The Royal Runaway

by Lindsay Emory

  He led me to the service elevator and hit the button for the basement. “Your security officer is ill. You’re bringing a card and gifts to cheer up old Hugo.”

  “Hugh.”

  “Sure.”

  At the door to the security office, he put his eyeball next to a red light in a box on the wall, and the door unlocked for him. I looked at him through the tower of oranges. “Why am I holding a fruit basket?”

  “Because no one argues with a princess with a fruit basket.”

  It turned out to be true. How Nick would know that everyone in the security office would smile and nod and ask no questions, I wasn’t sure.

  Maybe that’s what they expected of me—all they expected of me. A pretty face behind a bland display of cheer and charity. No one would suspect that the pretty face was accompanied by a British spy.

  Hugh’s office was a small, drab box, a shocking contrast to the gilt and ornamentation in the rooms just three floors above. “This doesn’t make sense,” I muttered after Nick shut the door. “If Hugh isn’t even here, who is going to eat all these oranges?”

  Nick pulled the rolling chair up to the desk and woke the computer. “Someone’s picking up his mail.” He pushed a turquoise envelope toward me. “Write him a nice note, will you?”

  I stared at the get-well card and the ballpoint pen clipped to it. Then I looked at Nick, who was now expertly accessing the files on Hugh’s computer.

  “Aren’t those password-protected?” I asked, suddenly worried about the security of the security office’s not-so-secure computers.

  Nick frowned at the screen and ignored my observant question. “We don’t have much time. Have you finished that note?”

  I grabbed the pen and card. “ ‘Please come back soon,’ ” I read aloud as I wrote. “ ‘The new guy is a jackass.’ ”

  Nick’s irritated expression showed in the reflection of the computer screen. He was not impressed.

  “What does this mean?” Nick asked brusquely. He was pointing at the calendar program and it took me a minute to decipher what we were looking at.

  “Those are personnel assignments,” I told him. “Who is on duty for each member of the royal family. Here.” I reached over and indicated a color-coded key. “Those are the family members.”

  “Cricket? Horntail? Grasshopper?”

  “Sophie, Henry, Caroline,” I said, explaining the code names of my siblings.

  Nick analyzed the list. “Honeybee?”

  “Me,” I said.

  “Let me guess: your grandmother is Queen Bee.”

  “Monarch, actually.”

  “What an uncrackable code,” Nick drawled. “I suppose my brother’s code name was Darter.”

  “How did you know?”

  Nick pointed at the screen. “Darter stopped receiving security detail the day of your wedding.”

  “Ah.” I popped the cap back on the pen and stepped away. “So we know who was assigned to him the day he disappeared, then?”

  Nick was scribbling down the information; a series of numbers had been entered throughout the day. “I’m assuming these are initials and last names.”

  I read the names, some familiar, some not. E. Hejnstrom. T. Gruber. K. J. Charlet. “Yes, I think so. Will you be able to talk to these people?”

  “Probably not,” he said. “But I’ll send the names to Max so he can get in touch. Apparently there have been a number of reassignments. A few retirements.”

  “Really?” I was surprised. Some of the security team were like extended family. They just seemed to always have been there.

  “A lot happens when you’re on a deserted island for four months, Princess.”

  I couldn’t help but wonder if there was a connection. Sure, a presumptive prince disappearing right from under one’s nose would be met with disapproval from superiors. But what if some of Christian’s security had been forced out because of his disappearance? I rubbed my forehead, distressed at the thought. How many people had lost their jobs because of my aborted wedding? Because I was wondering if Christian’s disappearance had resulted in people getting fired, I didn’t notice what Nick had said until it was too late.

  “Honeybee, you say?” he murmured, and it took me a moment to realize he’d said it in English. That alerted me to trouble more than the recitation of my code name.

  Nick had pulled up a file, marked “Honeybee Incident Reports.”

  My stomach sank as I realized what he was looking at. Much like the file that Tamar and Hugh had shown me mere days ago on Nicholas Fraser-Campbell, my file was filled with reports, photographs, and records of past behavior.

  A minute or so passed as Nick scanned the stories.

  “We should go,” I said.

  “Sure.” Nick didn’t look up. Didn’t move. Engrossed by my past.

  “It wouldn’t take me this long to write a card,” I hissed.

  Finally, he raised his eyes to meet mine. Then his eyebrow rose and I knew I had made a fatal mistake inviting Nick to be part of the security office, even undercover.

  “I didn’t know they kept records like that,” I said nervously.

  “It’s their job to protect you. Of course, they’re going to discipline those who let you get away.”

  “They’re not supposed to,” I said defensively. “When I was seventeen, my father told them that it wasn’t anyone’s fault when I ran off.”

  Nick gave me a look reserved for three-year-olds and drunk teenagers who should have known better when they backed their car into a bush. “It’s their job. And you make it harder for them.”

  Guilt and shame crawled up my throat. My compulsion to skip out of the palace had been long-standing and, apparently, well documented. Once I’d passed into adulthood, I’d ordered people to stop following me at times.

  But hadn’t I always known there was no way out? Not really. Not until I’d stuffed myself into a trash chute with Nick Fraser-Campbell at the National Galleries.

  “We have to go.” I shuffled toward the door, with one last look at the fruit basket for my flu-stricken security guard. I hoped it would be delivered soon.

  Before I could open the door, Nick’s hand clamped around mine on the doorknob. He whispered in my ear, “If you run, you’ll not get away from me that easily.”

  I half closed my eyes as a thrill ran up my spine. “Is that a threat?”

  Nick smiled slowly. “It’s my solemn vow as a Scotsman.”

  twenty-five

  PRINCESS SOPHIE GAVE A DRAMATIC sigh, parading into my apartments in patchouli and Prada. “My God, you’re lucky. I’m in a tiny turret in the West Wing. All this space! And liquor!” She made a beeline for my silver tray of alcohol.

  “I’m sure if you lived here full-time, you’d be allowed your very own ice bucket,” I told my little sister.

  “If I lived here full-time, I’d be a desperate alcoholic, incoherent with insanity,” she said, considering the options on my bar. “Ooh, champagne!” She reached for the vodka instead. “I’m so jet-lagged, I couldn’t even do my hair.” She touched the multicolored scarf that wrapped her wild red curls.

  “Vodka probably won’t help with the jet lag.”

  “Oh, won’t it?” she drawled, taking a sip of the drink she’d just poured over two ice cubes. Then she noticed the man in my room. “Well, now . . . who is this?” She batted her lashes.

  “Nick Cameron,” I said, barely holding back an eye roll. “He’s just been assigned to me.”

  “Thea, you are the luckiest.” She didn’t stop staring at Nick when she said this, her wide blue eyes sparkling as she appraised him like one of Big Gran’s racehorses. “Such a strong, capable man. He probably makes you feel very secure.”

  I made an apologetic face to Nick behind Sophie’s back.

  She cocked her head. “And he’s sitting. How refreshing! It’s always so uncomfortable to have security constantly lurking over one’s shoulder.”

  Nick lifted an eyebrow. “I stand very
quickly.”

  “I bet you do.” Sophie’s suggestive tone was inappropriate for a princess. And for my little sister.

  “Sophie, please,” I said.

  But she ignored me and sat on my sofa, resting her chin in one hand and clutching her vodka protectively in the other. “You do know what you’re getting into with Thea, don’t you?” she asked Nick. “She has a reputation. I’m sure they’ve briefed you.”

  “Thoroughly,” I inserted impatiently.

  “I’ve reviewed her file,” Nick said carefully. I wanted to reach back in time and drop the thick file labeled “Honeybee” on his foot.

  “Mm-hmm.” Sophie took a sip. “Well, I’m sure it’s all there. Take very good care of my sister.” She lowered her voice. “She’s very quick. Blink and you’ll miss her.”

  “I can handle her.”

  Sophie’s hot-pink lips pursed in pleasure as she winked at me. “Like I said. Lucky.”

  I couldn’t handle the innuendo anymore. “Did you get your calendar?” I asked her while heading toward the bar myself, pouring a glass of champagne to take the little-sister edge off while still keeping my wits.

  Another dramatic sigh from my redheaded sibling. “Factory ribbons and cancer events and orphanage visits . . . I didn’t even know we had orphanages in this day and age. Thea, what did you do?”

  “What do you mean?” I topped off my champagne. Desperate times and all.

  She swung her feet up on the pale pink upholstery. Her rainbow-painted toes peeped out of her high-heeled sandals. They would have to be toned down before she toured any cancer wards. “The troops haven’t been called out like this since the last one of your incidents.” She eyed me speculatively. “I thought marriage was supposed to make you behave.”

  “You might have noticed, I’m not married.”

  Sophie smiled naughtily. “And I’m so glad. But I was desperately worried about you on Perpetua all these months.” She tilted her head toward Nick. “Make a note. Thea becomes a bit unpredictable when she’s locked up.”

  “You make it sound like I was in prison.”

  “Perpetua is a prison.” She looked at Nick again. “Have you been there?”

  He shook his head no, saying nothing, but he still had that glimmer in his eye that meant he was way more interested in this conversation than he was letting on.

  “It’s beautiful in a haunted, freezing, isolated way.”

  “Sounds lovely,” Nick drawled.

  Apparently I was the only one who heard his sarcasm because Sophie continued to explain, “It’s where they put us when they want us to disappear.”

  “Have you been sent there?”

  A question from the bodyguard would have been unacceptable if any other royal were in the room, but Sophie found the novelty thrilling. “Oh, yes. I went through a phase, after I finished school. I rebelled, like we all do. It’s practically expected of every member of the family. But still . . . Thea holds the record.”

  “That’s in the past,” I said, avoiding Nick’s curious glance.

  “Yes,” Sophie agreed. “Except now I’ve been called back to Drieden to inspect the newest organic rutabaga farm. If you haven’t misbehaved again, why is Big Gran requesting my presence at St. Francis’s Home for Incontinent Dogs?”

  This was much safer ground and a question I could answer. “It’s Pierre Anders. He called for a vote on the republic issue.”

  “Oh, he’s done that for years.” Sophie waved a hand, dismissing Anders and his regular calls for dismantling the Driedish monarchy.

  I realized that Sophie was right. This wasn’t a new threat, and Anders had never come close to convincing Parliament before. So why was Gran so rattled this time?

  I was distracted from that thought when another knock sounded on my door and my brother, Henry, boldly strolled into the room, his military posture as glaring as the Driedish football club jersey and garish plaid golf pants he had on. If he couldn’t wear a uniform, the man had no clue how to dress.

  “Henry!” I greeted him.

  “Where the fuck did you find that outfit?” Sophie asked, echoing my own thoughts.

  “There’s liquor over there,” I called out.

  “Thank God,” he muttered. Then he stopped, halfway to my bottle-topped cart, and stared at Nick. “Who are you?”

  “That’s Nick, Thea’s new Hugh.”

  Henry took a minute to work that out. Likely, he had forgotten the names of my security staff, which was understandable since he flew fighter jets for NATO and probably had a lot of other details to memorize. “He’s sitting,” he noted.

  “New protocol,” I said.

  “It’s lovely,” Sophie declared brightly. “It’s almost like he’s part of the family.”

  I choked a little on my champagne.

  “You look familiar,” Henry said to Nick, his eyes narrowing. “Have we met? Were you in the Army?”

  “Marines,” Nick said in such perfect Driedish, Henry would never have suspected that Nick had served in the British Marines.

  “Ah.” A gleam of respect shone in Henry’s eyes. A royal prince he might be, but he was a military man at heart. “I’d offer you a drink, but I’m sure it’s against regulation.”

  “It is.”

  Henry poured a shot of whiskey. “And you’ll need to keep your wits about you around Thea.”

  I’d forgotten that little brothers were just as annoying as little sisters. “Shut up, Henry.”

  But that only egged him on. “She’s impossible, really. And for a princess, she really hates being told what to do.”

  “I’ve noticed,” Nick said drily.

  It was the worst possible thing for him to say. Now Henry and Sophie were all ears and eager for more.

  “Really . . .” Sophie drew out the word, pregnant with curiosity.

  Henry chuckled. “You move fast, Thea. I guess there weren’t enough diversions on Perpetua.”

  Sophie leaned forward and cupped her mouth. “Diversions are code for men,” she said in a stage whisper to Nick.

  I knew what they were doing. This was all to tease me. They didn’t care about Nick or helping him manage the unmanageable princess, and they had no idea of the extent and depth of Nick’s and my relationship.

  I didn’t know how to shut them up. If I protested, they would keep going. If I said nothing, they would goad me. My only hope was to get drunk. Or create a distraction.

  “Gran wants you to open the new fishing museum,” I told my brother.

  He leaned his head back and groaned. “Isn’t that what Father is for?”

  “What the fuck is a fishing museum?” Sophie asked, again echoing my thoughts.

  “I think it will be a joint appearance. Prince Albert and Prince Henry, tying hooks together. Filial fishing, if you will.”

  Henry fixed me with a baleful stare. “Let’s get out of here. Like that night after your wedding.”

  Oh no. I spoke quickly. “We have the opera opening tonight. Sophie and I have hair and makeup in an hour.” Ordinarily, a conversation about hair and makeup would be more than enough to distract my little sister, but something else had caught her attention.

  “Wait. You two went out after the wedding?” Her red curls bounced indignantly. “And you didn’t invite me? I was trapped between Aunt Carlotta and some dead-eyed, ancient Hapsburgs and you two were off cavorting without me?”

  Henry grinned. Sophie waited for an explanation. And Nick’s green eyes were watching all of this.

  What the hell. “I had to blow off some steam.”

  Sophie lit up. “You didn’t.”

  Henry tilted his head in my direction. “I caught her in the east stairwell. What could I do? She needed a chaperone. She was in a bad way.”

  “Thea knows all the ways out of the palace,” Sophie said in an aside to Nick. “Just watch.”

  Henry winked at me. “And let’s just say, I have a mate who’s still asking me when you’re going to call.”

&n
bsp; “Thea!” Sophie squealed. “You were supposed to be married!”

  “Ah, but I wasn’t.” I stood, checking my watch. “There’s no law against a single woman having a good time.”

  “Except Gran’s law. Going out on the town the night you were left at the altar? The scandal! Now I get why you were shipped off so fast.”

  “Perpetua.” Henry shivered and nodded at Nick. “The next time Thea gets shipped off, pack extra long underwear. You’ll be there for a while.”

  I leaned my head back and drank more champagne. A half hour with my brother and sister, and suddenly an isolated former convent in the middle of the North Sea sounded like heaven.

  twenty-six

  THE GILDED GRAND DAME OF Driedish architecture, the Imperial Opera House, was built in 1798 at the height of the Baroque era. It was designed by Edouard Sharpe, the architect of the National Galleries and the ostentatious home of the infamous General Jacques Goueget. It was still considered one of the best examples of traditional Driedish design.

  Opening night at the opera was always a lavish affair, drawing the titled and wealthy from around Europe who were bored by their yachts and summer coastal escapes. The Driedish opera season was the earliest in Europe. Some people thought this was to avoid the early winter storms that started rolling in off the North Sea, spoiling opera devotees’ fashionable gowns and many a soprano’s vibrato. But history told a different tale.

  “I swear to God, if you start talking about the prostitute again, I will throw you off this balcony,” Sophie muttered behind her clenched-teeth smile.

  The four representatives of the House of Laurent—Big Gran, myself, Sophie, and Henry—stood in the royal box, waving at the crowd before the President of the Opera declared the season open (with the implicit permission of the Crown, of course).

  The applause would continue until Big Gran lifted a hand and gestured at the podium for the President to speak, as she did now. The four of us stepped back into the darkness of the box so the guy could have his big moment.

  “She wasn’t a prostitute,” I couldn’t help saying to Sophie in a hushed voice. “She was the king’s mistress.”