by Janet Gover
‘She was, as you can see, a great beauty, and a free spirit, or as free as a spirited woman could be in her time. Even an ugly royal princess can always attract suitors. Sophia was inundated by offers, despite her wayward nature. Her father was determined to make a good match – a match that would be beneficial to the kingdom. He decided to offer Sophia to the crown prince and heir apparent of a certain old royal house. He hired a young painter to prepare a portrait to send to the prince as a betrothal gift.’
‘The artist fell in love with her?’
‘And she with him.’
‘You can see it,’ Lauren said. ‘Every line of the painting sings of love.’
‘More than love. Great passion that would last a lifetime.’ Nicolas’s voice was soft and deep.
Lauren saw it too. ‘What happened?’
‘Well, Sophia’s father took one look at the portrait and had the painter exiled. The portrait was never sent. The crown prince married elsewhere.’
‘And Sophia?’
‘She was hustled off rather smartly to wed the Grand Duke – an older man who was greatly in debt to Sophia’s father. The wedding was held in the provinces. Quite a small affair. The Grand Duke and his new wife remained at their country estate for more than a year, before returning to court with their new son.’
‘I see,’ Lauren said.
‘Indeed. He was to be their only child. His descendants have occasionally been noted for some artistic leanings.’
‘Poor Sophia, how unhappy she must have been.’
‘True. But the role of royal children has always been to secure the kingdom. The oldest rules; the younger siblings are married off. A royal wedding is marginally cheaper than war, and more likely to result in a lasting alliance.’
Lauren chuckled. ‘I’ll bet you are glad things have changed.’
‘Well, my portrait is definitely not a betrothal gift.’
‘What happened to the artist?’ Lauren asked.
‘I’ve tried to find other work by him, but it appears nothing else survives. Legend says he died penniless and alone in some freezing garret: the penalty for falling in love where he should not have.’
‘Oh, but this one portrait has given him some kind of immortality. Sophia too. The painting captures her spirit. The joy she found in life, and in love.’
‘You know, when I was a boy, I think I was just a little bit in love with her, even though she was my great-great-whatever.’ Prince Nicolas sounded embarrassed by his confession as he looked away from the woman at his side, to the one on the wall.
Lauren cast a sideways glance at the prince. The close confines of the alcove had given their conversation a kind of intimacy that was at once gratifying and disturbing. Did he feel it too?
‘Anyway, I wanted to show you this.’ Prince Nicolas turned his gaze from Sophia back to Lauren. ‘It’s the one portrait in the gallery that I really like. I thought it might help you to know that.’
Lauren stepped back, ostensibly to get a better view of the painting, but in reality she needed to put some space between herself and the prince. She needed to start breathing again. ‘It does help,’ she said.
Lauren hadn’t heard the footsteps, and gave a little cry when Courtauld suddenly spoke close by her side.
‘Your Royal Highness?’
‘Yes, Courtauld?’ Prince Nicolas seemed not at all surprised by his servant’s sudden appearance.
‘Your meeting with the press office. They are waiting.’
‘Of course. Miss Phelps and I were discussing portraits. I told her about the scandal surrounding my great-aunt Sophia.’
‘The Grand Duchess of Kautenstein.’ Courtauld fell into place behind his prince, as the three of them moved away from Sophia’s portrait.
‘Yes, married off in such haste,’ said Prince Nicolas. ‘Perhaps it’s a good thing there are so few princesses on the marriage market today, else I might suffer a similar fate.’
‘I doubt that, sir.’
‘You never know, Courtauld, Miss Phelps might fall passionately in love with me.’
‘I think Miss Phelps far too sensible to do such a thing, sir.’
Lauren’s head was spinning. The intimacy of such a short time before had fallen away as if it had never been. The thoughtful, sensitive man who had shared his ideas with her was gone, and in his place stood a haughty and arrogant prince, whose cynical tone left an unpleasant taste in her mouth.
The march down the long gallery seemed even longer than it had on her first day in the palace, but at last they paused by the prince’s office door.
‘Miss Phelps, you did say you wanted to observe me at my work.’ The prince was bland courtesy personified. ‘This meeting is just with staff, a matter of no real importance, but you are most welcome to observe if it would be of any use to you.’
‘Yes. Yes. Thank you. I’ll just collect my pad and pencils.’ Lauren almost fled.
For the first part of the meeting, Lauren tried hard to ignore the conversation and concentrate on her sketch pad, but her mental barriers were not working. Voices kept breaking through. Snatches of sentences, but enough for her to understand what was under discussion. After all, she had seen it in her living room that morning.
The two men from the palace press office were not impressed by the recent coverage the prince had attracted.
‘Should we consider speaking to the Press Council?’ The question came from the younger aide.
‘And what exactly would that achieve?’ The prince made no attempt to hide his distaste for the suggestion. ‘Any request for special consideration for me would simply be another headline for the next day.’
From her seat across the room, Lauren could only agree with him.
‘Of course, sir.’ This from the older man. ‘You are right.’
‘This sort of rubbish is of no consequence.’
‘I beg to differ, sir.’ The junior officer was not cowed. ‘It reflects badly on the entire royal family. I’m sure Her Majesty would prefer …’
‘Don’t you presume to tell me what Her Majesty would prefer.’ The royal voice was icy cold. ‘My mother is perfectly capable of expressing her opinions herself.’
‘Of course, sir. I was merely going to point out that it might be helpful for you to restrict your attendance at certain functions.’
‘Are you suggesting that the paparazzi and tabloid papers should dictate the behaviour of a royal prince?’ Every drop of his blue blood was evident in the prince’s voice.
‘Of course not, sir. But …’ The adviser’s voice trailed off under the glare from the other side of the big oak desk.
‘Then perhaps a review of security might be in order.’ This comment from the older press aide produced a murmur of agreement.
Lauren tried hard to tune out the voices, focusing her attention on the pad in front of her. The sketching wasn’t going very well. She had begun with a broad sketch of the desk, and the group of figures around it. When she tried to add detail on the central figure, her hand faltered.
She had drawn the details of the ornate carving on a picture frame.
She had drawn a doorway flanked by two grand royal portraits.
She had even drawn, from memory, the alcove containing the portrait of Princess Sophia.
She had not drawn Prince Nicolas.
With a silent sigh, she turned to a clean page. Taking a firm grip on her pen, and her mind, she looked across the room. The prince was leaning back in his chair, his eyes almost closed, taking no part in the conversation around him. He looked tired. There were lines around his eyes that she hadn’t noticed before.
Lauren’s hand started to move across the page. The line of his shoulder, the tilt of his head. Then the prince opened his eyes and leaned forward to speak to his advisers. The vulnerability was gone in an instant, replaced by the cold formality she had seen so much of already. Lauren’s hand stopped. She turned the page once more.
When at last the advisers left the room, Laure
n closed her pad, hoping His Highness would take the hint, and not ask to see any of her sketches. There was nothing there to show him. Not one single likeness of the royal person.
‘Well, what’s your opinion?’
‘About what?’ Lauren knew what he meant, but was reluctant to get drawn into a conversation that was sure to cause grief.
‘I know you heard us. You’re not deaf. And I’m equally sure you saw this morning’s papers. I don’t have a Twitter account. Or Facebook or whatever, but I’m told the internet is abuzz with the story.’
Lauren smiled ruefully. ‘I saw the TV coverage.’
‘And …?’
‘What I think doesn’t matter. I’m just a struggling artist.’ Lauren tried to make a joke, but the prince wasn’t in a joking mood.
‘Perhaps it does matter. To me.’
Lauren took a deep breath. She was learning that it wasn’t a good idea to cross swords with a prince, but the man watching her from behind the desk was more like the man who’d told her about his boyhood love for a girl in a painting. She would take a risk.
‘Honestly?’
‘I wouldn’t have you ever be less than honest with me.’
Lauren decided to take his words at face value. Honest she would be. ‘I think there are far better things you could be doing than wasting your time creating tabloid headlines and social media storms.’
‘Like what? Leading a ceremonial guard procession for the benefit of gawking tourists?’ Prince Nicolas’s voice was harsh and bitter. ‘Of course, there are plenty of meetings like the one I just had. Essential to the good of the country. Or equally essential, I could spend my time at any number of meaningless social engagements.’
‘I thought that’s what you did last night.’ Lauren braced herself for an angry response.
‘Touché,’ the prince responded ruefully. ‘Seriously, my job is simply to wait. My life will have no real purpose unless for some reason or other my brother is unable to ascend the throne – or doesn’t produce an heir.’
‘That’s ridiculous!’ Lauren let her amazement show, and with it a touch of contempt. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You have a life of wealth and privilege. A life others just dream about. A person in your position could do so many things. Useful things. Things that could make a difference.’
‘I was doing those things. My unit served with UN peacekeeping forces. I helped ship supplies into India after the earthquake. I helped build new houses in Haiti. I worked with refugee convoys in Syria …’
His voice faltered and Lauren saw something in his eyes. Some deep emotion. Pain, Regret. Perhaps even fear. For one short moment she thought she caught a glimpse of some deep vulnerability. Then the shutters came down, and all she saw was bitterness.
‘I was ordered back here. I was a danger to myself and others out there. A target …’ He spat the words out. ‘So they ordered me back here for “official duties”. It’s only been a few weeks, but I’ve yet to find some official activity worthy of being called a duty.’
‘But that’s no excuse for not continuing that sort of work. Here, in your own country. There are people here who need help too.’
Lauren got to her feet, and confronted the prince at his desk. She leaned over and reached for the large leather-bound diary that lay open on the desk. She spun it so she could read the day’s entries.
‘There’s nothing in here for tonight. Come with me and I’ll show you just what you should be doing with your time!’
The prince looked up into Lauren’s face and she knew she had him. There was no way this man could resist such a challenge.
‘All right.’
‘Fine.’ Lauren turned to go while her courage still held. ‘Be at my place at seven o’clock. You do know where I live?’
‘I’ll find out.’
‘Do that.’ Lauren paused for a few seconds in the doorway and looked back. ‘And for where we’re going, dress down.’
Chapter Four
The prince’s idea of dressing down involved designer-label slacks, a hand-made sports coat and a bodyguard. Standing in the doorway of her flat, Lauren realised that she should have been more specific when she set the dress code.
‘You’d better come in.’
Lauren stepped back nervously to admit the two men. She hadn’t planned to invite the prince into her flat, but she had to do something about his appearance. He looked as handsome as ever, and instantly recognisable. Where they were going, he was inviting disaster. Not necessarily for himself, but for others.
Lauren’s flat was small. The emptiness created when her easel and painting tools were removed had made it appear large, but the presence of the two men now made it seem minuscule. She mentally cast her eyes around the tiny living space, assuring herself that it was tidy. It wasn’t, but then again, it never was. The furniture was second-hand and a bit tatty, but that was nothing for her to be ashamed of. She liked her chipped pine table. The quilt hiding the stains on the old sofa was hand-made, and she would bet that sofa was far more comfortable than some of the museum pieces that graced the grand rooms of the palace. And besides, she was a struggling artist – her home was supposed to be bohemian.
She watched as Prince Nicolas turned slowly, studying the room. His scrutiny took in the bright colours, the home-made curtains, and the rather enthusiastic potted plant that had taken control of the top shelf of the battered bookshelf. He noted the empty place where her easel normally stood. But most of all, his gaze lingered over the artworks. Sketches and paintings were attached to every vertical surface. Almost every one was a portrait. Some were simple pencil sketches. Others were oils on canvas or board. None was framed.
Slowly he moved around the room, stopping at each one to examine smiling faces and sad ones – the faces of children and people whose long lives showed in every line of their faces. At last he turned back to Lauren, his admiration apparent in his face.
‘These are very, very good.’
Lauren blushed. ‘Thank you.’
The prince turned back to examine the pictures more closely, leaving Lauren staring at the other man who was filling such a large part of her small home. Less well dressed, he was a fraction shorter than his charge, but more solidly built. He had given the room a thorough and professional appraisal the moment he entered. His gaze now roved constantly between the front door and the room’s only other exits as if he expected some danger to leap out of Lauren’s bathroom or bedroom.
‘Hello, I’m Lauren Phelps.’ She held out her hand.
‘I know. I’m Sergeant Thomas Lawry.’ The hand that engulfed hers was big and strong. It would have to be, she thought, for a bodyguard. The man’s face though seemed friendlier than she might expect.
‘It’s all right, you can relax. This isn’t a plot. No one is going to burst into the room and try to attack Prince Nicolas.’
‘Of course not.’ The words made no difference to the constant movement of the sergeant’s eyes, nor his alertness. After the greeting he moved to stand by the window. As he did, Lauren noticed the strange shape of his coat. He was carrying a gun. She felt a momentary panic. A gun in her flat! Lauren hated violence and especially guns. She opened her mouth to order the sergeant to get it out of her home, then closed it again. She was in no position to give such an order. Not that he would obey, even if she did. Lauren glanced across at Prince Nicolas, who was still studying her paintings. She had to accept that certain things went along with inviting a prince into her home.
She tried to put the bodyguard and his gun out of her mind, but his presence was already causing her to have second thoughts about this evening’s outing. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea after all. Well, it was too late now to back out.
‘Your Highness,’ Lauren said, uncertain of just how to proceed, ‘when I said dress down – I was thinking a little lower than that.’
Prince Nicolas looked down at his own clothes then across at Lauren’s blue jeans and sneakers. ‘I see. Is it that import
ant?’
‘Where we are going, yes it is. I think I can organise something for you, if you’re willing.’
‘You’re in charge of this expedition, Miss Phelps.’
Lauren picked up her phone, wishing she could step out of the room to make the call, but the only other room in the flat was the bedroom. She was not going to open the bedroom door while the prince was there.
Maria answered on the second ring.
‘Do you still have that bag of William’s things?’ Maria’s brother was about the same size as her guests, and she knew that he’d stashed some things under his sister’s bed when he set off on a backpacking expedition earlier in the year.
‘Sure.’
‘Good. Bring the bag down here.’
‘Why do you …?’
‘Don’t ask. And please,’ Lauren said in a whisper, ‘don’t say a word when you get here.’
‘OK.’
Lauren put the phone down and turned back to Prince Nicolas.
‘My friend Maria has some clothes that will fit you and will be more suitable for where we’re going.’
‘And just where are we going?’ the prince asked.
‘To a church, not far from here …’ Lauren hesitated.
‘What sort of a church would need me to change my clothes?’
‘It’s not for the church.’ Lauren cringed inwardly as she explained. ‘It’s a place attached to the church. Run by the pastor. It’s a charity centre.’
‘Your Highness, I’m not sure this is a good idea,’ Sergeant Lawry broke in. ‘There should be security checks first in case …’
‘In case of what? The people who come to the centre are homeless and hungry, abused and often afraid. They are no threat to anyone. In fact, quite the reverse. For the most part, they are victims.’
‘But …’
Whatever the sergeant was about to say was interrupted by a knock on the door. With relief Lauren went to let in her friend.
‘What’s this all about?’ Maria asked, dragging a large rucksack after her. The question trailed into silence as she suddenly noticed the room’s other occupants. The two men had moved to stand by the bathroom door. Their conversation was quiet, but intense. Maria’s eyes widened and she leaned close to Lauren.