by Lucy Parker
Pet seemed to have gone unnaturally silent, however, and after about ten minutes, Dominic turned on the radio, which Sylvie doubted got much airtime in this vehicle.
A song finished, and the DJs filled the car with boring chat about a movie she’d never heard of. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d watched a film. Life at the moment revolved mostly around cake, with snatches of sleep when possible.
She looked at the back of Dominic’s head, his forearm resting on the steering wheel.
Although one or two other things were starting to take precedence.
The inane chatter suddenly turned to the royal wedding.
“They’re putting the whole thing on telly, so I hope the groom can get his vows out by dinnertime,” one of the shock jocks cracked.
Sylvie shook her head with a low sound of disgust.
“Sounds like Marchmont is still boffing his ex. The Eton set usually wait until after the wedding before they hook up a bit on the side . . .”
Emphatically, Dominic reached out and switched the radio off.
In the renewed quiet, Pet said, “These stories popping up about John Marchmont. It’s bullshit, surely?”
“It’s definitely bullshit.” Sylvie had no doubts whatsoever on that score. “He loves Rosie. I’ve met a lot of engaged couples in this business, and I’ve rarely seen a couple with such a strong, private connection.”
She expected a cynical rejoinder from Dominic at that, but he surprised her. “I agree. The connection between them seemed genuine.”
He changed lanes, turning into a quieter street. This was a part of London Sylvie rarely visited, mostly expensive commercial zones. Very old and exclusive-looking properties converted into office and loft space.
When Dominic had found a parking space, they stood looking at a heavily fenced Georgian property.
“And the battle resumes,” Dominic murmured.
“Hmm.” Sylvie started forward. “Countdown until the final proposals is on. I’d start preparing your gracious concession speech now.”
“Oh no,” she heard Pet say behind her, with a perfect blend of condescension and sympathy. “Does she really think they have a chance?”
Without turning around, Sylvie lifted her hand, made a very unsporting gesture, and heard Pet’s laughter ring out.
Dominic snorted softly.
Fortunately, none of the intimidating guards at the entrance had seen that lapse of professionalism. They were all too occupied with the woman having an almighty tantrum on the steps.
“I’m sorry, miss,” a grim-looking man in black said, stepping to block another attempt by the curly-haired blonde to get past him. “Entrance is by appointment only. And you’re not on our list.”
“I know they’re in there,” she snapped. She was probably quite pretty, but right now her face was red and screwed up with fury. She stamped her foot like a stymied toddler. “And I demand to see Johnny. I’ll even talk to her if he’s supposedly so ‘busy.’”
A woman in similarly funereal attire said something into her phone, which provoked a renewed screech of outrage.
“I need to see him. And who are you?” In a momentary break from her wild gesticulating, she’d caught sight of Sylvie and Pet, standing awkwardly at the bottom of the steps. “More of his discards?”
She suddenly made a break for the doors and was scooped up by the biggest of the guards. He tucked her under his arm like a football and calmly walked past them and out of sight. Flailing arms and legs and a stream of profanity exited with him.
Pet ran her fingers through her hair, mussing the sleekly straightened bob. “That was a bit . . .”
Disquieting. Sylvie totally agreed. She suspected any premises with a celebrity connection, royal or otherwise, copped their share of unhealthy attention, but there had been something about the look in that woman’s eyes.
Dominic’s words came back to her—I don’t know if you’ve ever looked at someone and seen pure, undiluted hatred seeping out.
His hand touched her back. “Hazard of being in the public eye, especially in this day and age, when tech creates an illusion—or delusion—of intimacy. I think the source of the Don Juan rumors might have just revealed herself at some volume.”
“You don’t think that’s really John Marchmont’s ex?” Pet shot a disbelieving glance back. “It would be like a rabbit shagging a wolverine.”
“Thank you for that image.” Dominic pulled out his credentials to give to the waiting guard. “And no, I imagine that was a woman who’s never met Marchmont in her life, and probably needs a bit of help and compassion.”
Pet bit her lip.
Sylvie also produced her ID and checked in, and a guard escorted them inside. The foyer was expectedly plush, with a marble floor and a crystal chandelier. A gold-printed board stood next to a glass elevator, but there were no names, simply suite numbers.
She checked her notes. “Suite 4B?”
“That’s what I have.” Dominic reached out and hit the button, and the doors slid open.
When the lift reached the fourth floor, Edward Lancier was waiting for them. “Ms. Fairchild. Mr. De Vere. And I received a very last-minute request to approve a third party.” He’d couldn’t have sounded more put-upon if they’d asked him to personally escort Pet to the meeting, having first fetched her from the peaks of Everest.
“My sister, Petunia De Vere. She’s part of my team,” Dominic said briefly, and some of the pensiveness in Pet’s face was replaced with shy pleasure.
Edward turned smartly, knocked on a door, and held it open.
Dominic stood back and nodded Sylvie and Pet forward. She stepped into the room.
She’d been expecting a short and impersonal progress meeting with staff.
She had not been expecting to find the royal couple themselves, lounging about with takeaway cups from the Starlight Circus and an open bag of crisps.
“Good afternoon,” Rosie said, rising to her feet. “Thank you for coming, team. Teams.”
Johnny, who was wearing jeans and a Bastille tee, also stood and looked expectantly at Pet.
Rosie politely thanked and unceremoniously booted Edward from the room, and Dominic introduced his sister. Pet had gone uncharacteristically quiet.
“I like Bastille” was all she said before turning bright red.
Johnny immediately beamed at her. Sylvie could almost see the cartoon thought bubble above his head: A friend!
Rosie was dressed more formally than her fiancé, in a high-necked black lace dress. A leather blazer was slung over a nearby chair. Her sharp navy eyes performed a rapid assessment of Pet before switching to Sylvie and Dominic. “You were expecting to meet with Edward today.”
“Yes, we were.” Dominic’s response was equally blunt. The princess nodded for them to sit down. “I wouldn’t have thought your schedule would allow time for further meetings in person until we’re actually contracted and ready to move forward with the final cake.”
“Sadly misguided with the ‘we’re’ there, De Vere,” Sylvie murmured. “But otherwise—ditto.”
“There are some further last-minute elements we’d like included in the cake tenders . . .” Rosie correctly interpreted Sylvie’s expression and cracked a small grin. “Nothing complicated, I assure you. But I’d like to be sure that our requests are relayed . . . correctly.”
That pronouncement echoed into a short, expressive pause, broken by Johnny’s interjection.
“Lancier knows the ropes at the palace,” he said flatly. “But his appointment as her right-hand man was not Rosie’s choice. He used to work for a different branch of the household, and his loyalties remain firmly in that camp. She can’t sneeze in the night without Lancier sending a report up the family tree. Her relatives like to passive-aggressively meddle. They don’t like the increased spotlight on us since the announcement of the engagement, and that we draw m-more than our allotted share of attention. Somehow any ideas we shoot down the pipeline emerge looking ver
y different to what we intended.”
The silence extended.
Rosie’s gaze slid sideways, and Johnny looked fondly back at her.
She cleared her throat. Patted his arm. “First order of business. On Sunday, a ball will be held at St. Giles to celebrate my twenty-fifth birthday.”
“Happy birthday!” Pet blurted, and Rosie’s smile became more genuine.
“Thank you. My actual birthday was last month, but . . .” She shrugged. “Networking.”
That visible unbending was enough to unplug Pet’s nervous chattiness. “I hope you celebrated privately, too.”
Sylvie had been watching Johnny. Whenever his face fell into lines of repose, she thought there was a certain strain there, a tension far weightier than his nerves and awkward shuffling at their first meeting. But at Pet’s words, a twinkle appeared. “There may have been an all-night gaming tournament. And a very p-poor showing by the birthday girl.”
“It was four to three. In my favor,” Rosie retorted, and her fiancé reached out and took her hand, bringing it to his lips in a natural, affectionate gesture.
“I threw the last round as a gift. Gentleman’s code.”
“Nice try, babe.”
Pet looked absolutely fascinated.
Rosie cast a final laughing glance at Johnny—but Sylvie thought there was still underlying tension in her own demeanor, as well. “The final cake tenders are due on Sunday. I’d like to invite you both . . .” She looked at Pet, and her expression settled into something gentler. Kind. “I’d like to invite you all to attend the ball as our guests after you submit, including your business partner, Sylvie. Regardless of the outcome, your hard work is enormously appreciated.”
Sylvie was completely taken aback, and surprised that Pet wasn’t shooting about the room like an out-of-control firecracker. She was almost vibrating in her seat.
Dominic was clearly not as enamored as his sister by the prospect of a black-tie ball in a royal palace, but when he saw her excitement, the habitually hard edges of his expression softened.
Sylvie could very easily imagine what Pet had been like as a little girl, and suddenly she saw them in her mind’s eye—an emotionally battered, stoic small boy, clutching the baby girl who loved him, clambering onto that train.
She blinked away the burning in her eyes when Dominic looked at her with a small frown.
“Attendance obviously isn’t mandatory,” Rosie added. “A ball is not everyone’s idea of a delightful Sunday evening.”
Johnny managed not to pop up like a disastrously honest jack-in-the-box again, but the unspoken It’s not ours, either hung in the air.
Rosie dutifully pushed on. “With regard to the wedding cake, how difficult would it be to add an additional two tiers?”
She’d done a sketch of the changes they wanted, and Sylvie took a photograph of the drawing for later reference.
“This is a beautiful building,” Pet said suddenly. “Is it a permanent base for business? Or just a one-off hire for today?”
“For a number of reasons, we prefer to run some of our engagements outside of the palace.” Rosie was seemingly unbothered by the rapid-fire questions. “We keep an external suite of offices here, although we don’t advertise that fact.”
There was a very slight, very polite warning in those words, which Pet immediately discarded. “It can’t be that secret,” she said, so bluntly that her resemblance to her brother was momentarily marked. “Somebody was trying to get in to see you downstairs, and she obviously wasn’t invited.”
Rosie frowned. “Probably a member of the press,” she said, with an ironic twist on the last word. “If she may be so called. We have a reciprocal agreement with the media, but one of the tabloid papers in particular respects very few boundaries, and their photographers have been increasingly invasive.”
“Yes, my staff have had to shoo a few out of Sugar Fair.” Sylvie clicked off her pen. “But I don’t think your visitor today was a reporter. She was quite insistent about speaking to Johnny, and she was rather . . . cross,” she finished inadequately.
Flicking over a new page in her notebook, she looked up and caught the looks on the couple’s faces. In Rosie’s expression, she saw nothing but faint irritation, no obvious concern or suspicion.
Johnny, however—just for a second, something flickered. Alarm? Guilt?
Interesting. Worrying.
“That’s why we have security.” Rosie dismissed the subject and clasped her hands together. “We do want a quick word with you separately. We don’t expect you to divulge your secrets in front of each other.” The princess started scrolling through pages on her tablet. “But with regard to the design honorific to Uncle Patrick . . .” She saw their mutually raised eyebrows. “I’m afraid that surprise lasted about half an hour.”
Johnny pinkened. Whatever Sylvie had just seen in his face had gone, vanquished by a rush of self-deprecation. “When I’m excited about anything, my first instinct is to tell Rosie. She’s my best friend.”
Pet had heart-eyes again.
“It was a really lovely thought,” Rosie said, her gaze lingering and gentle on Johnny. “I miss him a lot.” Her smile twisted as she turned back to Sylvie. “Patrick—he genuinely cared about other people. He was interested in their lives. Truly happy when things went well for them. Just . . .” She made a little gesture with her hand.
“A good man,” Dominic said.
“Yes.” Rosie glanced at her lap, then drew in a deep breath. When she straightened her shoulders, getting back to business, the professional demeanor slipped back over her like a veil. It was like a holographic image—turn the picture one way and see the royal trappings, the well-trained princess; tip the image and catch a glimpse of the normal human woman. “As I was saying, with regard to that element of the design, I’m aware it’s quite a difficult brief. I was closer to Patrick than probably anyone else in the world . . .”
Another break in the trained exterior; her face was fleetingly stark. Bleak. Then it was gone. “I have no idea what to suggest for the design. Patrick was an intensely private man, and for as long as I knew him, he was primarily focused on his charities. And his music. But unfortunately, you can’t put his piano sonatas on a cake. Nor do I want a sugar facsimile of his pet bees.” A wry postscript. “Short of straight-out writing his name on a tier, which would go down like a bucket of cold sick with my grandfather,” Rosie added with graphic bluntness, “I can’t provide much help. But it occurred to Johnny that you might want access to the private records at Abbey Hall . . .” Closely observing their faces, her shrewd eyes narrowed. “You’ve already been there.”
“We both have, yes,” Sylvie said, and exchanged rapid glances with Dominic. Ask about Jessica Maple-Moore now, or when they split groups shortly and someone could speak to Rosie privately? She was inclined toward the latter and Dominic clearly agreed. He raised his hand to push back a strand of that lush silvering hair—and made a tiny gesture with his forefinger and middle finger. It was Operation Cake language, a smattering of hand signals that the crew used to communicate while the cameras were rolling. In this case: Wait. A full dialogue in a matter of seconds, without saying a word. She inclined her head. “It opened possibilities.”
Rosie lifted her brows. “Impressive.” She picked up her Starlight Circus cup. “And how about progress on the Midnight Elixir layer? Does it also advance?”
It advanced straight into the bin. Layer upon disgusting layer.
“I don’t know about De Vere’s,” Sylvie said primly. “But we’re very close.” Dominic cleared his throat at that, and she lifted her chin. “Very close.”
Johnny took a sip from his own cup. “God, it actually is ghastly.”
The end of Dominic’s tapping pen hit his paper hard, and Sylvie looked up from her own notes. Having put money into Darren Clyde’s cash register, and the world’s most revolting cake onto her poor, abused taste buds, she couldn’t even begin to hide her expression.
&nb
sp; Belatedly, Johnny explained, “My assistant picked up the wrong drink today. I don’t know what this is exactly, but it’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever tasted.”
Yet, he kept drinking it, looking perfectly happy to do so.
“Johnny’s assistant is leaving after the wedding,” Rosie explained, probably to smooth over their unblinking silence. “He’s getting married himself. Naturally, he’s become a little distracted. But I’m pleased to hear you’re so close to translating the flavor.”
They split up, then, Dominic and Pet going into an adjacent room with Johnny. Sylvie answered a few of Rosie’s questions about her progress and asked for clarification on several points. She was probing into which flavor notes of the Midnight Elixir the couple most enjoyed when she realized that Rosie was answering on autopilot. Very polite, very practiced, but very definitely worried.
If she saw anyone upset or stressed, Sylvie asked if they needed help. She was quite sure it wasn’t in the etiquette books to ask a princess what was up; nor would it be protocol to receive a truthful response. Nevertheless . . . “Your Highness. Are you all right?”
Rosie didn’t stiffen or startle. She looked up smoothly, her face serene. Sylvie fully expected an immaculate brush-off.
The other woman’s eyeliner was smudged, just a tiny bit, at one corner. Those large eyes searched Sylvie’s face. And she spoke. And it was neither a brush-off nor a social lie. “I don’t take for granted the privileges of my birth. They are many and legion. In many ways, I’m one of the most fortunate women in this country.”
Sylvie said nothing.
“There is a flip side to those advantages.” Rosie paused. “I’m sure you can understand that it’s rather difficult to know whom one can confide in, at times.”
“I can very much imagine that would be the case.” Especially if Rosie’s senior staff were spying on her every move and reporting any small misstep to her relatives and their staff. It would be like living in a game of Minesweeper, constantly trying not to step on the bombs.
“I learned, the hard way, to make swift judgments as to character,” Rosie said crisply. “And instinctively, right from the beginning, I’ve trusted you. You could have sold the story of my behavior in Sugar Fair that night to the gutter press. You didn’t.”