Royal Ruin

by Jessica Peterson

  “But you’ve only worked on private residences,” she replied. “Why do you want to dedicate your time to a school?”

  I nodded. “Good question. It’d be a new challenge, certainly. But more than that, I absolutely love the work your foundation does. I love how your family makes such an effort to reach out to people who’d otherwise be forgotten or invisible. It’d be an incredible op—”

  The three of us jumped in unison as the door swung open, ricocheting off the brass doorstop with a dull thud. The hulking figure that filled the doorway had a familiar face.

  I blinked, just to make sure it was him. Yep, it was definitely Prince Carlton, the Queen’s eldest son and the heir she’d passed over for Kit. His heavy brow and thin-lipped mouth were twisted in a scowl.

  My gut clenched. I exchanged a worried glance with Aly. Something bad was about to go down.

  Ignoring us, Carlton charged toward Jane and slammed a newspaper onto her desk. He tapped his finger against a picture on the front page.

  “You little slut.” He bent at the middle to hiss into her ear. “What are you doing to this family?”

  The color drained from Jane’s face as she looked down at the picture. I couldn’t see it, but I did make out the headline above it. SHAKEN AND STIRRED: PRINCESS JANE REBOUNDS WITH EAST END BARTENDER.

  Good for Jane. I didn’t follow the royal family religiously, but I knew Princess Jane was in the middle of a nasty divorce. I could relate. Going through a divorce was horrible. But going through a very public divorce—that had to be the pits. I felt for her. So what if she made out with a hot bartender or two? She was probably just trying to move on.

  Carlton clearly didn’t share my opinion.

  “What were you thinking, associating with trash like that? And in front of the whole world!” he said.

  Jane drew a shaky breath and squared her shoulders. “As you can see”—she motioned to Aly and me—“I am in the middle of an interview with honored guests. This is neither the time nor the place to discuss personal matters. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

  Carlton swung his head and speared me with a glare. The hair on the back of my neck bristled at the disdain in his eyes. He snorted. “Honored guests? Is that what you’re calling all these nobodies you’re bringing in for the foundation?”

  Wow. I’d heard rumors that Carlton was as old fashioned a snob as you could’ve gotten. But I didn’t expect those rumors to fall so short of the reality. This guy was clearly the worst.

  “Get out.” Jane’s voice rose as she stood. “Now.”

  He turned back to her. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Now he was shouting, too. “You prancing around like some common trollop goes against everything we stand for! You’re destroying our family, one dalliance at a time.”

  All the blood in my body went still at sound of another voice by the door. A man’s voice.

  A very deep, very authoritative, very familiar man’s voice.

  “Carlton, that is enough.” The words were delivered with icy calm. “Leave.”

  I turned to see Kit standing just inside the room, a few feet from where I sat.

  Oh my God.

  Kit Thorne was here.

  Oh my God.

  A cold wash of panic seized my gut. My face prickled with heat. Thank God his attention was focused on Jane and Carlton. If he’d looked at me right then, I had no doubt I’d faint.

  This was all too much. We were in a palace. We were witnessing first hand the family drama of what was arguably the most famous family in the world. And now, for the first time since running out on him over a decade ago, I was seeing the guy who’d been the best lay of my life.

  It was a miracle my head didn’t explode.

  Kit looked mouthwateringly good as he glowered at Carlton. He’d filled out a bit since college; his chest and arms were definitely broader. He wore his thick blond hair short and parted messily to the side, and sported a deliciously scruffy beard that gave him the look of an especially well groomed Viking.

  And the suit. The suit. Jesus. This one was a dark blue that complemented his eyes. He was dressed simply—no bells and whistles, just a white shirt, tie, brown shoes and a watch. None of that hipster vest or jewelry nonsense celebrities sported these days. Kit was a classic. Always had been.

  “Who do you think you’re talking to?” Carlton boomed. “Just because the Queen named you heir doesn’t mean—”

  “As a matter of fact, it does mean I’m in charge.” Kit moved to stand between Carlton and Princess Jane. “You’ll defer to me, or so help me God, I’ll make you regret ever stepping foot in my sister’s office.”

  Aly and I watched with bated breath as the two men stared each other down. Without looking away, I grabbed the handles on my bag. It was time for us to go. Whatever was going on here, it was none of our business. Even if I kind of did want to stay to see Kit play the white knight and defend his sister.

  But as soon as I gathered up the courage to break the silence and excuse myself, another person appeared at the door.

  “Everyone stop, right this instant!”

  I blinked when I saw an older woman, dressed to the nines in a bright yellow suit and pink lipstick, step into the room. The enormous diamond brooch on her lapel caught the light, making me blink again.

  “The Queen!” Aly hissed, frantically tapping my leg. “Em, it’s her! The Queen of England!”

  I just stared. So did the three royals gathered at Jane’s desk. Carlton fell back from Kit, tucking the paper beneath his arm.

  “I heard the lot of you shouting from upstairs.” The Queen’s eyes flicked to Aly and me. “This is not how we treat our guests. Ladies, allow me to apologize on behalf of these nincompoops. I promise, my children and grandchildren are not usually so…ornery.”

  On instinct, I stood and fell into a curtsey. Even though I wasn’t supposed to meet Her Majesty today, I’d still done my research on how to properly greet her, just in case.

  “No apology necessary,” I replied. “If Your Majesty had seen the way my uncles went at it at Thanksgiving over the Falcons, you’d know I’m quite familiar with family drama. Nothing new here to see.”

  Was I imagining it, or did the Queen’s eyes—same blue as Kit and Jane’s—glimmer as she took me in? Like I’d made the wheels in her head turn.

  “Indeed,” she replied after a beat. “I appreciate that.”

  I hooked my bag over my shoulder. “We’ll give you all some privacy. I am more than happy to reschedule this meeting. Jane, you have my contact information.”

  The Queen held up her hand. Her gaze lingered on my face “Wait, my dear. What is your name?”

  “Grandmother, this is Emily Pace of EP Designs,” Jane said. “She’s here to interview for the England School for the Arts project.”

  “I actually go by Emily Kilpatrick now,” I said quickly. “Pace is—was—my married name.”

  I don’t know why I looked at Kit right then. Maybe I felt him looking at me, the strangely familiar heat of his gaze plucking at long forgotten strings inside my chest.

  But I looked, just in time to capture the realization as it dawned across his face. His eyes caught on mine and refused to let go. His lips parted on a short intake of air.

  Maybe his heart had stopped beating, too.

  “Emily,” he said.

  I swallowed. “Hello, Kit.”

  Chapter Five

  Kit

  Shock gripped my windpipe and squeezed. Which was weird, because I didn’t do shock. I didn’t do emotion, period. Not since the accident.

  But here I was, getting light headed as I locked eyes with Emily Kilpatrick. I took in the familiar lines of her face. The pert nose. Wide mouth. Mischievous, intelligent eyes. The hint of weariness I saw in them—that was new. I didn’t like it.

  It was like seeing a ghost. Emily belonged to the “before” part of my life. The part before my parents died. I didn’t revisit those years much. What was the
point? It only hurt.

  As heir to the throne and my parents’ legacy as well—and older brother to three grieving siblings—I didn’t have time for hurt.

  I wanted to look away from Emily. I needed to. But the girl was a knockout. Same as always.

  “Kit, you know Emily?” Jane asked, breaking my trance.

  I licked my lips. “I do. Miss Kilpatrick was one of my best students before…well.”

  Emily cleared her throat. “I was very sorry to hear about your parents. We missed you in class. A lot.”

  I had a stable of rote answers for moments like these. Thank you for your sympathy. We miss them. We appreciate your concern.

  But I hesitated. Maybe because I’d missed being in class, too. That first week after the accident, all I’d wanted was to hear Emily’s voice. I’d needed her reassurances, the confidence she’d always had in me.

  “That is kind of you.” I said the words like I always did. Automatically. But now they sounded stiff and strange. Like someone else—someone who was obviously and embarrassingly full of shit—was saying them.

  Emily’s brow furrowed. Was she as confused as I felt?

  “Christopher.” The Queen was looking at me intently. Oh no. I knew that gleam in her eye. She had a plan brewing, and I had the funniest feeling it involved me. “Walk with me. Carlton, go back to your offices—I’ll deal with you later. We shall leave the ladies in peace to continue their interview. Miss Kilpatrick, it was lovely to make your acquaintance. I do sincerely hope you’ll accept my apology on behalf of my family.”

  Emily’s eyes met mine one last time. All the people I’d met, the hundred countries I’d been to, and I’d yet to find a prettier shade of green. My mind drifted. Had she started that business she’d talked so much about? Where did she live? Had she settled down with a forever someone? She’d made that strange comment about her married name. Maybe she was divorced.

  I pushed the thoughts aside. It didn’t matter. I had to work to do, and that work did not include Emily Kilpatrick.

  * * *

  I followed my grandmother to her private apartments on the first floor of the north wing. My brothers and sister and I had lived up here after my parents passed. I liked it. More than the rest of the palace, anyway. It was quieter. Less stuffy.

  We settled in her sitting room, the least formal of all the spaces in the apartment save for Her Majesty’s bedroom. It was where she caught the evening news and, on Sunday afternoons, Sherlock (like every other red blooded Englishwoman, the Queen was currently enamored with Benedict Cumberbatch).

  She rang for tea, and politely but firmly shooed away the maid who brought it up from the kitchens. Sitting up in her chair, she lifted the pot and poured each of us a cup.

  “I’m sorry about all that,” I said. “Carlton can be such a bully.”

  “I know. It still does not excuse you shouting like a lunatic in front of guests.” She set down the teapot with a clink. “So what are you going to do?”

  I smoothed my tie. “I assume you’re referring to Jane?”

  It seemed the media couldn’t get enough of my sister’s missteps. First, she’d married a loudmouthed city boy with a drinking problem and an extravagant spending habit. She’d left him when he cheated on her—or she cheated on him, the story wasn’t quite clear. Their separation had been bitter from the start. Now she was rebounding. Hard. As in, she was drunkenly humping everything in sight. And she was doing it in front of the cameras.

  Which was a big problem. The people had loved my parents for their work and their common touch. Now that my siblings and I had taken up that work, people loved us, too. That was probably the biggest reason why the Queen named me her heir.

  But that love had limits. Limits that Jane was seriously testing with her antics. Trawling all over London, pissed out of her mind, she looked like an entitled, careless child.

  The Queen pinched the handle of her teacup, pinkie up. “Indeed. It should be clear to you by now that we only have power and influence if the people give it to us. The people must love our family, Christopher, otherwise we are nothing.”

  “Of course,” I replied. That fact had been drilled into me from a young age. Still, I wasn’t entirely sure what my grandmother was getting at.

  “I know Jane means well. But as the future King of England, you need to take action. You need to save her from herself.”

  “You think we could toss her in the Tower?” I joked. “That idiot ex-husband of hers, too. That would keep them out of the papers.”

  “Heavens, don’t I wish,” the Queen replied. “Would serve them right. Imagine how delighted the tourists would be to see an actual prisoner it the Tower of London. I daresay Jane would be a more popular attraction than the crown jewels.”

  “She’d chain-smoke cigarettes out of her arrow slit and shout insults down at them,” I said. “They’d love it.”

  The Queen laughed, the throaty, satisfied laugh she only let out in private. It made her face light up, if only for a moment.

  “But seriously.” I picked up a pair of silver tongs, engraved with the family crest of course, and used them to drop a slice of lemon into my tea. “I’ve spoken with Jane. She’s promised to keep it in her pants from now on. Pardon the expression.”

  My grandmother’s smile faded. “If you spoke to her, then why is that picture all over the papers today? You need to do more, Christopher.”

  The Queen was right. As usual. I didn’t even bother to defend myself.

  “As someone who has worn the crown for sixty years now, I’m going to give you some advice,” she continued. “You need to create a distraction. Something that will draw attention away from Jane until her divorce is finalized and she’s on more of an even keel.”

  I sipped my tea. It was scalding hot. “How would you do that? I can’t imagine anything short of a major news story would distract the people from this.”

  The Queen peered at me over the rim of her teacup. “Do you remember the engagement between your cousin Anne and Justin Teach? That footballer chap?”

  “I do,” I said, nodding. “I was sad to hear it didn’t work out. I was a big fan of Teach’s.”

  “Well.” The Queen’s eyes glimmered again. “That engagement was fake.”

  I was so surprised I nearly spit out my tea. I saved myself just in time by keeping my mouth locked shut. The tea shot up my nose instead. Shit that burned.

  “Pardon?” I said, blinking hard.

  “Carlton’s first wife had just died. He was in an absolute state.” Her Majesty shrugged. “I had no other options.”

  “And that worked?”

  She nodded solemnly. “It certainly did.”

  I leaned back. Tapped my finger against my teacup. Wow.

  Just…wow. I’d known my grandmother was a shrewd dealmaker. A plotter. You had to be if you’d lasted sixty years on the throne. But this was plotting on a whole new level.

  “You’re going to be King, Christopher. You and your siblings are in the spotlight now more than ever.” She nodded in my direction. “You need to get engaged. Fake engaged, of course. But engaged nonetheless.”

  My stomach dipped. “Me?”

  The Queen nodded.

  “But I haven’t—I’m not—I’m single at the moment,” I stuttered. “I’m not dating anyone.”

  Not for lack of trying. But it was always the same old song and dance. I’d meet a girl—someone who was perfect royal material. Beautiful, well-bred, polite. We’d go on a few dates, have tepid conversations and mediocre sex. I’d get bored, she’d get hurt, and the relationship would fizzle out. It happened every damn time.

  I knew I wasn’t exactly emotionally available. But there was something about these girls that just didn’t click with me.

  The Queen grinned. “I know. Which is why you’re perfect. The single prince, finally settling down with the girl who tamed him.”

  “A fake engagement.” I cleared my throat. “I mean this with all respect, Majesty, bu
t have you lost your marbles?”

  “I’m ninety-one years old,” she said cheerily. “It’s entirely possible.”

  I tugged at my collar. It had gotten hot in here all of the sudden.

  “So I’m going to be fake engaged,” I said. “To who? Who would draw the interest of the press away from Jane?”

  My grandmother set down her cup and folded her hands on her lap. Leave it to her to be calm and collected while hatching a stunt like this.

  “You’ll be engaged to a person the people can relate to. And I have a feeling we just met her downstairs in your sister’s office.”

  The edges of my vision dimmed. She couldn’t be talking about—

  “Emily Kilpatrick,” the Queen said, “would be perfect for the role. She’s obviously a hard-working girl if she’s interviewing for the foundation. I’m sure she’s got bills to pay, and she told us she’s got a family to deal with. It’d be a total Cinderella story. People will love living out their fantasies through her. We’ll run a background check on her, of course. But I’ve got a good feeling about this one.”

  Spiders of disbelief—or was it anxiety?—crawled through my belly.

  “This is crazy,” I managed. I set my cup on its saucer and held it there. “You can’t be serious.”

  My grandmother speared me with a look that had brought greater men to their knees. “Son, I am the Queen of England. I have loads of experience with people doing what we ask if you give them the right reasons. Find out what Emily Kilpatrick wants. Give it to her in exchange for pretending to be your fiancée.”

  I hadn’t realized my hands were shaking until my teacup began to clatter against the saucer. I dropped it on the table and ran my palms over my knees. I felt itchy all over. Panicked.

  “But this is crazy.” On top of everything else, my brain was apparently short-circuiting. Perfect.

  “I named you my heir for a reason, Christopher,” she said. “It’s time to prove you deserve it. You’re not doing this for me. You’re doing it for your family. Your sister. The foundation you love so much.”