Royal Protocol (3 page)

Harrison’s grip on his own mug tightened. “How do you want to handle General Vancor?” he asked, speaking of the head of the royal guard.

“I think it’s best that whatever evidence we have remain among us,” Logan asserted.

“I agree,” Harrison concluded, his voice going hard as he wondered how many other ways security might have been compromised that night. “Just tell him we have reason to believe Prince Owen’s kidnappers were also in the king’s apartments and find out how security was breached. If he doesn’t have answers from his men by this afternoon, I’ll pay him a visit myself.”

Having delegated that task, he picked up the newspaper he’d dropped onto a side chair and slid it faceup to the center of the table. “We also have another security problem.” His tone was matter-of-fact, his manner amazingly calm considering how furious he was at whoever had broken their confidence. The situation before had been delicate, to say the least. It now held the potential for disaster. “I received a call from a reporter of the
Penwyck Herald
about forty-five minutes ago. This is already hitting the streets.”

The bold, black headline screamed up at them all:
King Morgan in Coma; Prince Broderick in Power

The other three men rose to their feet, each turning the paper so he could better see, the sounds muffled by their expletives.

Having already uttered a few oaths himself, Harrison glanced from one to another. These were the men the king had chosen to trust with his kingdom. There wasn’t one Harrison didn’t trust himself.

“We need to find whoever leaked this information.”

“What did the reporter say?” Logan demanded darkly.

“Only that he thought the palace should know before
the public found out. He hung up before I could ask anything else.” To Harrison, Logan looked as if he could cheerfully choke someone. He could sympathize. Refusing to cave in to fatigue or frustration, he shoved his hand into his pocket instead. “My secretary is tracking him and his editor down now.”

“Aside from us,” Logan growled, “the only people who knew were the doctor and the three nurses tending His Majesty. They all have top security clearance and wouldn’t have anything to gain by leaking this.”

“The queen knows,” Pierce reminded him.

“Well, we know she wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize the Crown,” the bodyguard conceded. “What about someone in a lab somewhere? The king’s bloodwork is still being handled under an alias, isn’t it?”

“I’ll check with the doctor,” Pierce replied, fully sharing his peer’s frustration. “But questions raise questions and we need to tread lightly there. I think our best source right now is the reporter and the editor.”

“I’ll stay on it,” Harrison promised. “But who leaked this isn’t our biggest problem at the moment.” He was unable himself to imagine where the leak had occurred, though he did agree with Pierce about Her Majesty. If the queen were to confide in anyone, it would be Lady Gwendolyn, and he had already eliminated her as a suspect. Had she known, she would have immediately understood why he had to consult with the queen about the alliance. But she hadn’t betrayed so much as a hint of such knowledge. All he remembered seeing in her intriguing blue eyes was the unexpected and beguiling plea with which she’d greeted him, and the quick, damnably annoying way that sapphire blue had frosted over before she’d come to her queen’s defense.

With a swift frown, he shook off the thoughts. He
didn’t need to be thinking about the ice maiden—especially while three of the most intelligent, wealthiest and most powerful men in the country were waiting for him to continue.

“The entire kingdom is waking up to these headlines,” he pointed out, determined to stave off disaster. “Press from all over the world is going to descend like locusts in less than an hour…if the pressroom phone isn’t ringing already.” The thought had him starting to pace. “The good news is that the reporter apparently hadn’t been told how long the king has been ill. As far as anyone will know from that article, King Morgan took ill last evening rather than weeks ago.

“However,” he continued, pacing behind the men, “now that the public does know the king’s condition, it is imperative that Prince Broderick cease the masquerade as the real king and make a statement to the people that he will be taking his brother’s place in a ceremonial capacity. With those headlines,” he muttered, dismissing the offending wording with the wave of his hand, “we also need to make it very clear to the public and the world that Prince Broderick is a figurehead only. In the absence of an appointed heir, Penwyckian tradition passes power to the queen.”

Selwyn was inevitably the voice of reason. “I for one am relieved to have this out in the open. Prince Broderick has proven far more amenable than I would have expected, but I don’t know how much longer we could have kept up the charade.”

Pierce nodded. “I never liked this. I’ve always felt he was too much of a wild card.”

“We all share that feeling,” Harrison assured them both, “but we had no choice but to play the card we were handed. Our concern now is the effect this news
will have on pending negotiations. Nothing must happen to jeopardize either the alliance with Majorco or the alliance with the U.S.”

“No question,” muttered Logan.

Sir Selwyn smoothed his tie. “Absolutely.”

“Pierce.” Harrison paced the length of the table again, his mind totally focused on a new battle plan. “I think it would be most expeditious if you met with Broderick to advise him of his change in status while Selwyn heads off the press. Are you all right with that?”

A sharp nod confirmed that he was.

“Selwyn,” he said to the Royal Secretary, “we need to arrange for the king’s press secretary and staff to meet with Prince Broderick.”

“Consider it done. Do we want cameras? All the trappings?”

The king’s twin would love that.

“Whatever it takes to make it look as if everything is totally under control. As to official statements,” Harrison continued, pacing back the other way, “Prince Broderick needs to assure the kingdom that official business will be conducted as usual. That message needs to be strong enough to assure the citizens of Penwyck that their government is and will remain stable but nonspecific enough to allow us time to track down Prince Owen before his abductors realize the alliance will be signed as planned.” He stopped at the head of the table and turned to face them. “Agreed?”

“Agreed,” they replied in unison.

“Good. In the meantime, I will ask the appropriate ministers to meet with the ambassadors of the United States and Majorco, and assure them that nothing will stand in the way of their alliances.”

“Is that where you’re headed now?” Logan asked.

“No.” A muscle in Harrison’s jaw jerked. “Right now I’m going to see the queen.”

It was barely six in the morning when the guard at the entrance to the royal residence rang Gwen’s apartment on the second floor overlooking Castle Cove. Her three rooms, once a nanny’s quarters, were appointed modestly and were quite small, considering the size of the rooms below her. Still, decorated with the comfortable provincial furniture and personal treasures Gwen had brought with her ten years ago, they had proved more than adequate for a young widow with a small child to raise.

That child was now a twenty-year-old woman, who was presently on holiday with a friend and her family in the Scottish highlands—which was why the telephone rang five times before Gwen snatched it up.

Amira would have jumped on it by the second ring. With the blow dryer running, Gwen had barely heard it at all.

“He’s on his way up now?” she asked, tucking the receiver under her chin to snatch up her beige suit skirt. “Where exactly is he?”

The formal male voice on the other end of the line informed her that Admiral Monteque had just passed through the vestibule and turned into the queen’s hallway. He would be at the doors of the queen’s apartments in less than a minute.

Gwen’s heart felt as if it were beating out of her chest as she hurried to her wardrobe and stuffed her feet into a pair of taupe leather pumps. The only reason she could imagine him needing to see the queen—and at such an hour—was because something had happened with Prince Owen.

In her years of service to the queen, Gwen had always preferred two-piece suits because they were neat, com
fortable and layers could be added or dispensed with beneath the jacket, depending on the season. There would be no layers today. Grabbing the beige silk jacket that matched her skirt, she shoved her arms into the sleeves, pushed back her freshly dried hair and rushed through the doorway beside her small Italian marble fireplace, zipping her skirt as she hurried down the narrow staircase that led directly to the queen’s drawing room.

Stepping through the narrow door by Mrs. Ferth’s desk, she closed it behind her and hurried soundlessly across the pale butters and creams of the carpet.

She was buttoning her jacket over her bra when she reached for the long gold handle and opened the carved door.

The red-jacketed guard beside it was already at attention. But it was the tall, powerfully built man in the navy uniform who commanded her attention as she stepped back.

Feeling totally thrown together, she watched the admiral close the door, her anxious eyes seeking his.

“Is it news of the prince?”

Harrison opened his mouth and felt his breath snag halfway to his lungs. Her usually restrained hair tumbled around her face and shoulders in a shimmering fall of platinum and honey. The thick, dark lashes of her sapphire eyes were as unadorned as her flawless skin. She smelled of soap, shampoo and fresh powder.

The combination sent something sharp and hot straight to his groin.

“I’m afraid not,” he murmured, the tightness gripping his body slipping into his voice.

An odd sense of regret licked through him as he watched the light of hope slip from her eyes.

Before he could question it, before he could stand there
staring at her any longer, he pulled the newspaper he carried from beneath his arm. “It’s about the morning paper. Has Her Majesty seen it?”

Aware of the edge in his voice, Gwen took a step back and blinked at the shaving nick in his chin. “The paper?” she repeated, thinking that little wound terribly human for someone who seemed to have a rock for a heart. “She was up most of the night. Worried about Prince Owen,” she explained, in case that might not have occurred to him. The queen had called her at midnight to come sit with her. Gwen hadn’t gone to bed herself until after two. “I wasn’t even going to order up her tea for at least another hour.”

He took her response as a no and tried to ignore how soft her mouth looked without the pale-peach lipstick she’d worn yesterday. He’d obviously caught her dressing. Something she hadn’t quite managed to fully accomplish. She was without makeup, which made her look temptingly touchable. She hadn’t had time to restrain her hair, which made her look even more so. She wore no necklace, no earrings—and she’d missed the top button of her jacket.

Trying to ignore the latter, he held out the paper.

She took it from him, looking faintly puzzled at its importance.

When she read the headline, her flawless skin lost a hint of the natural peach that blushed her cheeks.

Utter disbelief washed her delicate features as she looked back up. “Is this true? It can’t be,” she concluded, before he could respond. “How is this possible?”

“The part about Prince Broderick isn’t true,” he assured her, wishing she weren’t standing so close. Standing in front of her as he was, towering over her, he could see a small strip of her champagne-colored bra. The scal
loped lace lay taut against the firm swell of her breast. A small bow centered with what looked like a tiny pearl rested at the base of her cleavage. “He isn’t in power. The queen is. As for the rest of it, it’s quite accurate.”

Incredulity and concern turned her voice to nearly a whisper. “The king is in a coma? From what? And why wasn’t Her Majesty notified last night?”

He could practically see the wheels spinning in her mind. But whatever else she was about to say seemed to vanish like woodsmoke in a coastal wind, when he reached over and slipped his fingers beneath the lapel of her jacket to fasten the button himself.

The glimpse of her breast was entirely too tantalizing. But the feel of that soft swell beneath his knuckles nearly made his mind go blank.

His glance jerked to hers, their eyes colliding, his fingers still brushing her skin. In the space of a heartbeat, the air turned as heavy as the atmosphere on the island when clouds rolled in from the sea with a blast of wind, thunder and jagged bolts of lightning. Electricity snapped. Her breath stalled.

“It was distracting,” he muttered, and finished what he’d started by sliding the oyster-colored disk into place.

He could swear he felt her heart slam against her breastbone. He knew his own wasn’t beating too steadily. But as he slowly pulled back and let his hand fall, his only thought was that he couldn’t believe what he’d done. He never took liberties with a woman who hadn’t made it clear that she wanted his touch. And this woman, the queen’s best friend and lady-in-waiting, had never given him reason to think anything other than how glad she would be to see him leave.

He had no idea what she was thinking at the moment, however. Or what she was about to do. She took a step
back, her hair draping forward to hide the hint of heat in her cheeks as she glanced at the paper she still held.

“It says he has encephalitis,” she murmured, focusing on the one word that jumped out as her lungs began to function again. The headlines had shaken her, but she felt rattled beyond belief by his touch. It felt as if he’d branded her. The feel of his knuckles still burned her flesh. More disconcerting still had been the way that initial jolt of heat had shot straight to her toes.

Duty demanded her concentration. Latching on to it, she did her best to ignore her scrambled senses and the rather uncertain way Harrison was watching her. “I must tell Her Majesty about the king.”

“She already knows. She was told days ago,” he said, confusing her further still.