“How did he take that?” Amelia stops to admire a Renoir hanging in the corridor.

  “I have no idea. I sent my dictate via a note. I figured that way, he couldn’t tell me he was too busy.”

  “But what if he really is too busy?” Jacqui wants to know. “He does have a lot of evening engagements.”

  Charlotte shrugs. “Then I’ll figure something else out. I’m not going to drop the ball on this.”

  The women walk down the stairs leading to the entry hall. When they get there, Charlotte says, “I’ve got to meet with the council chair in twenty minutes. I’ll see the two of you very soon.” She offers her friends a brief hug before turning around in the direction of her office.

  When she gets there, Charlotte tells her secretary, “Ben, please find those boxes of duplicate photos from the children’s youth. Have them sent up to Apartment 4 along with several new scrapbooks.”

  The look of surprise on Ben’s face, has her adding, “I’ll write a note to accompany them.”

  After nodding his head, he walks away. Charlotte sits at her desk before pulling a stationery pad out of the top drawer.

  Agnes,

  I give each of my children their own set of family photos when they get married. Please use these photos to organize albums for Drew.

  Many thanks,

  Charlotte R

  Prince Andrew

  The newspaper article about me and Chantelle has put me in such a foul mood, I don’t even stop by to say good morning to Agnes. Instead, I head straight over to my office and begin my day. The Master of the Household sent me a temp to take Agnes’s place while she’s away, and the man is so dull I can barely stand him.

  “Jonathan, would you be so good as to get Miss Bain on the line for me?”

  The middle-aged man nods his head and walks back to his desk. Moments later, he buzzes me. “Miss Bain is on line one, sir.”

  I’m furious with Chantelle, and I’m ready to unleash the kraken on her. “Chantelle,” I greet. “Would you care to tell me what happened last night?”

  “Darling, whatever can you mean?” she asks in such a saccharine sweet tone, I can feel diabetes coming on.

  “The pictures of you in the newspaper were alarming.”

  “Really? Which ones? I’m in a few, you know.” She sounds very proud of herself.

  “The one where you’re practically naked, talking to my mother,” I tell her.

  “I bought that gown with you in mind. I was hoping you’d change your mind and come to the ball after all.”

  “And you wanted us to be photographed together while you were showing more skin than Pamela Anderson at the beach?” Talk about a bullet dodged.

  “I thought it would assure the press that we’re still going strong.”

  “But we’re not,” I tell her. “You do know that, don’t you?”

  “Andrew, I’m just doing my part. You’re the one who wanted them to think we’re an item, not me.”

  “Maybe we should go shopping together,” I suggest. I’d rather swim to America, but if this ruse is going to work, then Chantelle is going to need to be taken in hand, and soon.

  “I shopped yesterday,” she tells me.

  “My new secretary isn’t picking up your purchases until this afternoon. I suggest we go back to the store so I can approve your choices.”

  She’s quiet for a moment before saying, “Fine, pick me up in an hour.”

  “I have meetings this morning, Chantelle. I’ll pick you up at three.”

  “I have a thing at three thirty,” she says poutingly.

  “Cancel it,” I tell her before hanging up the phone. I’ve got to disabuse Chantelle of the notion that she’s in charge here. Not only is she getting a new wardrobe for her participation in this farce, but she’s going to get to be the first woman in the history of my life to leave me. If anyone can appreciate that kind of cachet, it’s her.

  My morning plods along like treacle in the wintertime, and I’m barely able to focus on anything. All I can seem to concentrate on is the image of going up to Agnes’s apartment and pulling her into my arms.

  By the time I get to Chantelle’s place, I’m five minutes late, and I’m met with an incredibly intense sense of déjà vu. She’s standing on the steps of her townhouse talking to the press.

  When she spots my car, she waves and loudly declares, “Look who’s here.”

  Reporters swarm me. Instead of getting out of the car, I tell Jones, “Please retrieve Miss Bain.”

  He walks toward Chantelle, who looks fit to be tied that I’m not the one escorting her. Instead, I place the telephone to my ear to give off the impression I’m otherwise engaged.

  Chantelle eventually slides into the backseat, all the while waving to her crowd of adoring fans like she’s a Hollywood star. Once the door is shut, she turns to me and demands, “Am I the only one who’s trying to convince the press we’re still an item? Really, Drew, you need to do your part.”

  “I’ve already told you, you’re not to speak to the press.”

  “I could hardly ignore them. They’ve been sitting on my doorstep since six o’clock this morning.” She doesn’t sound the least bit angry about it, either.

  “You could have stayed inside until I arrived,” I point out.

  “If we’re going to keep up this farce,” she tells me, “you have to act like we’re dating. You can’t be so dismissive of me.”

  There’s an element of truth to what she says. I’m the one who told her that we needed to hold hands in public in order to perpetrate our story. “I’m sorry, Chantelle,” I tell her. “ If you dress appropriately and quit holding impromptu press conferences, I will endeavor to play my part more satisfactorily.”

  She seems taken aback that I’m not arguing with her. “Good. In that case, I’ve been invited to a supper party this evening. I’d like you to come with me.”

  Jones hits a bump in the road that causes me to jostle closer to Chantelle. Shifting back into my seat, I tell her, “I have a thing at the National Gallery tonight. Why don’t you join me there?”

  A mischievous smile crosses her mouth that makes me so nervous I almost take the invitation back. “Wonderful. We can pick out my dress while we’re shopping.”

  I’m not quite ready to be seen shopping for clothes with Chantelle, so Jones pulls the car around to the back entrance of the department store.

  A tall, red-haired woman greets us, “Your Highness, Miss Bain, I’m Isla. I have a private dressing suite waiting for you. If you’ll follow me.”

  She takes us to a service elevator which carries us to the eighth floor. Once there, she leads us out into a large room with a seating area facing the windows. She indicates that I should sit down. “If you’d like, Your Highness, you can wait for Miss Bain here.”

  “Thank you, Isla.” I take a seat on a navy-blue velvet wingback chair.

  The next two hours are excruciatingly dull. Chantelle must try on three dozen dresses for my approval. But instead of really seeing them on her, I find myself judging them based on whether I would like them on Agnes. Which, of course, is not why we’re here.

  Chantelle clearly senses my disengagement. “Andrew, coming here was your idea, not mine. Please pay attention.”

  That’s easier said than done, but I force myself to engage so this torture can end. We finally finish at five thirty, and I drop Chantelle home. After kissing me on the cheek, she leans into me, and practically purrs, “I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

  She’s barely out of the car when I tell Jones, “Let’s go home.” Agnes has preoccupied my thoughts all day, and I find I cannot wait to see her again.

  I can’t help but wonder if she’s spent as much time thinking about our almost-kiss as I have.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Amelia

  Staring out the window of Jacqui’s guest room, Amelia watches for a sign that her husband has returned home. His car finally pulls into the driveway at nine p.m. Opening her window, she leans out to hear a reporter ask, “Are you Agnes Dupuis’ father?”

  Ralph looks stunned. “I’m Ralph Dupuis. What is this all about?”

  “This is about your daughter and Prince Andrew,” a slender young woman wearing jeans and a woolen jumper says.

  “What about them?” Ralph demands.

  “We thought you could tell us,” she counters.

  Ralph runs a hand through his already mussed up hair. “My daughter works for Prince Andrew. What else is there to say?”

  Amelia realizes that her husband not only sounds annoyed, but he also sounds tired. The only time he comes home this late is when he’s had a surgery that runs long. On those nights, she greets him with a snifter of his favorite brandy before running a bath for him. If he hasn’t already gotten something at the hospital, she brings him something to eat.

  “Have you spoken to my wife?” Ralph asks absently.

  “We haven’t,” one of the reporters answers. “But we did talk to your neighbor, and she told us that Agnes and Andrew are in love.”

  “Jacqui said that?” He sounds alarmed.

  “No, idiot,” Amelia whispers from a distance that her husband can’t hear. “I said that, which you might have known had you troubled yourself to call me up to apologize.”

  Ralph moves steadily toward his front door. After unlocking it, he turns around and says, “I have no comment because I have no idea what’s going on.”

  Agnes

  I’ve spent the entire afternoon looking through pictures of Drew as a little boy. God, he was cute. He usually wore his hair in a short buzz which looks so soft and adorable I wish he’d do it again just so I could run my hand over it. In several of the photos, he’s pulling some prank on his siblings, like holding a frog over one of sisters’ heads or rubbing a mud patty on a younger brother.

  It’s obvious these are personal family photos and nothing the press ever got a hold of. I can’t help but feel glad that not every moment of Drew’s life was fodder for public consumption.

  I’ve already laid out the photos according to year. My next step will be to sort them, so they best tell the story of Drew’s young life.

  Around six, a knock on the door jolts me out of the hypnotic trance I’ve sunk into. My right leg has fallen asleep, and it comes to life with fiery prickles. I find that I can’t get up, so I call out, “Come in.”

  The door opens and I’m surprised to find Drew crossing my threshold. He looks totally worn out. While I was mad at him for not stopping by this morning, it seems that spending hours poring over pictures of his younger years has mellowed some of my irritation.

  “It looks like you’ve had a rough day,” I tell him.

  “That’s one way of putting it. I spent over two hours with Chantelle while she tried on dresses.”

  “That sounds … intimate.” What else I am going to say?

  He crosses the room and sits down on an oversized chair before putting his feet up on the coffee table. “I wasn’t in the same room with her while she changed. I was in another room waiting for the fashion show.”

  “You two are halfway to the altar.” I intend this to be a joke, but it comes out sounding brittle.

  Drew’s eyebrow arches as he levels me with an intense gaze. “Did you happen to see the dress she wore last night? The one in the newspaper?” he clarifies.

  My leg has finally woken up enough for me to stand on it. Hobbling over to the sofa, I answer, “I did. It was something else, wasn’t it?”

  “My mother looked like she was ready to light a torch and run her out of the kingdom.”

  Laughter bursts out of me.

  “What have you been up to all day?” he asks after several moments of silence.

  I point to the pile of photographs on the floor. “I’m making albums for you from your childhood. Your mum said she gives them to all her children on their weddings.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” he says. “Only one of us has gotten married so far.”

  “Apparently, the queen is preparing for your big day.” I try to make my tone sound offhanded, but the truth is, I’m prying. Is there some kind of deadline I don’t know about? Does Drew have to get married by the light of the full moon before his thirty-seventh birthday or forever be turned into a toad?

  “I don’t know what her rush is,” Drew says. “Three of my siblings are currently engaged, and I don’t even know the woman I’m going to marry yet.”

  Swallowing the lump that’s formed in my throat, I manage, “Yes, well. I suppose a good queen is an organized one.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t stop by this morning, Agnes.”

  I’m pleased to note that he sounds sorry, too. “Why didn’t you?” I should probably behave more coolly, but boredom seems to have lowered some of my barriers. As such, I have no acting skills left.

  “I felt badly about what happened last night,” he says plainly.

  “You mean … the kiss?” I sound like I’m choking.

  “The almost-kiss,” he clarifies. “I don’t want you to think that I don’t respect you, or that I would ever use you. I just got carried away. I hope you’ll accept my apology.”

  “I accepted your apology last night, Drew. I already told you everything is okay between us.” When he doesn’t answer right away, I add, “In fact, I spent a good deal of the day wondering what it would have been like to kiss you.” Talk about having no game.

  “You did?” His energy seems to perk up.

  “Someday in the distant future, I envisioned telling my grandchildren that I’d once kissed their king.” I force a laugh, hoping to make my declaration sound light and carefree.

  “I’d hate to disappoint your grandchildren,” he says so deeply I feel the effects in my stomach like I’ve just turned upside down on a roller coaster.

  He stands up and moves toward the sofa, which causes me jump to my feet. I didn’t mean for him to come over to me and try it again. Did I? “What are you doing tonight?” I ask, while walking toward my kitchenette.

  “I have a thing at the National Gallery. Chantelle is going to join me.” He does not sound pleased.

  I pour two glasses of wine and bring them back to the sofa. Handing one to Drew, I demand, “What exactly are you expecting from your marriage?” I sound like a barrister asking the defendant why he killed his maid.

  The question seems to surprise him. “I want what everyone else wants—a woman to love, a mother for my children …”

  “And a queen for your country,” I say. “One who is from your elevated social set.”

  He stares at me for a moment before bringing the glass to his lips and taking a sip. Gah, those lips. They’re full and pink and utterly delicious looking. I can’t help but wonder what they’d feel like pressed up against mine.

  “There are certain rules I’m meant to follow,” he finally says.

  “Yet your younger sister married a woman of no social consequence, and your brothers and another sister are marrying people without titles. Why is it different for you?” Why couldn’t you marry someone like me? I don’t ask that, but damn, I’m thinking it.

  “I’m going to be the king someday,” he says. “I’m held to higher standards.”

  “Well then, for your sake, I hope such an amazing woman exists. You seem to have already dated your way through most of society though. You’re probably going to have to start looking abroad before long.” Why am I giving Drew tips on how to meet the perfect woman? I’m his secretary, not his yenta.

  Instead of commenting, he stands up. “I won’t be home until late, so if you want a companion for your nighttime outing, it will have to be after midnight.”

  I should tell him that I’ll be fine going out by myself. And I probably would be, but my brain doesn’t seem to be able to make those words come out of my mouth. “I don’t have to be up early. I’ll be ready at midnight.” I sound like some lovesick groupie, and I hate myself for it.

  He tips his head in my direction before taking his leave. At the door, he turns around as though he’s about to say something, but he seems to have a change of heart. He merely smiles before walking away.

  Dear God, am I starting to have real feelings for Drew or is this just some leftover fascination from childhood?

  Please, please let it be the latter.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Queen Charlotte

  “I’ve started to think the best way to get Drew to drop this ridiculous idea of convincing the press that he and Chantelle are an item is to start encouraging him to consider her as a real candidate for his hand,” Charlotte tells her husband over a quiet supper in their chambers.

  “But he clearly can’t stand the girl,” Alfred says. “You saw that picture of them in the paper, didn’t you?”

  “Of course I saw it, and I would never try a stunt like this if I thought Drew had real feelings for her. I’m not insane.”

  “Spell it out for me like I’m a child, Charlotte.” Alfred cuts a bite of lamb. “You have the mind of a chess master and I have one of a novice checkers player.”

  “If Drew is determined to have a wife from a certain class, maybe we should encourage a match between him and the one he’s already linked to.”

  “And you expect that will force him to come to his senses and court Agnes.” Shaking his head, Alfred adds, “Forgive me for not following your line of thinking, but how is that going to work?”

  “I don’t think we can expect Chantelle to simply walk away from Drew when he tells her to. As such, she’s going to try harder than ever to assure him she would be a good wife. That will make him bristle for sure.”

  “So, if you tell him she would make a great queen, you think he’ll go running into Agnes’s arms?” Alfred’s brow furrows in confusion.

  “Something like that,” Charlotte says before wiping her mouth and pushing away from the table. “Our son has created unrealistic expectations of his future wife. I want him to see that his choices of potential partners open exponentially if only he’d be less rigid about the criteria.”