by Janet Gover
She was exhausted. She buried her head in her hands as the strength that had sustained her during the trip from her flat suddenly deserted her. A quiet knock on the door disturbed her thoughts. It could only be one person.
‘Come in.’
‘I hope I’m not …’ Prince Nicolas stopped in his tracks. ‘Good God! What have you done to your hair?’
Lauren forced her hands to remain at her sides. She tossed her head in what she hoped was a defiant attitude. ‘I had to change it. After the stories in the papers, I would have been spotted as soon as I stepped outside the flat.’
‘But … it’s green.’ His Royal Highness was clearly horrified.
‘It’s not supposed to be,’ Lauren muttered defensively. ‘I used some dye I found in Maria’s flat. It didn’t work too well.’
‘I can see that.’ The prince moved closer and slowly circled Lauren, looking down at her dull olive-green locks.
Lauren knew it looked horrid. The colour hadn’t taken evenly, with lighter patches still showing through. But at least it wasn’t blue.
‘It’s all your fault.’ Lauren pouted.
‘How am I responsible for your hair colour?’
‘I was trying to disguise myself. After those newspaper headlines. I didn’t want to be recognised.’
‘I am sorry about those too. Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do about it. The paparazzi always seem to find me.’
‘You don’t exactly make it hard for them. All those party nights at the clubs. All those supermodels. Those photographers know that wherever you are, they’ll get something to sell to the scandal sheets.’
Prince Nicolas opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing.
‘You might like all the attention but I don’t.’ Lauren was close to tears. ‘There are reasons …’
‘I know,’ he interrupted her. ‘I don’t want the press hounding Josef or the homeless people at the shelter either.’
She nodded as if that was her only reason. She would never tell him her real fears. It was bad enough that she was a commoner and way out of her depth, but if the palace knew the truth about her family, she would be escorted back out of those lovely iron gates before her feet could touch the ground.
‘Some of the people at the shelter would leave if the press found them,’ she said, to gather her own thoughts as much as to lecture Nicolas. ‘They have nowhere else to go. They need your protection.’
‘And they will have it.’ He stepped closer to her, looking into her face with an intensity that made her heart jump. ‘And so will you, Lauren, if you need it.’
‘I don’t want your protection.’ She stepped back. ‘I want to be left alone by the media. If this is how it’s going to be, maybe I shouldn’t have accepted this commission in the first place.’
Before Prince Nicolas could answer, the door opened to admit Courtauld, a phone in his hand.
‘Lady Liza Villette is returning your call, sir.’
‘Thank you.’ Prince Nicolas took the phone. ‘Liza?’
Lauren tried not to listen but it was hard not to hear the words. Prince Nicolas was obviously setting up a date for that very afternoon. The woman’s name seemed familiar. Then Lauren remembered. Liza Villette was a duke’s daughter. She was also a model who had trended on social media with Prince Nicolas more than once before. Lauren felt her face starting to go red.
‘That’ll help a lot,’ she said as soon as the phone was back on its cradle.
‘Lauren, I think you’re overreacting a bit. This will just give the photographers someone else to think about,’ he explained. ‘It’ll steer them away from the shelter and Liza is used to them. She knows how to handle the heat. Of course, this means that we will have to cancel the portrait session we had planned for this afternoon.’
‘That’s no problem. If I tried to paint you now, you’d have horns and a tail.’
Lauren turned on her heel and marched from the room. The heavy oak door made a very satisfying sound as she slammed it shut behind her. As the sound reverberated in the hallways, she realised that she had just stormed out of the only room in the palace that was hers. There was nowhere for her to go, except the bathroom. She went there and washed her face to pretend that she wasn’t just hiding. When she’d spent as much time there as she could, she returned to her studio. Nicolas was gone.
Lauren gave in to her desire to scream. But it was a quiet scream. She faced the closed door – and the man across the hallway.
‘You … You …’
She couldn’t find the words she needed to describe him. So instead she picked up a charcoal pencil. She perched on her stool, her sketch pad balanced on her knees. Her hand flew across the page. A dark figure took form on the paper. She added horns and a tail. The final touch was a pitchfork. With a swirl of dark lines, she enclosed the figure in smoke and flames.
‘Take that!’
Lauren poked her tongue out at the figure she had drawn, her bad mood starting to fade. She would go to St Benedict’s tonight, and explain everything to Josef. He was her good friend, and she wouldn’t want him to get the wrong idea. Lauren was no fool. She knew Josef would like to be more than just a friend. There were times she thought she’d like that as well. But she wasn’t looking for a relationship. She didn’t need a man to complete her life. Didn’t want one. In her eyes, falling in love seemed to bring more bad than good. Nothing about the prince gave her reason to change her mind.
Lauren glanced down at the page. While lost in her thoughts, her hand had continued its work, almost with a mind of its own. Now a second figure graced the paper. This one was wearing wings and standing on a cloud. Anyone who knew Josef would easily recognise his features below the halo.
Lauren laughed out loud. She tore the page from the pad and pinned it in the centre of her notice board. When she sat down again, the sketches she had done the night before were uppermost on the pad. She also tore them out, but only the one of Prince Nicolas was pinned to the board. The others were carefully stowed among her things. Without giving any conscious thought to what to do next, Lauren picked up her charcoal pencil and started to draw again. Closing her eyes from time to time, to recall a memory, she quickly outlined a big oak desk and started to detail a man sitting behind it.
Lauren was so engrossed in her work, she barely heard the knock on the door.
‘Go away,’ she muttered as the door started to open.
When there was no answer but silence, Lauren looked up. A slender, middle-aged woman was standing in the doorway, a faint smile on her lips. The woman wore a simple but well-cut blue suit and a single strand of pearls around her neck. Lauren’s jaw dropped with shock as she recognised her.
‘Your … ah … Majesty.’ Lauren leaped off her stool, dropping her pencil in the process. She wiped her charcoal-covered hands on her jeans, wondering if she was supposed to curtsey. Did one curtsey when wearing faded and paint-stained jeans?
‘Hello, Miss Phelps. I fear I am disturbing you.’
‘No. No. Not at all …’ Lauren quickly responded.
‘I think I am, but I shall come in anyway. That is one of the advantages of my position.’ The woman smiled as she drew nearer. Behind her, an attendant gently closed the door and stood like a statue beside it.
Her Majesty Queen Charlotte frowned slightly as she stopped near Lauren.
‘I was told that your hair was blue.’
‘It was, Your Majesty. I dyed it this morning. After … well … after the photo in the papers. I didn’t want to be recognised on the street.’
‘Very wise. However, one does wonder why you chose green?’
‘It wasn’t supposed to be green. I was trying for brown.’
‘I do hope you do better with the colours on your paintings.’
Lauren giggled then bit her bottom lip to make herself stop. ‘I do too.’
Queen Charlotte turned to look at the sketches on the notice board, giving Lauren a few moments to compose herself. The Queen was a lit
tle taller than Lauren, and still a beautiful woman, despite having two grown sons. Lauren knew Her Majesty must be in her late fifties, but she looked many years younger. She had been widowed at a quite young age and had never remarried. Lauren could see the faint traces of sadness in the Queen’s face, and wondered if she had ever stopped mourning her husband.
She looked from the mother to the sketches of the son, searching for family similarities. There was perhaps a likeness around the eyes. The shape of the nose also. It might be interesting to paint the two of them together.
‘Do you really see my son as the embodiment of evil?’
Lauren realised the Queen was looking at her sketch of Prince Nicolas as the devil. She winced. ‘No. Of course not,’ she said. ‘I was just … well. Those horrid newspaper headlines …’
‘I know.’ Her Majesty turned away from the board. She looked at her young companion with the same concern Lauren had often seen on her own mother’s face. ‘You mustn’t let them get to you.’
Lauren was a little taken aback by the kindness in the Queen’s voice.
‘It’s not easy being the younger son of a monarch,’ the older woman continued. ‘My older son has always known where his future lies. But Nicolas never had a clear goal. Until he entered military service. He found a place there, but in the end, his birthright took that away from him as well.’
Lauren wanted to ask what she meant, but hesitated.
‘Nicolas has always been hounded by the media,’ the Queen said. ‘Some of it is his own fault, but not all of it. As you now know, not everything they print is the truth, or even close to it.’
She looked long and hard at Lauren as if she would add something else, but then abruptly changed the subject.
‘I am looking forward to seeing your portrait.’
‘We were supposed to be working this afternoon but His Highness had another engagement. A social engagement,’ Lauren couldn’t resist adding.
‘Of course. He is trying to distract the photographers, so they’ll forget about you. I hope you won’t be one of those who always thinks the worst of Nicolas. He’s not as bad as they paint him. And he’s certainly not the Devil.’ The Queen cast a pointed glance at the drawing and smiled.
She loves her son, Lauren thought.
‘On another matter,’ the Queen continued, ‘there is a function three days from tomorrow. Here at the palace. An evening reception for the new French ambassador. My son would be pleased if you would attend.’
‘Attend …’
‘Yes. He cannot accompany you as your escort, but he would like you to be there.’
‘I … well. Yes.’
‘Fine. My secretary will contact you with details. It is formal, of course. If that’s a problem …’
‘No. Not at all.’ Lauren was not about to admit that she owned no clothing that was at all suitable for a formal occasional. After all, she had three days. And a hairdresser friend who knew some people in the fashion world.
‘I look forward to seeing you there.’ Queen Charlotte smiled then turned towards the door. Her servant opened it for her.
‘Your Majesty,’ Lauren interrupted the royal progress.
‘Yes, Miss Phelps?’
‘Why didn’t he ask me himself?’
‘I think he was afraid that you would say no.’
The door closed behind her with barely a sound.
Chapter Six
A galaxy of lights illuminated the vast ballroom, which sparkled with music and champagne. Although no one was dancing, the military band played just loudly enough to set a few toes tapping. Here and there, a few hips and shoulders were also swaying. Under different circumstances, Prince Nicolas might have been watching those shapely hips undulate. The women in the room fell into two types: the wives and the dates.
The wives were invariably well trained and well versed in protocol. They wore just the right dress, just the right amount of jewellery and smiled just the right smile. No trace of their personality remained. The dates were always young and beautiful. They were usually blonde and usually stupid. Nicolas mentally chastised himself for the thought. He was being guilty of just the sort of prejudice Lauren accused him of – judging a woman’s worth by her looks.
Where was she? Once more he turned, looking around the room, searching for the one face he wanted to see.
Nicolas seldom attended formal functions, and enjoyed them even less often. Most of the attendees were diplomats and politicians. They said the right things and did the right things. Every moment in their company was as predictable as the one before. No spark of individuality was permitted, lest it somehow give offence. Occasionally he met a person of interest – an artist or a writer – but the formality of the evening ensured nothing more than banalities passed their lips.
He would have preferred to be back in his office reading a book, but his mother had insisted. His older brother was on an international visit, and someone had to act as the Queen’s escort. And she had offered an extra incentive.
Nicolas restrained a desire to run his fingers around the collar of his military dress uniform. Never comfortable, tonight the uniform seemed like a straitjacket. He looked good in regimental colours – the feminine smiles tossed his way told him that – but he didn’t care. There was only one smile he wanted to see this evening.
He hadn’t seen Lauren for two days. Not since the day of the newspaper headlines. Her studio had been empty when he went looking for her yesterday. At first he was surprised and a little annoyed, then he realised that he was being unfair. He was not her employer. He couldn’t dictate the hours she worked. Feeling curiously disappointed by her absence, Nicolas had wandered around the studio, looking at the paints and pencils and pads that were the symbol of her talent.
Then he saw it. His portrait as the devil.
The smile that first formed on his lips faded instantly when he recognised the other figure in the painting. Pastor Josef had received far kinder treatment at Lauren’s hands. Nicolas had spent some minutes staring the sketch. Was that how she saw them both? He as the Devil, while Josef was some sort of angel or saint? It was true that they were worlds apart, but not that far. Were they? He wondered if Lauren was spending her day with Josef. No doubt she found him better company, and he couldn’t help but feel jealous.
Nicolas regretted the argument over the newspaper headlines that had caused Lauren so much pain. He would set that right if she came tonight, although despite his mother’s assurances, Nicolas wasn’t sure she would.
The band launched into a popular show tune and Nicolas once more scanned the crowd, looking for the flash of Lauren’s blue hair. Then he remembered: it wasn’t blue any more. She had been forced to change the colour because of those photos. He felt a twinge of guilt. He was partly responsible for hindering her free spirit. He would make it up to her, if she would give him the chance. Nicolas avoided the gaze of a well-known actress; he was in no mood for small talk, even with such an attractive companion, and he turned away, looking for a waiter who might fetch him a glass of mineral water.
The laws of physics don’t apply to beautiful women. How else could he explain why the crowd parted as Lauren walked into the room? The room and people around him around him faded into a soft blur, the music dimmed and hundreds of voices seemed suddenly still. He heard and saw nothing but the woman walking towards him. Prince Nicolas was suddenly a nervous teenager on the brink of his first kiss.
Lauren wore a simple gown of ivory silk that draped gracefully around her body and shimmered as she walked. The embossed neckline curved low, highlighting her soft skin and the swell of her breasts. A light shawl covered her bare shoulders. Silver flashed in her ears, highlighting the new rich chestnuts and browns in her hair. She was the most beautiful woman Nicolas had ever seen. His royal heritage, his playboy reputation and the women he had known before this moment were nothing. His stomach ached with the fear that this lovely woman would smile at someone else. If she did, he would die.
> As she drew near Lauren extended her hand. He took it in his, his fingers closing around hers as if he would never let her go. With sensuous grace, Lauren bowed her head and curtseyed.
‘Your Royal Highness.’
* * *
Lauren forced herself to breathe again as she rose from the curtsey. She looked up into a pair of deep blue eyes that shone with obvious admiration. One of her hands remained in the prince’s warm grip, the other clutched her evening purse tightly. Long moments passed until Lauren could bear the waiting no more.
‘If you don’t say something soon, I’ll turn around and run right out of here,’ she whispered.
‘If you do, you’ll earn the thanks of every woman in this room.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They’ll be pleased to see you leave, because you outshine every single one of them. Of course, if you do leave you will break the heart of every man in the room.’
‘Including yours?’
‘Mine most of all.’
‘Then I’ll stay.’
Lauren wasn’t well versed in the art of flirting, but something had happened when she walked into the room. She was changed in some way that she couldn’t define. It felt good.
With exaggerated courtesy, the prince held out his arm. ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Yes please.’
‘First, however, we must pay our respects.’
Lauren placed her hand on his arm. As they turned, the room swam back into focus and she suddenly became aware of her surroundings. High above, the chandeliers spread light on a dazzling sea of movement and colour. Brilliant silk gowns and expensive jewels flashed among suits of white and black and the red and gold of military uniforms.
Lauren gazed about her in wonder. She recognised some of the faces. By a window, a cabinet minister chatted to a beautiful actress. Near the well-laden buffet table, two sporting heroes exchanged stories as they sampled the fare. Queen Charlotte stood at the head of the room, chatting to a grey-haired gentleman wearing a red sash, no doubt the guest of honour.