The prince’s hand felt cold when he took it. The sensation registered the very same moment that he realized the prince’s chest wasn’t moving. Reginald wasn’t breathing.
Adrenaline raced through his veins as Russell tried to find a pulse. There was none. As he looked more closely at the prince, he had the sickening feeling that there hadn’t been a pulse for at least several hours. Perhaps even a day. The body was not stiff, but rigor mortis was a condition that came and then receded.
He needed an expert. He needed help.
“Oh, God,” Russell groaned under his breath. Rising to his feet, he took out his cell phone and quickly called the royal physician. The number was on his speed dial. The man had been summoned on a fairly regular basis for more than a decade, always to see to the prince after a lengthy spate of debauchery.
“What’s the matter?” There was a hint of irritation in the doctor’s voice once Russell had identified himself. “Is he hungover again?”
Russell glanced over his shoulder at the still form. “I’m afraid he’s much more than that, Doctor.” Rather than ask the doctor to come, he told the man what was wrong. “The prince is dead.”
“Dead?” the doctor echoed in a hushed voice throbbing with disbelief. Everyone associated with Reginald had come to believe that he had a charmed life. “How did it happen?”
Russell leaned over the body. There were no telltale marks to identify the cause.
“I have no idea. He wasn’t shot or stabbed and doesn’t look to have been strangled. Everything is neat and as far as I can tell, in its place. There’s no evidence of any kind of a struggle.” These days, with the preponderance of television crime programs that came to them thanks to the Americans, everyone was an armchair crime-scene investigator, Russell thought, and that included him.
“We’re going to need an autopsy.” He heard rustling on the other end. The doctor was preparing to leave. “Does the king know?”
“Not yet.” There was a reason why he had delayed that call. He was afraid of what the shock of Reginald’s death might do to the king. “I wanted to give you some time to reach him before I called. He’s probably going to need to be sedated.”
The doctor’s tone indicated that he was not so sure. “Don’t underestimate the old man. He’s a lot tougher than you think.”
“Even tough men have been known to fall apart and he hasn’t been looking too good lately,” Russell said quietly. “How long will it take you to get to the palace?”
The doctor didn’t need any time to consider. He’d made the trip often enough, both from his home and from his office. “Fifteen minutes.”
“All right. I’ll wait fifteen minutes, then,” Russell replied. “Once you see to the king, I need you to come here.”
“Of course,” the man agreed. “And here would be—?”
“The prince’s country estate.”
“I’m on my way,” the doctor promised.
His eyes never leaving the prince’s body, Russell slowly closed his cell phone and slipped it back into his pocket. A shaft of guilt pierced him. God help him, but his first thought was that Amelia wasn’t going to have to go through with the wedding.
He couldn’t think about that now.
There was a brocade armchair in the corner of the room beside the window. Russell dragged it over next to the bed and then lowered himself into it, his eyes never leaving Reginald’s body.
What a waste. What a terrible waste.
He thought for a moment of dressing the prince, of giving him a dignity in death that Reginald had turned his back on while he’d been alive. But he knew better than to tamper with anything. Although there were indications that the prince might just have finally taken the wrong combination of alcohol and drugs, this might still be considered a crime scene. It was bad enough that he had touched first Reginald’s shoulder and then the pulse at both the prince’s throat and his wrist. He didn’t want to compromise the scene any further.
Russell folded his hands in his lap and proceeded to wait for the longest fifteen minutes of his life. The minute hand on the ancient timepiece his grandfather had given him dragged by like a snail dipped in molasses working its way along a rough surface. It seemed almost frozen in place each time he looked at it.
Fifteen minutes took forever. But finally, the minute hand touched the sixteenth stroke. Russell flipped his cell phone open once again and called the palace.
It took several more minutes for someone find the king. He’d initially met with resistance when he refused to divulge the reason behind his call, saying only that the king was expecting it.
No father ever expected this kind of a call, Russell thought sadly.
As modern-thinking as the king was, Weston refused to carry a cell phone, feeling that it was too invasive. When he finally came on the telephone to speak to him, Weston was on one of the palace’s secured land lines.
“This is King Weston,” the deep, unmistakable baritone voice echoed against his ear.
God, I wish I didn’t have to tell you this. “Your Majesty, it’s Carrington.”
The king’s voice was immediately eager. “Did you find him? Did you find the prince?”
Each word felt like molten lead as it left his tongue. “Yes, Your Majesty, I did, but—”
“What did he have to say for himself?” the monarch demanded. It was obvious that although he had been indulgent for all of Reginald’s life, the king was finally coming to the end of his patience.
“Nothing.” Russell stalled for a moment, still concerned about the king’s health despite what the doctor had said. “Your Majesty, is the royal physician with you yet?”
“No, why should he—” There was a pause. Russell heard the sound of someone knocking and then a door being opened in the background. “Doctor, what are you doing here? Is someone ill?” the king asked, addressing the doctor.
“No, Your Majesty,” Russell answered for the physician. “The doctor is there to help you.”
“Help me?” the king echoed, confused. “Why would I need a doctor—?” Abruptly, a note of fear entered his voice. “Carrington, there’s something wrong, isn’t there?”
“I’m afraid there is, Your Majesty.”
Russell could almost hear the king holding his breath. As if by not breathing, that would forestall whatever bad news was coming. “It’s Reginald, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Your Majesty, it is.” It was as if the words refused to materialize, refuse to enter the atmosphere.
There was desperation in the king’s voice. He was stalling, trying to find a reason for this melodrama that he could live with. “What kind of trouble has he gotten himself into this time?”
There was no way to say this, no way to couch the words that had to come out so that they wouldn’t leave wounds, wouldn’t hurt beyond measure. In his heart, Russell damned the prince for living the kind of lifestyle that had brought him to this. Most of all, he damned Reginald for making him have to say this to the king.
“Your Majesty, Prince Reginald is dead.”
“No,” the king cried. “No! This is a lie, a trick. You’re not telling me the truth. Reginald is trying to play me, the way he always has before. So, what does he want? What does he hope to gain from all this?”
“Nothing, Your Majesty. This isn’t a hoax. I’m very sorry to be the one to have to tell you this, but the prince really is dead. I found him at his country estate and he’s been dead for hours, perhaps more.”
He heard the receiver being dropped. And then the line on the other end went dead.
Chapter 9
Russell folded his cell phone and placed it back into his pocket. He didn’t try to reach the king again. He knew that they hadn’t been disconnected because of any signal that failed to get through. Undoubtedly, the king had terminated the conversation, unable to listen any longer. He couldn’t blame him. He had no idea how he would have reacted in the monarch’s place.
But then, he would have kept a tighter r
ein on Reginald than the king ever had. Maybe if safeguards had been put into place early on, if rules and a sense of moral values had been drummed into the prince’s head, he wouldn’t be where he was right now.
Naked and alone.
Well, almost alone, Russell amended. He shook his head, looking down at the cause of the king’s grief. “Well, you did it again, Reggie. Even in death, you’ve managed to disrupt everyone else’s life.”
And even in death, the prince had managed to be selfish, without a care for those he left behind.
Russell was worried about the king. Granted, to the passing observer, except for the last few days, the king looked to be in excellent condition, especially considering his age, but that was just the outside packaging. He knew, though it was never publicized, that the king had a number of health issues, none of them ever elaborated on, which, of course, was understandable. The public wanted an invincible ruler. If the king had a heart condition, or some sort of other malady, that would be a matter only between the king and his doctor. No one else would ever need know.
The king was by nature a private man. It physically upset him that Reginald brought so much attention to his less-than-sterling behavior. The escapades of the last few weeks had taken a toll on the monarch. His color had paled and he looked…unwell, Russell supposed was the best term for it. News of Reginald’s death might cause his health to take a sudden downward spiral.
Sharp nettles of regret dragged along his conscience. Maybe he should have waited before calling the king, or better yet, left the job of breaking the news to the royal physician.
But that would have been cowardly, he upbraided himself, and he was not a coward. He did what needed to be done, regardless of the personal consequences. In all good conscience, the king had to be informed and the sooner the better. Russell knew the king. If Weston learned that he had been kept in the dark, even for his own good, he would not take the news well.
No, he’d acted accordingly, Russell decided as late-afternoon shadows began to take possession of the room. The misgivings he was having were rooted in the guilt he still felt over sleeping with the princess. In a single reckless act, he had betrayed the king, the prince, his country and his own set of values. The passage of time was not going to change the way he felt about that.
He doubted if he would ever be right with his actions, no matter how much he cared for the princess. It was something a man of honor should not have done. Despite the reasons, there was no excuse for it.
With a heavy sigh, Russell sat back in the chair, keeping vigil.
The royal physician arrived with an ambulance forty-five minutes later. To stay under the radar and not attract any unwanted attention until the matter of the prince was properly attended to, there were no sirens, no telltale indication that there was any urgency. Still, Russell had a feeling that the driver had bent all the speed limits to get to the estate in the amount of time that he had.
Russell went outside to meet the vehicle and was surprised to see a very shaken-looking King Weston emerge from the rear of the ambulance. He almost looked fragile, Russell thought. The monarch was accompanied only by the ambulance driver, the royal physician and his chief bodyguard, Bostwick, who had been with the king since he had first accepted the crown, thirty years ago.
Weston was as pale as a ghost. Russell learned later from the doctor that the king had collapsed when he’d heard that Reginald was dead and had had to be revived. But nothing would convince him not to come with the ambulance to tend to his son.
“Where is he?” Weston demanded hoarsely, striding past Russell and walking into the mansion. His voice echoed within the vaulted ceilings. “Where is my son?”
“This way, Your Majesty.” Russell moved around the monarch and led him up the stairs to the bedroom where he’d found the prince.
Grimly, he stood to the side of the doorway, allowing the king to enter first. The monarch seemed to be in almost a trance as he crossed to the bed and stood over his only son.
Dr. Neubert walked in behind him. In his service for only a few years, the young physician was concerned about the toll this was having on his monarch’s heart and general health.
“Your Majesty, you shouldn’t—” Dr. Neubert began.
Weston waved him into silence with an impatient gesture.
From his vantage point, Russell could see the tears gathering in the king’s blue-gray eyes. Protocol dictated that he hang back, that he allow the king his dignity, his moment, but Russell thought of him as a second father and as such, could not bring himself to leave the man standing so alone. He crossed to stand beside him.
“I’ve lived too long, Russell,” the king finally said, his eyes never leaving the inert form. “No father should have to see his son dead before him.” He swayed slightly and Russell was quick to lend his support, steadying him. That Weston was in a bad way became imminently clear when the king did not shrug him away but accepted his arm. For a moment, he looked very old, very worn.
“Your Majesty, please, you shouldn’t have come,” the doctor insisted. “You should be resting.”
The king ignored him. “And this is the way you found him?” he asked Russell.
Again, Russell wished he could have done something about Reginald’s appearance for the king’s sake. But all he could do was nod. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
Every syllable was shrouded in grief’s dark colors. “Naked and dead?”
If there had been some way to excuse it, Russell would have pounced on it. But there wasn’t. He knew that finding Reginald this way somehow only heightened the tragedy, the waste. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
Weston sighed and shook his head. “Too long,” he repeated, more to himself than to anyone else in the room. “Too long. I’ve lived too long.”
“Your Majesty, about that sedative now—” the doctor began.
“I don’t want a sedative,” Weston said with such feeling that it gave Russell hope the monarch was rallying. “I want my son. I want answers. Carrington, call the constable,” he ordered.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Dutifully, Russell took out his phone again.
Jonas Abernathy was the royal constable, a jovial, affable man who, when he had initially been hired twenty-two years ago, had known police procedures like the back of his hand. However, in all the years he had been in the king’s service, he’d had very little chance to put his knowledge to use. His wealth of knowledge had faded until it was little more than a memory.
He and his two assistants reminded Russell of small-town officers. Though the country had its own police force, it was more for show and for parades than anything else. Crime was not a problem in Silvershire. A little theft, a few arguments that had gotten out of hand and once a jealous husband who had shot both his wife and himself, missing both times. There’d never been a murder on record in Silvershire.
As he watched the three men conducting the investigation, Russell knew that they would not be equal to the task if the prince turned out to be a victim of homicide rather than his excesses. They were going to need someone good and someone discreet to handle this.
Russell waited until they were on their way out of the mansion, following the prince’s covered body as it was being taken to the ambulance, before he said anything. He stood back with the king as the driver and physician lifted the gurney into the rear of the vehicle.
“Your Majesty, perhaps you might want to employ a more sophisticated agency to look into this matter for you.” When the king made no reply, he continued, “I know of an organization that is very discreet.”
As if rousing himself from an unnaturally deep sleep, Weston rendered a heartfelt sigh before finally answering. “Yes, you’re probably right. Abernathy and his two will never get to the bottom of this if it is the slightest bit involved.” Inside the ambulance, Dr. Neubert extended his hand to him, but rather than take it, the king suddenly turned to Russell. “Where were the bodyguards while this was happening? Where are they now?” he demanded hea
tedly. “Where were the people who were supposed to keep my son safe?”
“That will be one of the first things that will be addressed,” Russell promised. The absence of the men who usually surrounded the prince had struck him as odd from the moment he’d discovered the body.
Finally taking the hand that the doctor offered, the king climbed into the rear of the ambulance, to take a seat beside his son. To grieve over the eyes that would never again open to look at him.
He turned to look at Russell before seating himself. “All right, I leave it in your hands, Carrington. Have it looked into. Find someone to do this for me, to bring me all the answers. I need to know what happened.”
Russell already knew who he would approach. There was an organization known as the Lazlo Group. It was an international agency that could be trusted to be both professional and thorough in their investigation. They did not come cheaply, but they were well worth it. The organization guaranteed results and from what he had picked up abroad, the Lazlo Group always delivered on its promise.
“Right away, Your Majesty.”
Russell stood back as the driver moved to close the ambulance doors. He caught one last look at the king. For a moment, Weston was not a ruler of a small, proud country, nor a man who had helmed that country into prosperity for the last thirty years. What Russell saw was a broken man.
“Is it true?”
Russell turned away from the fireplace. April dampness had brought a need for a fire to take the chill out of the air. Or perhaps, he mused, it was the circumstances that had rendered the chill and the fire was only an illusion to keep it at bay.
He’d followed the ambulance to the palace. A clinic was maintained on the premises, where the king or the prince could be seen when they weren’t feeling well without being subjected to the public’s prying eyes. The royal staff came there as well to be treated for things that were not of a serious nature. But now one of the clinic’s three rooms had been converted into a makeshift morgue.
The Heart of a Ruler Page 10