The Prince: The Young Royals 1

by S. A. Gordon

  “Thank you,” she said at last.

  He exhaled. “You’re welcome.”

  “I’m not finished,” she said with a teasing tone. “I don’t know that I can just come over there for a weekend.”

  He sighed. “I understand.”

  “But I want to.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course I do. David, we had a great couple of nights last week. I wasn’t sitting there for hours secretly thinking you were boring or horrible and just indulging you.”

  David’s laugh carried relief in it. “Thank goodness,” he said.

  “So I want to come and visit you—just so we’re clear.” She sighed sharply. “But I can’t afford it, David, I’m sorry.”

  David made a noise. “I’m so stupid—Caity, I hadn’t meant for you to pay for the trip. I should have said that at the start. I’ll fly you over—you’d be my guest.”

  “Oh. I—that’s very kind. I—I just don’t know that I could stay—”

  “And I’ll put you up in a hotel,” David said, rushing to cut her off, realizing that he should have said that, too, at the start. But he’d never asked anything like this of a woman before and he’d been clumsy about it. He could only hope that he wouldn’t remain clumsy around her. “There are many hotels in London to choose from. I don’t want this to seem like an imposing invitation—like you’re suddenly meant to stay with me and fold into my life. I just want to see you. And if I have the means to make that happen, why shouldn’t I?”

  There was silence, in which David hoped Caitlin was thinking about his offer.

  “All right,” she said after a few moments had passed.

  “All right?”

  “Yes. I think I could manage that.”

  He grinned into the phone. “Wonderful. I’ll send you details. Can I email you?”

  “You can,” she said. “Are you allowed to do that?”

  “Email?” He chuckled. “Yes. I use a fake email name but it’s allowed. So when you see a message from Alexander Pope, you’ll know that it’s me.”

  “Alexander Pope?”

  “Yes. It won’t make much sense if you don’t love the classic English poets.”

  “Oh, I know Pope. I’m just curious that you chose him as your alias.”

  “I’m working my way through the poets. Last year I was Samuel Taylor Coleridge.”

  “I’m sorry I missed that era,” Caitlin said with a laugh.

  “So am I,” David murmured.

  They fell silent, then David spoke first. “So perhaps you could text me your email address?”

  “I could, Alex. Yes, I could.”

  He laughed. “Great. We’ll talk, then. Or write, rather. And I’ll see you soon.”

  “I’ll look forward to it.”

  “Good night, Caitlin.” He smiled even though she couldn’t see him.

  “Good night.”

  She ended the call before he’d even thought of it.

  *

  The next morning David wandered over to Alix’s apartment for breakfast, having first phoned to alert the housekeeper that he was coming. He didn’t like to surprise the staff—his or anyone else’s—with extras for any meal; something else his mother had drilled into him. The lesson seemed to have bypassed his older sister—David and Margaret had often complained that Alexandra was allowed to get away with things that they never could, crying that their sister was being indulged just because she would have so much responsibility later. Their mother had never denied it but neither had anything changed.

  Alix greeted him with kisses and a long hug and showed him through to the kitchen, where she usually took her meals unless there was formal company.

  “Thank you so much for going to talk to everyone,” she said. “I just couldn’t have done it. But I think the charities would rather see you than me anyway.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” David said, half closing his eyes and smiling obliquely. “They adore you.”

  “But the women there all want to shag you.”

  “I’m sure three to seven percent of them want to shag you too.” He winked.

  “You’re too kind. Coffee?”

  He nodded and she poured them each a cup from the French press, then gestured toward the table that was propped against one wall.

  “So …” Alix looked at him searchingly. “What else did you get up to?”

  “Yes, Alix, I saw Caitlin,” he said, smiling and shaking his head.

  “And?”

  “And I’ve asked her to visit for the weekend.”

  Alix blinked rapidly. “Really,” she said, but it wasn’t a question.

  “Is that a problem?” David said, frowning.

  “No. I guess … I’m just surprised. Before you left it didn’t seem like you were quite at that stage.”

  He shrugged. “I saw her a couple of times. I want to see her again. It’s the only way to make it happen at this point in time.”

  “And you can … um …”

  “Trust her?”

  Alix breathed out loudly. “Yes.”

  “I think I can. As much as we can trust anyone. As much as you can trust Jack.”

  “But what do you know about her?”

  “I know that not a skerrick of information about me and her has turned up anywhere. If she was an opportunist, she would have turned me in to the press months ago—when she thought she was never seeing me again.”

  Alix took a sip of coffee. “Perhaps.”

  “What’s the alternative? Really? We’d end up seeing no one if we worried that everyone was out to sell their story.”

  “But she’s not …” Alix sighed, looked to the side and ruffled her hair with one hand.

  “One of us?”

  She made a face. “You know what I mean.”

  “I think I do. And I also know that I’ll have to tell the dark overlords in our offices about this … whatever it is, if it actually happen and Caitlin actually comes here.”

  “Only Oliver is a dark overlord,” said Alix, suppressing a grin. “Beverly’s mission in life is to make you happy. So she should approve of Caitlin, even if she secretly wishes she was decades younger and she could be Caitlin instead.”

  “Oh, stop it,” said David, but he looked quietly pleased. “Anyway, darling, I hardly think that having a title makes someone less likely to sell their story. There are just more unobtrusive ways to do it—Lord So-and-so can go to the editor of Tatler and whinge that his daughter is fit to be my wife and should be given a chance, and it’s written up as editorial and people think it’s a valid case made. How is that different to someone whom I actually like saying something to someone about me? Not that she has. Not that she will. She’s discreet—she’s discreet about her own life, now, so I can’t really imagine her being indiscreet about my life.”

  David took a long sip of coffee and grimaced. “Lord, I forgot the sugar.” He looked around the kitchen and hopped up to retrieve the sugar bowl.

  “Anyway,” he said as he sat back down, “Jack is hardly more trustworthy than Caitlin just because he’s meant to protect your life.”

  “Three sugars? Are you mad?” Alix said crossly.

  “Oh, shut up. It’s strong coffee.”

  “Don’t come crying to me when you end up with diabetes.”

  “It’s my one indulgence. I don’t eat sweets, as you well know, so sugar in my coffee is my big splurge. I have to watch my waistline,” he said, patting his belly, “in case the Daily Mail has a crack at my figure.” He grinned as he sipped from his cup.

  “Sometimes,” Alix said, narrowing her eyes, “I really loathe you and your naturally lean physique.”

  “Stop it. You’re gorgeous. Rita is too. Let’s move onto another topic.”

  “All right. State visit coming up.”

  “The Netherlands?”

  “Denmark.”

  “Ooh, those naughty Danes.” He winked. “I know how you like a naughty Dane.”

  “Shut up.”r />
  “That’s all you ever say to me.”

  The siblings grinned at each other as they continued to drink their coffee, indulging in the rare few minutes alone before their days really started. Alix had fittings for the three new evening gowns she’d had to order just so she could turn up to evening engagements and not get criticized in the press for wearing “old rags.” Her dresser would make careful notes about when and where the dresses were worn so that they could be worn again after a respectable length of time had passed—no less than six months, ideally a year—so that she could be praised as a budget-conscious princess who wasn’t exhausting the public purse. Then she had a meeting with the CEO of one of her burgeoning number of charities and, after that, a briefing from Beverly with Oliver in attendance. In the evening she’d get to change into one of her older evening dresses and, with David as her companion, take in some ballet—officially, of course. They could never go to anything so public as private citizens. Rock concerts were easier—there were so many people, and the music so loud, that if anyone saw them and called out their names, no one would hear.

  “What time’s your train?” Alix said.

  “In a couple of hours.”

  “No doubt your groupies will be waiting for you on the platform,” she teased.

  “No doubt,” David said, taking a sip. “But what I do doubt is that any of them will want to accompany me to Birmingham.” He smiled.

  “London’s not the center of the universe, darling,” Alix said with a note of sternness. “Be kind about our less glamorous cities.”

  “As they will be your less glamorous cities one day.”

  “They’re ours,” she said primly. “They’re everyone’s. And I trust you to be nice to people when I can’t be there.”

  “I’m sure they’d far rather have you.” David smiled at his sister with pride and affection. “I would if I were them.”

  “You’ll do just fine, young man.” She patted his hand. “I’m proud of you. For taking all of this on. For taking it seriously.”

  “Of course.” David picked up her hand and kissed it. “Anything for you.”

  Draining his cup, he stood up.

  “And now, I must go and change into that lovely new suit your office has bought for me.” He bent down and kissed her on each cheek. “Have fun playing dress-ups.”

  “You too,” Alix said with a smile.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Caitlin couldn’t remember in her entire life feeling more sick than she felt right now. Tabloid newspapers and The New York Times were arranged on the kitchen bench in front of her, and all of them featured articles that contained her name in connection with that of Prince David of the United Kingdom.

  Almost unable to think, Caitlin moved her fingers from one paper to the other, fearful of opening them to see what was deeper inside. They even had a photograph of her—a staff picture from her company. She wondered how on earth they’d obtained it.

  All the details they had—not that there were that many—matched what she had told Lisa only the day before. It just couldn’t be, though. Lisa would never, ever do this to her—there must have been someone listening in on their conversation. Some private investigator working for a newspaper who had snuck in one day and planted a device or something. It was the only possible explanation. It had to be. She couldn’t believe that it might be something else.

  Caitlin had had absolutely no intention of telling Lisa anything but she had stupidly—so stupidly—left her laptop open in the kitchen, with her email displayed on the screen. All she’d done was run to the bathroom for a few minutes but Lisa had walked in and apparently hadn’t been able to resist reading the email.

  “Who’s Alexander Pope?” she had called out as soon as Caitlin had emerged from the bathroom.

  Caitlin had felt her cheeks burning as she walked into the kitchen. “Are you reading my email?” she’d said, realizing that the emotion in her voice would give away to Lisa that the email was important, yet unable to stop herself from expressing it anyway.

  Lisa had lifted her shoulders and grinned. “You left it open. You’re not really hiding it.”

  “That doesn’t mean you should read it,” Caitlin had snapped. “I was just in the bathroom for a minute.”

  “More like five,” Lisa had said and Caitlin had, for the first time, realized how hard her friend’s face could get.

  Lisa’s eyes had narrowed. “So he’s someone important, huh? If you’re getting this upset. Why don’t I know about him, huh?” She’d smiled then and her face had relaxed into that of the friend Caitlin knew so well. And Caitlin had relaxed too—she’d felt the strain of having to keep her secret for so long and the pull of wanting to confide everything. She’d so needed to have someone to talk to about David—about the way she felt about him as much as the strangeness of the situation.

  Caitlin had held her breath and wondered what she should say.

  “Wait!” Lisa had said. “Is this why you broke up with Liam? For this Alex guy?”

  “His name isn’t Alexander,” Caitlin had said, and suddenly her decision had been made. “It’s … it’s David.”

  “Then why is he calling himself Alex? Does he really live in London or is that fake too?”

  “No, he really lives in London.” Caitlin had sighed and passed a hand across her face, not knowing if she was about to do the right thing but feeling the relief of doing it already.

  “What gives, huh?” Lisa had said, walking over and nudging Caitlin with her shoulder. “I knew something was up because you just seemed, like, so not upset about Liam. And you’ve been so quiet. So, he’s an English guy?”

  “He’s …” Caitlin had looked at her best friend, wanting to trust her. “He’s the English guy, I guess.”

  Lisa’s brow had knitted. “Huh?”

  And out it had come: Caitlin told Lisa about meeting David on the beach, about their first date, about the yawning silence over several months, then two more dates and now the invitation to London. She hadn’t told Lisa anything that she and David had discussed. She hadn’t told her that there was anything other than the possibility of a fling—knowing it was a lie, knowing she couldn’t actually have just a fling with David, but not wanting Lisa to think that there was anything serious to their relationship in case it was jinxed.

  Now here it was in the papers: PRINCE DAVID’S AMERICAN LOVE INTEREST, and stories saying that she was going to London to be with him, that “the Atlantic Ocean couldn’t keep them apart.” Each newspaper seemed to have an identical story, with a “source very close to Caitlin Meadows” cited.

  Lisa wasn’t at home. She hadn’t been home since early last night, before she’d gone out to meet a friend. A friend who worked at a PR firm, Caitlin remembered now, feeling even worse than she had imagined possible. She realized what must have happened: Lisa told the friend—and who better to disseminate a story to the press than a PR professional? Caitlin wondered if they’d made money off the story. Off her. Off David. She wanted to vomit but she felt paralyzed too. There was no way out of this, she was sure. And she was never going to see David again.

  She also knew, though, that she had to call him. She had to tell him, in case he didn’t know. She had to apologize. She had to let him know that she’d never meant to hurt him.

  On trembling legs she walked to her purse and pulled out her phone, which she’d had on silent without realizing it. Sixty missed calls. None of them from Lisa. Three from her mother. The rest from numbers she didn’t recognize. And she wasn’t about to check her voicemail.

  Her fingers trembled too as she pressed the digits for David’s number.

  “Hello,” she heard him answer.

  “D-David.”

  “Hello, Caitlin,” he said but she couldn’t tell if he was angry or not.

  “There’s—” She swallowed. “There’s a story.”

  “I know,” he said and this time she thought she heard his tone softening.

  “I didn’
t talk to the papers,” she said and sounded feeble even to herself.

  She heard him sigh. “I’m sure you didn’t. Otherwise you wouldn’t be calling me. No one who has sold a story about us has ever called us afterward. Mainly because having no contact with us is part of the point.”

  “I didn’t sell anything!” she cried. “I just want you to know that.”

  “Caitlin, I … I believe you. Really. But how did this happen?”

  She told him the story and he listened in silence. After she’d finished he was also silent for a while and she almost hung up.

  “You must feel incredibly betrayed,” he said softly.

  It wasn’t until a sob caught in her chest that Caitlin realized he was right. “I—I do,” she whispered.

  “It’s completely normal to want to tell your closest friend that you’ve been asked to London for a weekend,” he said kindly. “And I never asked you to keep it secret, did I?”

  “No.” She sniffed. “You didn’t. And I wasn’t actually keeping it a secret because you’re … you know.”

  “I do know,” he said and she thought she heard him laugh.

  “I was keeping it a secret because I just wanted it to be for me. It still seems so new.”

  “I understand,” he said. “Now, I have a bit of experience with all of this so I’m going to ask you some questions, okay?”

  “O-okay.”

  “All right. People will have phoned you, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t answer the phone to anyone whose number you don’t recognize.”

  “Okay.”

  “Call your mother, though.”

  “I was going to.”

  “You’re going to need her help to get you out of that apartment.”

  “Wh-what do you mean?”

  “You can’t honestly expect to stay there when Lisa has done this to you?”

  “Why can’t she leave?”

  David chuckled. “Oh, sweetheart, if you think that your friend is the one who is going to act honorably in this situation, you’re wrong. Sorry that you had to find out about her this way, but your friend is gone now. All that’s left is someone who wants to make money off you. Or garner attention.”