Royal: A Royal Billionaire Novel (Billionaires in Disguise: Maxence Book 6)

by Blair Babylon

Applause pattered in the crowd.

  Maxence didn’t say anything. Campaigning for the throne seemed like it might be counterproductive.

  Just as Maxence was getting ready to lift his voice again and announce they would resume the roll call vote, Lady Valentina Martini stepped up to the front row of the crowd in front of the dais and asked loudly, “Why should we submit to a roll call vote for this election at all? Why does it matter?” She spoke directly to Max. “You never wanted to be the sovereign prince. Go be a priest, Maxence. We can’t elect a sovereign who won’t carry on the bloodline. Otherwise, there won’t be a next Grimaldi prince to satisfy the treaties, and we’ll be absorbed by France. None of us want to be French for heaven’s sake.”

  A woman who had been on the perimeter turned toward Lady Valentina and raised her hands, palms up, as if she was saying Hey, I’m right here.

  Valentina Martini pursed her lips and said, “Not that there’s anything wrong with being French, but we are Monegasques. But that’s not the point. Monaco would cease to exist, so you can’t be elected if you’re just going to run off to Rome.”

  “I’ve decided not to become a priest,” Maxence told Lady Valentina and the room.

  A hush settled over the crowd, both at his admission that he had been considering the priesthood and that he was changing his mind about it.

  Lady Valentina asked, “Should we believe you, Max? Before Prince Pierre tragically passed away, of course you could join the Church. I thought it was a wonderful vocation for you, very traditional. But now I’ve heard from Pope Celestine himself that you are leaving for Rome this afternoon to take Holy Orders and finish your formation as a Jesuit. How could you be both, Maxence? Wouldn’t you have to give up your place in the world and all your worldly titles and possessions to be a Jesuit?”

  Wait.

  Pope Emeritus Celestine had told Monaco’s electors Maxence would be taking Holy Orders?

  That constituted interference in their election.

  He said, “I’m not going to Rome today, and I’m not taking Holy Orders, ever.”

  “His Holiness told me you were.”

  “Pope Celestine offered ordination to me yesterday morning. I haven’t informed him of my decision yet. I will decline.” Maxence looked over the crowd. “How many of you received a call from Pope Celestine?”

  Hands fluttered near shoulders, admitting to getting a phone call.

  With a quick survey of the crowd, Maxence could see that Celestine had contacted nearly all of them.

  Between years of lies about Max to Quentin Sault and certainly others, yesterday’s offer of ordination from Pope Celestine, his kidnapping last night, the time change for the Crown Council meeting today, and the methodical dissemination of the lie that Maxence had accepted Celestine’s offer to be a priest, these attacks seemed to be coordinated.

  It might be enough to make Maxence paranoid.

  Valentina Martini frowned, lines wrinkling her delicate skin. “How do we know you won’t run off to be ordained?”

  “Well, if I did, you could just come back here and elect another prince.”

  The entire crowd groaned.

  He could see their point. In the past, after a sovereign prince died, his heir was predetermined and confirmed within days. The election was a formality and a celebration to signal the end of mourning.

  The previous sovereign, Prince Rainer IV, had suffered a massive, hemorrhagic stroke months before and been kept alive on life support machines for over a month. Politics and infighting had rocked the Crown Council ever since. Pierre had been lobbying the council for years before Rainier IV had died because his election had not been certain.

  The nobles were fatigued by months of uncertainty.

  Monaco’s citizens were distraught by the chaos in their government.

  Yes, it was time to end this.

  Maxence spoke to the room. “I am announcing right now that no matter what the result of this Crown Council is, I will not become a priest.”

  Marie-Therese had sauntered through the crowd and stood in front of the dais. “That’s just beautiful, Maxence. It’s absolutely heart-warming that you would give up being an impoverished itinerant priest to become a fantastically wealthy and powerful world leader. Kind of convenient, isn’t it?”

  The levity dropped out of the room.

  Maxence said, “It’s not convenient. The only reason the election is contested is that my brother died, even if it was by his own hand. I’d rather have Pierre back.”

  Her callous smirk astounded him. “But Pierre isn’t coming back.”

  Max caught his breath. “No, he’s not.”

  “And now you show up with your hand out, ready to take the throne.”

  “I’ve always been the spare heir for Monaco. Pierre was first in line, but I was the backup.”

  Marie-Therese’s sly smile didn’t falter. “That’s easy for you to say, but that’s not how you’ve lived your life. As soon as you were old enough to leave Monaco, you were gone and never came back. All these years, you haven’t been here. I stuck around and worked in the palace on publicity and my social media accounts for the good of Monaco.”

  “You think you should be the sovereign?” Maxence glanced at Prince Jules standing a few feet away from her. “Not your father?”

  Marie-Therese reeled out her answer in one long, rehearsed line. “My father’s generation had their chance with Uncle Rainier, and it’s time for fresh blood. I can convert my social media presence into a publicity powerhouse for Monaco.”

  Prince Jules took a few steps and stood beside his daughter. He hissed to her, but everyone could hear, “This was not what we agreed on.”

  Marie-Therese glanced sideways at her father from under her eyelashes. “It’s just shocking how things turned out. I’m just as shocked as you are.”

  Prince Jules rocked back on his heels and glanced up at Maxence.

  Oh, that was interesting.

  Marie-Therese was the player.

  Her father was just another pawn in her game.

  She inhaled hard, swelling her chest and nearly overflowing her low-cut, scarlet dress.

  The power red was doubtlessly a ploy to make sure she would stand out in the pictures from that day, and red was one of Monaco’s national colors, Maxence mused. Well played.

  Marie-Therese said, “As soon as I finished university, I came back to Monaco. I have been here ever since, working in the palace, attending the events, showing up to do my part.”

  The crowd murmured, and Maxence examined his black athletic shoes on the dais’s red carpeting.

  She continued, “Monaco formed the Crown Council to ensure that the throne didn’t pass to a foreigner who wouldn’t have our best interests at heart. Nearly a century ago during the succession crisis of 1918, a German Duke who’d never even lived here would have inherited the throne in the final year of World War I, and he and his family would have held the throne afterward. Monaco almost became a Nazi U-boat military base on the coast of France.”

  Maxence bided his time, not liking the analogy.

  Marie-Therese continued, “Prince Maxence grew up in Switzerland and attended graduate school in Central America. He has closer ties to the Democratic Republic of the Congo, where he keeps two women and their children, than he does to Monaco. He has closer ties to Rome and New York, where he keeps apartments, because he does not own a residence in Monaco. He stays in the hotel by the casino rather than the palace, except for this trip, now that it matters how it looks.”

  She looked dead-straight at Maxence and accused him. “Monaco isn’t your home. It’s just a bank where you can pick up money from your trust fund. You didn’t come back until you could get your hands on the throne.”

  There were good reasons why Max hadn’t come back to Monaco on a regular basis, but any answer to her rebuke was an admission to more than Maxence wanted to say about his brother.

  He paused, and his eyes drifted to the throne, where he’d seen hi
s grandfather and then his uncle sit during important functions all his life.

  Above the throne was the Grimaldi coat of arms, the scarlet and white harlequin pattern also engraved on his arm, marking him as belonging to Monaco his whole life. The Grimaldi motto was emblazoned below the shield and coat of arms, which was Deo Juvante, With God’s Help.

  With God’s Help.

  Footfalls clattered on the side of the dais.

  Maxence took three steps backward to place himself between Dree, who was still sitting in the chair and taking notes about the proceedings, and whomever was coming up onto the stage.

  Max spread his arms and braced himself.

  By the time he saw that it was Arthur and Casimir who were crowding onto the dais, he was already blocking their way. “What are you guys doing?”

  Casimir slapped Maxence on the shoulder, grinning so hard that his green eyes squinted. “Saving your ass.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  With A Little Help from My Friends

  Maxence

  Arthur Finch-Hatten, Earl of Severn and the absolute embodiment of the term debonair Englishman, approached the front of the dais. He spread his arms, preparing to orate.

  Maxence stepped closer to him, readying himself to whisper in Arthur’s ear to shut the hell up or shove him off the dais, depending on what he said.

  Arthur spoke to the assembled crowd of Monegasque aristocrats. “Prince Maxence Grimaldi didn’t return to Monaco often because every time he did, his brother tried to murder him.”

  That little revelation elicited gasps from the room and a sad head shake from Max. They could have talked all day before he’d admitted that.

  Arthur continued, “Maxence is, as usual, being modest and far too kind. As Alexandre said, there have been whispers for a decade or longer that Maxence should be the one to succeed his uncle as the next Prince of Monaco instead of Pierre. It’s not only talked about inside Monaco, you know. As a result, Pierre has tried to kill Maxence at least five times that I know about, and probably many more than that.”

  When he put it like that, no wonder Max was a little jumpy sometimes.

  Arthur pointed at him. “Did you see how he moved in front of his secretary when he heard somebody walking up behind him? He protected her because he assumed someone in Monaco’s Secret Service was coming to kill him.”

  Dree piped up from her chair. “It’s true.”

  Maxence spun as she spoke.

  Dree’s earnest nod was wee and adorable. She said, “When we were in Paris, people were following us. And then when we were in Nepal, when Quentin Sault came and found Max to tell him his brother had died and he needed to go back to Monaco, right then when we were at the little inn at the base of the Himalayas, Maxence told me that when he’d seen Quentin Sault in the lobby, he’d assumed Sault was there to kill him. When he asked Sault if he would’ve done it, Sault didn’t answer. No wonder Maxence rarely came back, since Pierre was always threatening or actually trying to kill him.”

  Lady Valentina stepped forward to the very bottom of the dais. “Maxence? Is this true?”

  Max hesitated, but he nodded. He wasn’t under any obligation to lie to protect his dead brother’s reputation. He didn’t need to elaborate, however. “Uncle Rainier had been sharing power with Pierre for ten years or more, slowly bringing him into the business of running the country. Pierre controlled the Secret Service the whole time. Coming home to Monaco was dangerous for me.”

  Casimir stepped up on Max’s other side.

  Oh, God. What now?

  Casimir announced to the crowd, “All of this concern about how much Maxence has lived in Monaco or how many times he’s been back here seems like you’re questioning whether or not Maxence thinks of Monaco as his home, or if he’s just another tourist who traipses in and out of Monte Carlo when it’s convenient for him.” Casimir whispered to Max, “Roll up your sleeve, just a few inches.”

  “What? No!” Maxence said, leaning away from Casimir because obviously, the man had gone mad.

  “Show them your tattoo, dammit. The one on your wrist.”

  “Fine.” Maxence had put his black tee shirt and jacket from rescuing Dree that morning back on, and he began rolling up the jacket sleeve of his right arm. He knew what Casimir was going to do, but it seemed more like a magic trick, a surprise reveal, than a closely reasoned argument.

  Then again, Caz was an entertainment lawyer in Hollywood. Many of his court appearances probably were more flourish than logical litigation.

  Casimir turned back to the crowd. “Do you want to see who Max is in his soul? Arthur, that other guy back there, designed these tattoos for us when we were at university to represent our true selves.”

  Arthur waved a single flick of his aristocratic fingers from behind them.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Maxence saw Dree look up from her notes and glare at Arthur.

  Casimir continued, “This is who Maxence truly is.”

  He grabbed Maxence’s wrist and lifted his arm in the air, displaying the shield filled with the red and white diamond pattern, echoed behind them above the throne on the Grimaldi coat of arms.

  A mutter went through the crowd.

  It still seemed like a cheap trick to Maxence, displaying a tattoo that had begun to fade with age as if the ink in his skin was a better qualification than his years of service to humanity, but it was a symbol that would sway some people. He slapped his sleeve down over his wrist.

  Casimir said, “Maxence has always loved Monaco. He always came back to Monaco even though he knew it was dangerous for him. He sat by his uncle’s bedside for a month even though he was dodging assassins the whole time. He stayed in the hotel at the casino because he would be marginally safer than in the palace, where he’d be under Pierre’s thumb. He rolled the dice every single time he came back, but he came because he missed it so much, even though he was gambling with his life. No one loves Monaco more than Maxence Grimaldi.”

  Marie-Therese, her smile as sharp as a stiletto, was still positioned by the steps leading up to the throne. She spoke to the room. “That’s utter bullshit. Maxence never wanted to be the sovereign prince. He still doesn’t. He’s only doing this to keep anyone else from getting the throne.”

  “I’ve always wanted to take care of Monaco, to protect her,” Maxence said, and his breath seemed to emerge from the very base of his soul. “But Pierre was the oldest, and I would never have knocked my own brother out of the way.”

  The accusation rang in the room.

  About half the people turned to look at Jules Grimaldi, who should have been ahead of his daughter, Marie-Therese, in the line of succession. Most of them must still be shocked that Jules hadn’t been nominated.

  The words rose from the depths of his soul and rang in the air. “My brother, Pierre, was expected to become the Sovereign Prince of Monaco. I watched my uncle and my grandfather train him, explaining to him all the ways his power could make Monaco better. I was never jealous that he would rule Monaco. I was jealous he could stay in Monaco. From the time I was sent off to boarding school when I was five years old, I was acutely aware that my future lay elsewhere in the world. Pierre would come back and be welcomed home. I needed to leave, though I never wanted to.”

  Maxence continued, “The citizens’ picnic in September was my favorite time when I was a child. I mean, the costumes weren’t.” The other nobles chuckled, doubtlessly remembering being stuffed into the heavily embroidered, itchy traditional costumes that looked oddly Nordic for a Mediterranean nation as children. “My grandfather and then my uncle held court, as it were, on a blanket in the middle of the park. Anyone and everyone walked over, sat on the blanket, and discussed the state of our nation with them. It was idyllic. Can you imagine such a thing anywhere else? The country’s leader, reclining on a blanket and eating figs and cheese, and citizens walking up, being offered snacks, and sitting down to tell the Prince about their shop and discuss their problems and the direction o
f the country? That’s Monaco. That’s us. Monaco is my home, and our citizens are my family.”

  Marie-Therese said to him, “But it doesn’t change the fact that you were disqualified in this election, and I have been elected. You’re standing in front of my throne.”

  Maxence smiled at Marie-Therese because decorum was as important as facts in this situation. “Not until we finish the roll call vote.”

  “I think we’ve heard quite enough. The voice vote was overwhelming.”

  “We will count every vote, even the ones you don’t want to. You aren’t allowed to end a soccer game at halftime because your team is in the lead. We don’t stop counting in the middle.”

  Maxence had expected the room to erupt at that pronouncement, as some electors who’d been passionate about their vote for Marie-Therese would insist on stopping the vote while she was ahead.

  However, only three shouts echoed in the chamber, and the voices quickly died down when they realized they were in the vast minority.

  Lady Valentina Martini had also been watching the room, and her sharp gaze had not missed who had shouted. She stepped up on the dais, turned her back to the room, and whispered to Maxence, “Louis Grimaldi, back surgery. Lady Clémentine Gastaud, fibromyalgia. Lady Henri Giordano, a herniated disc in her neck.”

  Maxence glanced down at her. “And?”

  Lady Valentina sighed. “All three of them are addicted to prescription opioid painkillers supplied by Matryona Sokolov.”

  Maxence and Lady Valentina were standing right next to where Dree was sitting in a chair, taking notes.

  When Valentina said Matryona Sokolov’s name and connected it to opioids and the election, Dree’s eyes widened. “Oh Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Now, I get it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Dree Explains It All for You

  Dree

  “So, last night, Matryona and Kir Sokolov kidnapped me from the Sea Change Gala and tied me to a chair in a warehouse over in France where they were threatening to kill me. And the warehouse was filled with narcotics they were planning to distribute to France and Spain, but they also had more on a ship at the Port of Marseilles that they were having trouble getting to because their usual trucking company was helping somebody move instead of transporting highly addictive prescription drugs all over Europe.