-toe black. They had introduced themselves as Jeremiah and Arabella and looked like cutouts from a paper-doll book, the bodyguard edition. By the time he’d followed them out the rear entrance of the hotel and into the back of a black SUV with tinted windows, he had the unwelcome thought that this was where things took an ugly turn in the film.

  Clearly, all this time in Sylvie’s company was screwing with his brain.

  In more ways than one.

  Neither security officer said a word throughout the circuitous journey to the north entrance of St. Giles Palace. Usually, Dominic appreciated people who didn’t need to fill any silence with unnecessary small talk, but right now—yeah, a bit unnerving.

  The car drew into a private alcove, out of range of prying eyes and zooming camera lenses. It probably wasn’t a completely over-the-top precaution. The worst of the tabloids would be sticking their noses and cash incentives into any dodgy corner they could find, trying to pluck out the smallest details of the wedding in advance.

  He was grateful as hell he hadn’t been born into this life—and he didn’t envy John Marchmont marrying into it. He’d met the groom once, at an awards banquet. From the little he remembered—guileless eyes, a bit of a stammer, zero idea what anyone was talking about—the man was about to be eaten alive. Between them, the press and the British public would make mincemeat of the poor sap.

  And the marital home wasn’t exactly a source of privacy and respite. Dominic took in the plush interior of St. Giles as he followed the protection officers through the winding corridors. The carpet was so thick his shoes were sinking in as he walked, and it was spotless despite the risky choice of winter white. At regular intervals, uniformed staff with ID badges around their necks came in and out of doors, keeping their eyes politely averted from the newcomers. He caught the slight whirring traction of a security camera above his head, twisting to follow their progress.

  Thanks to the volley of information Pet had flung at his head over the past couple of weeks, he knew that the princess, her parents, and her siblings each had private apartments in the south wing. Hopefully with a little less foot traffic, but he had a feeling that even occupying the “family” wing would be akin to taking up residence in a fishbowl.

  According to Pet, it was “true love.”

  For their sakes, he hoped it was worth it.

  Without any expectation of a useful answer, he addressed Jeremiah, who looked the most likely to drop illicit info. Something about the constant eye twitch and the emerging peek of Doctor Who socks under too-short trousers. “How many tenders are on the short list today?”

  “I’m not at liberty to divulge that information, sir.”

  He seemed scandalized that Dominic had even asked.

  Weddings topped the priority list of their contracted cakes. They held hugely personal, intrinsic meaning. For two—or in some cases, three, four, or more—people, it was a symbol of an occasion they would remember and shelter for the rest of their lives.

  Or at least until divorce proceedings and a subsequent second cake.

  But there were limits to how much pretension Dominic could swallow, and this experience was starting to push at those boundaries.

  They rounded another corner, and Arabella spoke into her phone. As they approached an imposing set of double wooden doors—the Captain’s Suite, according to a gold plaque—the left door opened, and a middle-aged man stepped out.

  He inclined his head at the protection officers, and their spines snapped rod straight. Dominic half expected a military salute. Evidently, he was a staffer high up the authority ladder. Dominic surveyed him with one glance.

  Small round glasses. Vividly red nose. Bushy white beard. Probably a heavy drinker. Definitely a smoker; under a whiff of cologne, he still smelled like the rear courtyard of a pub. Visually, he was a dead ringer for Father Christmas. If Father Christmas were the moody old bastard he ought to be, with a job description that revolved around the entitled demands of millions of sugar-hyped children.

  “Mr. De Vere,” the Santa doppelgänger said crisply, after an equally comprehensive summing-up in return. “Please, come in.”

  The interior of the room was bog-standard conference suite: an oval table surrounded by backbreaking chairs, a trolley with rudimentary tea and coffee facilities, and a projector screen. A few people in nondescript suits sat in silence, each wearing the ubiquitous staff lanyard. With one exception, it might have been any office building in the city.

  That exception, the three people at the front of the room, stood up in a collective movement, accompanied by the rustling of expensive fabric.

  The statuesque woman standing front and center studied him from head to foot. Every person in this building was constantly eyeing someone else with suspicion or condescension. Her eyes were infamous, a shade of blue so pale that her irises were almost white, glittering with both intelligence and calculation, like ice crystals reflecting an overcast sky. In an old novel, her features would be described as “handsome.” Presently, they were set into a very polite, totally meaningless smile.

  At her side was a younger woman in her twenties, whose eyes were at the opposite end of the blue spectrum, almost navy, and heavily accented by thick streaks of black under her lashes. Unlike the pearls the other women were wearing, she had small silver spikes in her earlobes. Her shoulder pressed against the arm of a blond man with a scab on his chin where he’d cut himself shaving. The man was nervous and doing a terrible job of hiding it—swallowing a lot and repeatedly licking his lips.

  Princess Rose of Albany and her fiancé, John Marchmont, who ought to be the stars of this particular show, were eclipsed in both authority and X-factor by the bride’s mother, Georgina, the Duchess of Albany.

  In a literal nod to convention, Dominic dipped his head in a brief bow.

  His career had brought him into the path of other royals, but this was his first encounter with the duchess. Supposedly, she ruled her branch of the family with an iron fist. Within two sentences, Dominic believed it.

  “This is Edward Lancier, my daughter’s private secretary.” The duchess nodded in Father Christmas’s direction. “He’s overseeing the coordination of events in the planning of this wedding.”

  Lancier looked coldly back at Dominic. His whole demeanor spoke of intense displeasure. Archaic snobbery at having to deal with the local shopkeepers? Or disapproval this wedding was taking place at all?

  “You’ve signed a nondisclosure agreement.” The duchess spoke with the certainty of a person whose every wish was carried out promptly. “It goes without saying that we expect every syllable relating to this event to remain strictly confidential.”

  “Naturally.” Dominic’s voice was equally coo
l, and she lifted her finely tweezed eyebrows.

  “First of all, we’d like to thank you for accepting the invitation to submit a tender. His Majesty is particularly pleased by the inclusion of your establishment. De Vere’s has done excellent work for our family in the past, and I understand His Majesty enjoyed a cordial personal acquaintance with your late grandfather, Mr. Sebastian De Vere.”

  As a senior and experienced royal, the duchess was prepped and prepared. He imagined a briefing today had also provided the names of his parents and siblings. If he were here to provide a favor and not a highly paid service, she’d probably ask after even his bloody cat by name.

  And the seething pile of fur and narcissism he’d inherited in an unbreakable clause of Sebastian’s will would expect no less. Humphrey spent his days either sleeping or destroying pillows, confident that the rest of the world existed solely to serve his comforts.

  A feline soul mate for the duchess.

  “He did. An honor my grandfather appreciated until his death.”

  The stab in his chest was sudden and unexpected. And at this moment unwelcome.

  Dominic thought of Sebastian every time he opened the kitchen door in De Vere’s. Part of him expected to see his grandfather standing at the stove, still incredibly adept with his hands, his shoulders broad enough to bear the weight of the business through every financial struggle, every economic downturn.

  Broad enough to support the silent cry for help of a very angry teenage boy, a quarter of a century ago.

  Sebastian lived in everything that occurred in De Vere’s. His legacy and presence were embedded in the very walls. Usually, his memory was faint, lingering solace.

  Today, there was pain.

  Grief. The ever-changing sea. Brutal and turbulent. Stretches of peace. And out of nowhere, a knockout wave that rolled through dark shadows, stretching so far back in time now their power had thinned to threads.

  Or should have.

  “De Vere’s is always pleased to cater to the needs of the royal household.” Rigidly, Dominic closed a mental door on the past and fixed his speculation on the present. Through the industry grapevine, he’d counted at least six salons with the official nod to bid for this contract. A short list should knock that down to no more than three.

  Better, it turned out. He doubted if the Duchess of Albany was the royal they rolled out to children’s hospitals and aged-care facilities, unless they wanted to scare the shit out of already vulnerable people, but he appreciated her aversion to beating about the bush.

  “At present, we’ve narrowed our choice to two establishments, including your own. We closely considered all submitted proposals.” A note of dryness underscored her tone. “And any unexpected ones that arose.”

  “Or snuck in the back door,” Edward Lancier muttered peevishly. “Dragons. Good God.”

  Dominic heard that bizarre grumble without immediate interest, but within seconds, it settled and sat sparking quietly at the back of his mind.

  And provoked a whisper of suspicion . . .

  The Captain’s Suite

  5:03 p.m.

  Meeting with Candidate: Ms. Sylvie Fairchild

  “The princess was delighted by the attention to detail in your proposal,” only the bloody Duchess of Albany was saying.

  One thinly plucked brow lifted as she continued to drill a disconcerting hole through Sylvie’s face. She had the extremely pale eyes Sylvie unfairly associated with fictional serial killers. Hopefully not the case here, although the woman definitely looked capable of yanking one of those ceremonial swords off the wall and skewering the maid for putting too much sugar in the tea.

  There was still a feeling of profound unreality about this entire experience, heightened from the moment she’d been plucked from a hotel bar by a pair of black-clad protection officers. She was slightly disappointed that she hadn’t been taken to an underground facility and asked to join an eccentric gang of codebreakers or jewel thieves. And relieved that thus far she hadn’t ended up in witness protection or a woodland grave.

  “Your rather unexpected proposal,” the duchess added, that piercing gaze narrowing to lethal proportions.

  Sword-skewering and shallow grave imminent . . .

  For all his pessimism, Jay would have passed off this inevitable confrontation with smooth charm. But at this stage of the proceedings, the royals had requested the presence of only one representative of the bakery. Therefore, Sylvie was handling this part alone and could only do a Sorry, but—

  “I apologize for any—”

  The duchess cut her short. “We’ll consider that as read. I do not condone the willful breaking of protocol. However, I respect a quantity of initiative.”

  Over her shoulder, Princess Rose shot Sylvie a very rapid, literally blink-and-miss-it wink. Sylvie had seen the princess in person once before. She was far more put-together today. She also looked less comfortable, in both her attire and wider company.

  At her side, her poor fiancé was twitching so much that his left cheekbone kept bouncing up and down. Every few minutes, Rose squeezed his fingers in a subtle show of reassurance, and he looked down at her with all his feelings blazing in his eyes.

  Sylvie had been forced to remind herself three times now that it was incredibly patronizing to mentally clasp her hands and aww at an adult couple as if they were a basket of baby otters.

  “This is a cake that will be photographed for every major publication in the world,” the duchess went on. “It will join the annals of history. It’s also a very lucrative contract. Our expectations are high. The margin for error is zero. If you have the least doubt in your ability to deliver—”

  “Then I wouldn’t have broken protocol, and I wouldn’t be here today.” Her response was firm and adamant. She’d been nervous walking into this meeting. Naturally. But now that she was here, and for all the extraordinary circumstances surrounding this cake, it was a bake like any other. This was her thing. She would always deliver on such an important day for people celebrating their love. And in that respect, who those people were made absolutely no difference.

  That ice-storm gaze again performed a visual dissection of her every feature; then the duchess nodded. “We’d like you to prepare a second proposal for the finalized cake. There are certain parameters to which you’ll need to work. Traditions that cannot be discarded even if your personal tastes are more . . . artistic.”

  Sylvie bet Dominic wouldn’t receive that addendum at his briefing.

  Clearly, the duchess was more of a white-fondant than sugar-dragon girl.

  The Captain’s Suite

  4:32 p.m.

  Meeting with Candidate: Mr. Dominic De Vere

  “You did an admirable job of incorporating necessary details and adhering to tradition in such an elegant way,” the duchess told Dominic. The heavy note of approval caused a flicker of reaction on Princess Rose’s previously expressionless face.

  Dominic’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  The duchess turned her head a fraction, and for the first time since she’d begun her monologue, she actually acknowledged her daughter and future son-in-law. “Within those guidelines, Her Royal Highness and Mr. Marchmont have expressed a desire that the cake still feel intimate—”

  “So perhaps we could request those intimate details ourselves now, Mother?” Rose was probably the only person in Britain who’d ever interrupted the Duchess of Albany and withstood annihilation from the glare that followed. He’d underestimated the princess. She was outwardly dignified, but something hot and belligerent lurked behind that blandness, and in a very different way, she was suddenly as implacable as her mother.

  The duchess stared with more coldness than most people would expect from a parent observing their offspring. To Dominic, it was a sight entirely familiar.

  Her lips drew into a thin smile. “Of course.” She took a graceful step back, managing to lose no ground in the metaphorical sense. “My daughter and her fiancé will complete the briefing.�
� As she crossed behind John Marchmont, she murmured something. Dominic doubted if the staff around the table could hear, but he did. “Don’t stammer.”

  The young man turned a painful shade of red, his freckles standing out in large dots. From his hairline to the hollow of his neck: human strawberry. Marchmont swallowed again, hard.

  This job, a lifetime’s tenure in the public eye whether his romance lasted or not, really was going to decimate him.

  Just for a moment, Princess Rose’s public mask shattered, and she shot a look of pure fury at her mother. The anger was covered as quickly as it had broken free, but before she addressed Dominic, she very lightly ran the backs of her curled fingers down Marchmont’s arm.

  The tiny gesture was so weighted with feeling that even Dominic felt the poignancy.

  Perhaps, under the rumpled curls and visible sweat, Marchmont was also burying unexpected depths.

  If Sylvie were here, she’d be swooning all over them. Unsurprisingly, the woman who hurled handfuls of glitter at perfectly good cakes was starry-eyed for a love story, real or imagined. He’d seen her light up like a firecracker on set when she realized her pet contestants, Emma and Adam, were both single.

  “First of all, I’d also like to thank you for the effort you put into making the pitch personal to us.” Rose had produced a smile that looked genuine. Given the turmoil roiling behind that façade, she was a bitter loss to the film industry. “The lace was a lovely touch, and the thoughtfulness in using peony poppies.”

  A reminder that he owed his sister a bottle of wine.

  Twice, Pet had tentatively tried to suggest a dinner to go with that wine. Both times, she’d wandered around the point like a lost rabbit in the woods and bolted back to her comfort zone before he could reply. Which was either organizing his business like a soft-voiced sergeant major, or determinedly flirting with every unattached member of his staff.

  “I don’t want to keep you from your evening plans.” Rose pulled out a handwritten piece of paper. “So I’ll keep this concise. Regarding the flavors, for most of the layers we’d like—”