A Royal Kiss & Tell Page 4

  —Honeycutt’s Gazette of Fashion and

  Domesticity for Ladies

  SHORTLY AFTER ELIZA and Bas made their escape from the afternoon’s private reception—no doubt to find a room, as their esteem for each other had now become notorious in every corner of the palace, if not the entire city—Leo managed to take his leave, too.

  He’d been looking forward to this reunion with old friends since arriving in Helenamar. It was unavoidable that so much ceremony would attend any event that included the royal family, and it was unavoidable that he would chafe at it. But he was fortunate in that he had a pair of palace guards who had been with him for many years and were accustomed to arranging these outings for him.

  The Foxhound was situated between a pair of stately gated homes, and across from a public stable. It enjoyed a rare and curious mix of clientele—this was the one place in all of Helenamar where aristocrats mingled with ordinary residents of the city. It was the one place Leopold could go without being beset by men or women who wanted something from him. It was the one place he could hear the news of the country that hadn’t been filtered for him or painted in a most pleasing light by palace personnel. The truth won out at the Foxhound.

  His friends were all on hand today, and already three tankards into the afternoon. When he entered, a rousing cry of delight went up.

  “What of the evening’s festivities?” Leo laughingly asked, gesturing to the empty tankards scattered among them.

  “There’s plenty of time to sober up and make ourselves presentable,” Francois said, and threw a collegiate arm around Leo’s shoulders as he bellowed for the barmaid to bring more ale.

  Francois was a Frenchman who had immigrated to Alucia at a very young age and had attended the same hallowed halls of education as had Leo and Bas. With the fringe of dark ginger hair that hung over one eye, he was charming and always jovial. He was a raconteur as well, and today he’d brought an entertaining tale of an encounter with a dance-hall girl.

  Leo and his friends drank more ale, toasted his brother and his bride, reminisced about their school days and laughed uproariously at bawdy jokes. At some point in the afternoon, Leo found a barmaid seated on his lap. He didn’t recall the specifics, but there she was, casually stroking his hair behind his ear.

  It would seem, he thought hazily, that he’d had too much to drink. Again.

  Apparently, Harvel, another school chum, thought the same. “Look here, Your Highness, you ought to carry on, hadn’t you? Are you not required to attend the ball?”

  “I am indeed,” Leo said, and put his tankard of ale down with a thud. “As brother of the new duke, as son of the king, as...” He tried to think.

  “As squiffed as a bloody prince!” shouted Voltan.

  “As squiffed as a bloody prince!” Leo heartily echoed, and lifted his tankard, sloshing a good deal of ale onto the table. He was indeed inebriated. So much so that it took him two attempts to push the girl from his lap and find his feet. He stood up, patting down his coat and trousers in search of coins, and finding none. Ah, of course. In Alucia, he had no need of money.

  He was feeling a little dizzy and regretting that he’d drunk so much, but his friends were quite amused by his attempts to find a purse and waved him off. “Think nothing of it, Chartier,” Francois said. “We’ll pay for your ale. Consider it our last gift to a free man.”

  “What’s that you say?” Leo asked, and surged forward, planting his hands on the table. “Do you know something I ought to know?”

  “Only what all of Helenamar knows, lad,” Francois said. He winked, and all of them laughed. “Go on, then, enjoy an evening of royal repast as is your due, and your loyal subjects will pay for your ale.”

  “I am in your debt,” he said, and with a flourish of his hand, he bowed grandly. “Where are my guards? I am all but certain I came with guards.”

  “Here, Your Highness,” said Kadro, and put his hand to Leo’s arm to turn him about. His other guard, Artur, stood stoically by.

  Leo smiled. No, he laughed. “There you are!” he said gaily. Jmil, he was drunk. If he didn’t dry out quickly, he’d have hell to pay tonight. His father’s displeasure was something that could be felt to the depth of one’s marrow.

  Leo blathered his farewells to his old friends, and God help him if he didn’t get a wee bit teary. He invited them all to call on him in England, and they all very earnestly agreed to come.

  Leo emerged onto the quiet street between Kadro and Artur, blinking back the late afternoon sun, but managing to walk a fairly straight line to the curb. “Look at me, lads,” he said, laughing. “The king will have my bloody head, will he not?” He wasn’t so drunk that he didn’t notice neither guard disagreed with him.

  He looked up and down the street. He’d expected the coach to be waiting—in Helenamar, Leo was accustomed to walking out a door and straight into a waiting conveyance. With all the unrest on the border with Wesloria, maximum caution was taken every time one of the royal family stepped beyond the palace walls. “The coach,” he said, as if his guards hadn’t noticed it missing. “Where is it?”

  There was a discussion between the two guards—something about the driver being instructed to wait at a distance so as not to alert anyone to the presence of the prince in the pub—and then Kadro said, “I’ll have a look around the corner, Your Highness, if I have your leave?”

  “Have a look wherever you like,” Leo said, and watched rather stupidly as Kadro disappeared around the corner. Behind him, something made a strange noise, like the staccato of gunfire. Artur jerked in that direction. “If you please, Your Highness, wait here,” he said, and went striding in the direction of the sound.

  Even in his state of inebriation, Leo thought this was all highly unusual, to be left standing on the street without anyone about. He slumped against the side of the building, smiling to himself. He’d had a good day, all in all. Well, save the wretched headache he’d begun the day with. And his father’s pronouncement to him. Leo had managed to forget that unpleasantry over the space of a few hours, but now it came tripping back to him, disturbing the buzzy tranquility he’d developed in the company of his friends.

  He was thinking of all he wished he’d said to his father instead of bumbling through it and didn’t notice the two men darting across the street in his direction until they were upon him. When he realized they were not passing by, it was woefully too late, as they were pulling him into an alley next to the public house. When he understood what was happening, he tried to shout for his guard, but his voice was garbled with his confusion and his inability to make his feet work properly beneath him.

  The next thing he knew, he was caught in an alley with two men he’d never seen before. A sick punch of dread hit his belly, threatening to purge all the ale he’d so recklessly drunk.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded in Alucian.

  “Please be calm, Your Highness,” one of them said as they dragged him toward the dead end of the alley, then attempted to prop him up against the wall.

  “Calm?” He flailed, waving them away. “Who are you? I have a right to know who or what is about to befall me.” A flurry of watery thoughts and emotions suddenly swirled in him—fear, regret, impatience—and all led to the same conclusion rather quickly: the inevitability of this very thing.

  “I’ll keep watch,” one of the men said to the other in Alucian. He turned and took a few steps toward the alley entrance.

  The other man took a tentative step toward Leo.

  “See here now, I know death is inevitable,” Leo said.

  “We do not—”

  “And if this is the way I am to die, I will meet it with courage and grace,” Leo continued, spreading his arms wide. For a moment—he couldn’t hold his balance. “But make no mistake, sir. I will meet my end with a fight. Although I seem to be outnumbered, and I see nothing in this alley
that will do for a weapon.” He squinted at what appeared to be a cat atop some stacked crates, entirely unperturbed by his imminent demise. “Is that a cat?”

  The man turned to look.

  “I would kick my own arse for being so blasted drunk if I could,” Leo said, remembering his predicament and glancing around for something to swing at the man’s head. “And if I survive this hijacking, I shall never taste a spirit again.” He paused. “Well. After tonight, I won’t. I will be required to drink a toast to my brother, of course.”

  “Your Highness,” the man said in Alucian, and stepped closer to Leo, his arm outstretched, his palm facing Leo. That’s when Leo noticed the green armband. It was a Weslorian custom—a band or patch of dark green fitted around the sleeve or pinned to a breast, a lapel, a cuff, to indicate the person was Weslorian.

  “You’re Weslorian,” he said. “I should have known. You mean to murder me, just as you murdered poor Matous. You ought to be ashamed, choosing the occasion of my brother’s wedding to murder me. You might have at least waited until the happy occasion had come to a close. Although, I grant you, it seems as if the happy occasion will never end—”

  “Your Highness, please! We mean no harm,” the man said, lifting his hands in a placating manner.

  “Ho,” Leo blustered incredulously. “I may be pissed, but I’m no fool!”

  “I beg of you, Your Highness, we haven’t much time,” the man said, and stepped even closer. He really was quite small, Leo realized. If he hadn’t looked him in the face, he would have thought him a lad. His diminutive size merely added insult to this egregious injury—he would be killed or kidnapped by a man half his size.

  “We’ve a message from Lysander.”

  It was one long ale-soaked moment before Leo was able to grasp what the man had said. Lysander. Leo blinked. He rummaged around his thoughts trying to piece things together. Lysander was a man who spent his life righting terrible wrongs. He was a Samaritan, a man who had dedicated his existence to the helping of others. Leo knew a little about him after he famously rallied the people of Helenamar to close the workhouses. Leo had been abroad at the time, but apparently Lysander had caused quite a stir.

  “What message?” Leo asked blearily.

  “He asks for your help,” the elfin man said.

  “What? Mine?” Leo asked, pointing to himself. “Why me? For what?”

  “He would explain that himself in person. He asks, respectfully, if you would be so kind as to meet him tomorrow afternoon.” He smiled.

  Why was he smiling? It was annoying, given the circumstances. Leo couldn’t think properly, but there was no reason the famed Lysander would want anything to do with him. “If he wants my help, why does he not come to me? Why not join us and the cat here in the alley?”

  “It was impossible, Your Highness. You and your family have been surrounded by an army during the wedding celebrations. And he is a wanted man.”

  “Wanted! For what?” Leo asked dumbly. He tried to recall as much as he could about the workhouse riots. Had they not resolved it? Had Lysander not been hailed a hero for bringing the plight to the awareness of the king and Parliament?

  “He asks, respectfully, if you might meet him in the palace gardens tomorrow afternoon at three.”

  Leo snorted. “He won’t come here but will meet me in the palace gardens?”

  “The walls of public houses have too many ears.”

  “And the palace gardens don’t? If he can’t enter a public street, how will he enter the palace grounds? How am I to know that this is not some sort of trap?”

  “I beg your pardon, Your Highness, but I can’t answer your questions. Lysander has his ways, and I will not pretend to understand how he does what he does. He has determined the palace grounds might be the safest place for him. No one would think to look there for him, would they? He asks that you receive him there, free of advisers and observers.”

  Leo’s suspicions ratcheted. What could the man possibly want with him? “I know nothing of workhouses,” he blustered. “I know nothing of anything. I’ve been in England the last six years. Why did he not send a note? Why have me kidnapped on the occasion of my brother’s wedding?”

  “It is my deep regret if you believed you were being kidnapped, or—”

  “Or murdered,” Leo reminded him.

  The man winced. “You must know that there are those close to you who would obstruct any effort he made to speak to you.”

  Leo stared at the man. What was he implying? That there were spies around him? “Who?” he demanded.

  The large man behind him whistled. The smaller man started. “Tomorrow, in the palace gardens at three. Please. It is very important,” he said, and hurried to the entrance of the alley.

  “Wait,” Leo commanded. “Wait.”

  But neither of them waited. Leo started after them, but a beat too late. By the time he reached the entry to the alleyway, they had disappeared. He looked around wildly and saw Kadro walking down the street toward him. “Where have you been?” Leo exclaimed.

  Kadro looked surprised. “We have the carriage, Your Highness.” He nodded to something past Leo. He whirled around—Artur was standing beside a waiting carriage, facing the several people on the street who had gathered to see who the carriage was intended to serve. Leo looked at Kadro again, his confusion mounting. Had his guards known he’d be accosted? Had they been part of it? Were they the spies? In London, after Matous’s murder, Bas had told him he could trust no one. But Leo had never dreamed that would extend to two men who had been his paid companions for several years now.

  He felt uncomfortably confused and said nothing more, but turned and strode toward the carriage, his gait much steadier now that his heart had beat a good portion of the inebriation out of him.

  In the privacy of the carriage, Leo leaned back against the squabs and closed his eyes. There was a dull throb at the base of his skull now. This was absurd. He wasn’t meeting anyone in the palace gardens on the morrow! He was incensed he’d been cornered like that and incensed with himself for being so careless.

  His rage mixed badly with the ale and left him feeling sour.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Their Majesties King and Queen of Alucia were pleased to host a royal ball celebrating the nuptials of Crown Prince Sebastian to Lady Eliza Tricklebank at Constantine Palace. The guests included dignitaries and heads of state from European and Asian capitals, and a healthy contingent of English nobility.

  The wedding cake was made of five tiers and towering three feet, adorned with marzipan gold doves that appeared to be flying around the cake. Guests feasted on fine Alucian beef and Krantanhange, a delicacy made of potato, leek and asparagus. The ball was performed by a ten-piece orchestra, and a mix of Alucian dances and the standard English fare of waltz and minuet rounded out the sets.

  A new bachelor has emerged as the most eligible from the fraternity of princes. Judging by the number of Alucian heiresses casting kohl-lined eyes in his direction and flocking to the side of this debonair prince, one might assume with utmost certainty that wedding bells soon will ring again in Helenamar.

  It is noted that Alucian women do not shy away from cosmetics to enhance their appearance. Upon observing the beauty of Alucian women, we can highly recommend the application of almond complexion cream to one’s face every night before sleeping.

  —Honeycutt’s Gazette of Fashion and

  Domesticity for Ladies

  CAROLINE’S GOWN FOR the wedding ball was the most gorgeous thing she’d ever seen. The pale blue-and-gold Alucian style was cut so tightly to her figure that she could scarcely breathe. But she didn’t care—so many ladies and gentlemen would admire her in it that it would be worth the discomfort.

  She’d commissioned the gown for such a dear sum that she’d been compelled to convince the modiste to submit two invoices in two separate months,
each for half the amount, so that her brother Beck would not know the true cost. He tended to be very cross when she purchased clothing and sundries. And as the train had not suited her, Caroline had made her own. It was, in her eyes, a work of art.

  As she’d readied for the ball, she tried to entice Hollis to admire the gown, too, but as usual, Hollis was bent over paper, writing furiously, capturing every moment for her gazette.

  Hollis’s periodical had been originally established by her late husband, Sir Percival. His publication had been a once-monthly conservative gazette that highlighted political and financial news in London. After his tragic death in a carriage accident, Hollis refused to let the gazette go. She was determined that the paper survive to honor Percival. However, she didn’t know a lot about politics and finances, so she turned the gazette on its head and dedicated it solely to topics that interested women. Now the gazette was bimonthly with more than three times the subscriptions of Percival’s and growing.

  Caroline took it upon herself to point out how stunning was her gown. “Look at how beautiful I am!” she declared, holding her arms wide. “I think my gown is as beautiful as Eliza’s. Don’t you?”

  Hollis barely looked up. “I can’t see the gown, really—I am blinded by your modesty.”

  Caroline snorted. “Someone must make note of this gown, and if no one will, I will.”

  “The gown is stunning. But Beck is right, Caro—you are terribly vain.”

  “Well, it’s hardly my fault, is it? I’ve been so long admired that I can’t help but believe my appeal.”

  Hollis looked up, surprised by Caroline’s lack of humility.

  Caroline laughed. “I was teasing you, Hollis, although you must admit there is some truth to it. Now will you look at my gown? Frankly, it’s better than even yours, and I thought yours was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.”

  “Your gown is always better than mine,” Hollis said, and leaned back, examining Caroline from head to toe. “You’re right. It is beautiful. You are beautiful.”