Russell began to wonder if there was anyone on Reginald’s side. The list of people who had something against the man kept growing. He almost felt sorry for the late prince. “Do you have any idea who was blackmailing him?”
Lucia shook her head. “That I haven’t found out yet. I haven’t been able to trace the source of the e-mails—yet,” she emphasized the word. “But I’ve only been at this for less than a day,” she reminded him with the confidence of one who had had eventually met every single technological challenge she’d encountered.
By the expression on her face, Russell surmised that Lazlo’s operative was not in the habit of making excuses or feeling that she needed to.
“Anything else?” he asked before leaving her to her work. He really didn’t expect her to answer in the affirmative.
“Yes.” He stopped in his tracks and looked at her. “Possibly there’s a little Reginald out there somewhere.”
Russell stiffened. “What?”
The depth of Reginald’s stupidity never ceased to amaze him. Or maybe it was just the prince’s incredible ego that had allowed him to think that he could leave traces of his indiscretion right there, in his computer. This after he had gone through all the trouble, at Reginald’s behest, of tracking the woman down to pay her off.
He did his best to appear surprised.
Strange how things turned out. Reginald’s vanity could very well prove to be his saving grace. Reginald’s unborn child was the natural heir to the throne. That could easily take him off the hook. With any luck, Weston could act as regent on behalf of the child until such time as the child was of an age to rule on his own. Anything was preferable to his having to be crowned, Russell thought.
And probably preferable to Reginald having taken the crown, he added as an afterthought. He had no doubts that, barring some miracle, Reginald would have made a terrible monarch.
Feigning surprise, he asked, “Who’s the child’s mother?”
“Strictly speaking, there is no child yet,” Lucia informed him. “But the woman is pregnant. From all indications, by several months.”
“And she claims that Reginald is the father.” It wasn’t exactly a question, but a statement that begged for a response.
“From what I saw in the e-mail, she’s certain. Her name’s Sydney Connor.” She hit several keys on the laptop, then turned it around so that Russell could see the screen. “I was able to trace her e-mails to a computer back in Naessa.”
“Naessa,” he echoed.
Things were beginning to fall into place. Relations between the two countries were less than amicable. If he were to draw up a list of potential suspects who would have wanted to cause chaos within Silvershire by eliminating Reginald, the rival kingdom would be near the top. There were factions within Naessa, dangerous factions, that had aligned themselves with terrorist groups which had struck at Silvershire before and undoubtedly would again.
Was this woman working in conjunction with one of the terrorist groups? he wondered. “Do you know anything about this Sydney Connor?”
“Not yet,” Lucia freely admitted. “But the day is still young. Give me a little time.” She grinned. “A little bit of sugar wouldn’t be out of line, either.” Her grin broadened. “I run on sugar and coffee, in case you’re interested.”
“I’ll have some coffee and pastries sent in immediately,” he promised. “Would you prefer doughnuts, coffee cake or French pastries?”
“Yes,” was her only response. Lucia turned her attention back to the laptop.
With a diet like that, he wondered how the woman managed to remain in the shape she was in. “I’ll have them bring you a selection,” he told her as he let himself out.
An heir. Reginald’s “mistake” might now very well prove to be his own salvation. An heir meant that he wouldn’t have to go through with the coronation.
He felt like a man who had just crawled out from beneath the crushing weight of a boulder. The relief was immeasurable.
Russell began to whistle while he walked.
Chapter 13
Russell stopped whistling.
He had realized, as he headed back to his quarters, that if there were an heir to the throne, if this woman, Sydney Connor, really was pregnant with Reginald’s baby and if she could be found, then his coronation need not take place.
But, it suddenly occurred to him, if it didn’t, what then would become of his union with Amelia? Would it be terminated, annulled, rescinded, as if it had never happened?
It was obvious that the only reason their wedding had gone off on the preset schedule, without missing so much as a beat, was because King Roman was anxious to have the treaty between their two countries go forward.
In that light, things had not changed all that much since ancient times. Countries still needed to forge alliances in order to survive. The strong protected the weak, not of out any sense of altruism, but because of the stakes involved. Two countries together were stronger than either country was on its own.
If an heir suddenly surfaced, and the line was restored to King Weston’s house, then how would he, Russell, figure into all this? What would his role be? Would he even have a role, beyond that of political advisor? Since he would not be king, would Amelia’s father call for an annulment and have her—what, pledged to a child? he wondered cynically.
Or would King Roman place pressure on his old friend and have Weston take Amelia as his wife? That was a possibility he hadn’t even thought of until this moment. Weston had been without a queen these thirty years. The thought of having a beautiful young bride might be very appealing. It would go a long way to healing the wounds he now felt.
And where would Amelia weigh in on all this? Would she dutifully go along with whatever her father decided to do, for the “good of the kingdom?” Or would she ask her father to change his mind? To withdraw his negotiations? Would she demand not to be the pawn that she’d told him she felt herself to be in all of this?
He’d like to believe that she would, but he couldn’t in all honesty be sure.
They had spent a wonderful night together that had seemed even better, if that were possible, than their first night had been. But that had to do with attraction, with chemistry, with emotions, none of which mattered when it came to the ultimate matters of state.
Russell shook his head. There were too many possibilities, too many uncertain elements. Too many “ifs” crowding his brain.
His good mood faded.
He held off saying anything to anyone about Lucia’s findings for two days. And two nights. Two nights in which time and life were suspended as he found a perfect haven in the bed that had once been intended for Prince Reginald and his bride. The bed that was now his and Amelia’s. He made love with her as if he was savoring a very precious, very fragile gift, never once telling Amelia that all this might be fleeting.
And then, on the morning of the third day, he couldn’t put it off any longer. Slipping out of bed quietly in order not to wake Amelia, he quickly got dressed and left to see about business.
After first checking with Lucia to see if she had come up with anything further—she hadn’t—he went to see the king. It was time Weston was apprised of the situation. Once Weston knew, the situation would be, more or less, taken out of Russell’s hands.
His first loyalty had to be with the crown, Russell told himself, not with any feelings he might have. His was not to pick and choose, but to serve. If, after everything, it turned out that it was his destiny to be king, then so be it. But that eventuality might not ever take place.
And if that wound up costing him the woman that he had come to love with all his heart, that, too, was a matter of destiny.
Bracing himself for whatever the future had in store for him, Russell knocked on the door to the king’s private quarters.
“They can’t possibly think that we’re actually responsible for this.”
The protest, uttered in disgust, came from Nikolas Donovan. He was sitting on h
is small balcony that overlooked the sea, having breakfast alone. Only seagulls heard his words as he threw down the newspaper. A breeze ruffled the pages that came to rest on the round glass-top table. He hardly noticed.
The article that had stirred his ire dealt with the prince’s resent death. It was the fifth in as many days. His death filled all the papers. Articles examining his life, his foibles and addictions, his lineage, abounded everywhere. Ad nauseum. Even if he’d liked the man, which he vehemently didn’t, he would have been sick of him by now.
The article that had gotten to him dealt with speculation as to whether or not the cause of the prince’s final curtain call from life was the result of an accident, or intentional. And if it was the latter, whose intention had been followed? The prince’s or someone else’s? Had the prince, the article demanded self-righteously, been the victim of some kind of plot?
If it was the latter, the article went on to say, then perhaps attention might be well drawn to the Union for Democracy.
Slate gray eyes had grown dangerously dark as Nikolas struggled with his temper. Rising, he shoved his hands into his pants and stared out at the sea.
Nikolas Donovan was the head of the Union for Democracy, an anti-monarchy organization that had been in existence only a short amount of time, about five years. But in that time, he was proud of the fact that no one had resorted to any kind of actual violence.
Unlike the monarchy, he thought darkly.
It was because Silvershire was not a democratic state that his own parents had been killed when he was a baby. Killed by the man who now sat on the throne, he’d been told by his uncle. Uncle Silas, his father’s brother, had raised him from the time he was a baby. It had been Silas who had drummed into his head, for as long as he could remember, that power belonged to the people, not to one person solely because of the accident of birth. Silas advocated a complete overthrow of the monarchy.
For his part, Nikolas was working to have a gradual change come about. If nothing else, his group wanted to get a stronger voice in the government. So that self-absorbed narcissists like the late Prince Reginald did not pose a threat to the common man.
His handsome features became almost dark as Nikolas’s thoughts turned to the late prince. He’d known Reginald personally. They were the same age and had, Reginald by privilege and he by the sweat of his brow, attended the same schools together. Their paths at Eton and Oxford had crossed on occasion. But for the most part, he was absorbed in his studies and Reginald had been too busy bedding anything that moved.
Even back then, he had been a man with a mission. That mission had been, and still was, to bring a better form of government to his country.
However, that mission hadn’t included killing the present-day crown prince, no matter how much he personally loathed and despised the man.
That the prince was dead evoked no sense of sorrow from him. Nikolas was certain that, had Reginald ascended to the throne, he would have abused his power, just as he had abused it as a young man at Oxford. There was no question in his mind that the country was definitely better off without him.
Russell, Duke of Carrington, the man who stood next in line, whose marriage to the Princess Amelia of Gastonia earlier this week had all but solidified the man’s position in the scheme of things, was a better choice from what he knew of him, but still not the ideal one. The ideal choice would have been no king at all, because Silvershire deserved to be a democracy. A democracy where the people had a say in the government that ruled them.
He would go to his grave believing that.
In the last year, he had pulled out all the stops, urging anyone who would listen to join the movement, to make it bigger, stronger. A voice to be reckoned with. Presently, it was mostly comprised of people his own age and younger. The generation that had come before, ironically, his parents generation had they lived, believed in tradition, in maintaining the status quo. But they did not have as much at stake, as much to lose, as the younger generation did.
As he did, Nikolas thought. His generation was not complacent, would not go gentle into that good night like obedient sheep. Moreover, it was his dearest, heartfelt, fervent desire to avenge the death of his parents and make King Weston step down.
And have no man of royal blood step up to take his place.
He and his organization had stirred things up when they could, making people aware that they should demand a voice, a choice. The Union for Democracy had caused disruptions whenever they could to wake people up. But killing was another matter. He would have thought that had been made abundantly clear to anyone who knew of the group.
That the rumors even hinted that he and his followers were behind the prince’s death was ridiculous. But he knew how these things spread. Knew, too, that it didn’t take much to set people off against one another.
Though he didn’t like the idea, he knew that he and his followers were going to have to be prepared for the worst.
Nikolas left the rest of his breakfast untouched as he went inside to see about getting together with his key people and making sure that the word went out that the Union for Democracy had nothing to do with the prince’s death. Though he always advocated the mind over the sword, there was no place for martyrs in his plans. They had to be ready to fight if it came down to that.
In another town, the man whose neighbors knew him as Silas Donovan smiled to himself as he read the same article. It had begun. The unrest, the discord he’d hoped for, had plotted for and nurtured, was beginning.
He’d waited a very long time for this. Forever, it seemed. But revenge was finally taking form. Revenge against the man who had ruined his life. Who had taken his birthright. And the instrument he would use to bring it all about was a very personal one. When all was revealed, the significance would not be lost on Weston.
He could hardly wait.
Weston was grieving now. The so-called monarch would grieve even more very soon.
Silas Donovan began to laugh to himself. Anyone who would have heard him would have shivered from the malevolent sound.
King Weston looked at the young man before him for a long moment before finally responding. Grieving, still saying goodbye and unable to make himself give the order that would allow the autopsy to take place, the monarch was having trouble processing the information he had just been given.
It meant that he didn’t have to say goodbye to his son. Not completely.
“A child, you say?”
Russell had begun to think that perhaps the monarch hadn’t heard him. Since Reginald’s death, Weston had withdrawn into himself to the point that there were times when he seemed to shut out the rest of the world entirely. He was a changed man, changed completely from the genial ruler he had been.
“Yes.”
Weston took a breath, as if he’d been holding it, waiting for the right answer. “And it’s Reginald’s?”
Russell wanted to be completely honest with the king. That meant not giving the man any undue false hopes. “We’re not sure of that yet. Ms. Cordez has managed to find only a handful of e-mails from the woman. It’s going to take some time to put all the pieces of the puzzle together. And then, of course, there’ll have to be DNA testing to substantiate her claim.”
“Of course.” Weston nodded. But the look in his eyes had become eager. It gave him a shred of hope, of something to hang on to. “Does anyone know who and where this woman is?”
“We know who, or at least the name she was using.” The king looked at him, waiting. “Sydney Connor,” he told the monarch. “But as to her whereabouts, again, we’re not sure.”
“Find her,” Weston ordered.
The directive “immediately” was understood. Russell began to withdraw from the suite. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Wait.” Already at the door, Russell obediently turned around and waited for the king to speak. “You said something about ‘the name she was using.’” The king furrowed his brow, concern marking his features. “Why wouldn’t s
he be using her own name? Do you think this might be some kind of deception?”
The question struck Russell as odd. The king was usually sharper than this. “Your Majesty knows that royalty has always been the center of intrigue. Nothing is ever what it seems.”
Eyes that were red-rimmed from tears met his. “You are.”
Russell smiled. In all his years of service, and in the years that had come before that, when he had been Reginald’s “chosen friend,” he had not once ever lied, not once tried to present anything but the truth. “Thank you, Your Majesty, but I am the exception.”
The king laughed at the simple remark. And then his features sobered until they bordered on grave. The monarch looked at him. “You realize that if there is a child and it is Reginald’s and a male, then you won’t be the next ruler of Silvershire.”
Again, Russell inclined his head. The smile that was on his lips was not forced. It rose of its own volition. “Yes, I know.”
A man completely devoid of ambition was rare. “And that would be all right with you?”
That would be perfect with him, Russell thought. Aloud, he said, “You might recall, Your Majesty, I never wanted to be king.”
Weston was aware of that, but circumstances bring about changes, and desires flourish even in desert terrain.
“That is not what I am asking.” The king paused. “Thirty years ago, I didn’t want to be king, either. Not with as much resistance as I witnessed you originally display, but I had made peace with the fact that Vladimir would be king once King Dunford passed on the crown. Even though I didn’t feel that Vladimir had the best interests of the people at heart, he would have had my allegiance.
“However, after my protests had been overridden and King Dunford gave the crown to me, I discovered that I liked being the king. Liked having the reins of the country in my hand. Liked the thought that perhaps I was helping the people I was serving. I knew in my heart that Vladimir would abuse his power, place himself first instead of in the service of his people, so initially I took it as my obligation.”
The Heart of a Ruler Page 15