Capturing the Crown: The Heart of a Ruler

“Your Majesty, Prince Reginald is dead.”

“No,” the king cried. “No! This is a lie, a trick. You’re not telling me the truth. Reginald is trying to play me, the way he always has before. So, what does he want? What does he hope to gain from all this?”

“Nothing, Your Majesty. This isn’t a hoax. I’m very sorry to be the one to have to tell you this, but the prince really is dead. I found him at his country estate and he’s been dead for hours, perhaps more.”

He heard the receiver being dropped. And then the line on the other end went dead.

Chapter 9

Russell folded his cell phone and placed it back into his pocket. He didn’t try to reach the king again. He knew that they hadn’t been disconnected because of any signal that failed to get through. Undoubtedly, the king had terminated the conversation, unable to listen any longer. He couldn’t blame him. He had no idea how he would have reacted in the monarch’s place.

But then, he would have kept a tighter rein on Reginald than the king ever had. Maybe if safeguards had been put into place early on, if rules and a sense of moral values had been drummed into the prince’s head, he wouldn’t be where he was right now.

Naked and alone.

Well, almost alone, Russell amended. He shook his head, looking down at the cause of the king’s grief. “Well, you did it again, Reggie. Even in death, you’ve managed to disrupt everyone else’s life.”

And even in death, the prince had managed to be selfish, without a care for those he left behind.

Russell was worried about the king. Granted, to the passing observer, except for the last few days, the king looked to be in excellent condition, especially considering his age, but that was just the outside packaging. He knew, though it was never publicized, that the king had a number of health issues, none of them ever elaborated on, which, of course, was understandable. The public wanted an invincible ruler. If the king had a heart condition, or some sort of other malady, that would be a matter only between the king and his doctor. No one else would ever need know.

The king was by nature a private man. It physically upset him that Reginald brought so much attention to his less-than-sterling behavior. The escapades of the last few weeks had taken a toll on the monarch. His color had paled and he looked … unwell, Russell supposed was the best term for it. News of Reginald’s death might cause his health to take a sudden downward spiral.

Sharp nettles of regret dragged along his conscience. Maybe he should have waited before calling the king, or better yet, left the job of breaking the news to the royal physician.

But that would have been cowardly, he upbraided himself, and he was not a coward. He did what needed to be done, regardless of the personal consequences. In all good conscience, the king had to be informed and the sooner the better. Russell knew the king. If Weston learned that he had been kept in the dark, even for his own good, he would not take the news well.

No, he’d acted accordingly, Russell decided as late-afternoon shadows began to take possession of the room. The misgivings he was having were rooted in the guilt he still felt over sleeping with the princess. In a single reckless act, he had betrayed the king, the prince, his country and his own set of values. The passage of time was not going to change the way he felt about that.

He doubted if he would ever be right with his actions, no matter how much he cared for the princess. It was something a man of honor should not have done. Despite the reasons, there was no excuse for it.

With a heavy sigh, Russell sat back in the chair, keeping vigil.

The royal physician arrived with an ambulance forty-five minutes later. To stay under the radar and not attract any unwanted attention until the matter of the prince was properly attended to, there were no sirens, no telltale indication that there was any urgency. Still, Russell had a feeling that the driver had bent all the speed limits to get to the estate in the amount of time that he had.

Russell went outside to meet the vehicle and was surprised to see a very shaken-looking King Weston emerge from the rear of the ambulance. He almost looked fragile, Russell thought. The monarch was accompanied only by the ambulance driver, the royal physician and his chief bodyguard, Bostwick, who had been with the king since he had first accepted the crown, thirty years ago.

Weston was as pale as a ghost. Russell learned later from the doctor that the king had collapsed when he’d heard that Reginald was dead and had had to be revived. But nothing would convince him not to come with the ambulance to tend to his son.

“Where is he?” Weston demanded hoarsely, striding past Russell and walking into the mansion. His voice echoed within the vaulted ceilings. “Where is my son?”

“This way, Your Majesty.” Russell moved around the monarch and led him up the stairs to the bedroom where he’d found the prince.

Grimly, he stood to the side of the doorway, allowing the king to enter first. The monarch seemed to be in almost a trance as he crossed to the bed and stood over his only son.

Dr. Neubert walked in behind him. In his service for only a few years, the young physician was concerned about the toll this was having on his monarch’s heart and general health.

“Your Majesty, you shouldn’t—” Dr. Neubert began.

Weston waved him into silence with an impatient gesture.

From his vantage point, Russell could see the tears gathering in the king’s blue-gray eyes. Protocol dictated that he hang back, that he allow the king his dignity, his moment, but Russell thought of him as a second father and as such, could not bring himself to leave the man standing so alone. He crossed to stand beside him.

“I’ve lived too long, Russell,” the king finally said, his eyes never leaving the inert form. “No father should have to see his son dead before him.” He swayed slightly and Russell was quick to lend his support, steadying him. That Weston was in a bad way became imminently clear when the king did not shrug him away but accepted his arm. For a moment, he looked very old, very worn.

“Your Majesty, please, you shouldn’t have come,” the doctor insisted. “You should be resting.”

The king ignored him. “And this is the way you found him?” he asked Russell.

Again, Russell wished he could have done something about Reginald’s appearance for the king’s sake. But all he could do was nod. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Every syllable was shrouded in grief’s dark colors. “Naked and dead?”

If there had been some way to excuse it, Russell would have pounced on it. But there wasn’t. He knew that finding Reginald this way somehow only heightened the tragedy, the waste. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Weston sighed and shook his head. “Too long,” he repeated, more to himself than to anyone else in the room. “Too long. I’ve lived too long.”

“Your Majesty, about that sedative now—” the doctor began.

“I don’t want a sedative,” Weston said with such feeling that it gave Russell hope the monarch was rallying. “I want my son. I want answers. Carrington, call the constable,” he ordered.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Dutifully, Russell took out his phone again.

Jonas Abernathy was the royal constable, a jovial, affable man who, when he had initially been hired twenty-two years ago, had known police procedures like the back of his hand. However, in all the years he had been in the king’s service, he’d had very little chance to put his knowledge to use. His wealth of knowledge had faded until it was little more than a memory.

He and his two assistants reminded Russell of small-town officers. Though the country had its own police force, it was more for show and for parades than anything else. Crime was not a problem in Silvershire. A little theft, a few arguments that had gotten out of hand and once a jealous husband who had shot both his wife and himself, missing both times. There’d never been a murder on record in Silvershire.

As he watched the three men conducting the investigation, Russell knew that they would not be equal to the task if the prince turned out to be a victim of homicide rather than his excesses. They were going to need someone good and someone discreet to handle this.

Russell waited until they were on their way out of the mansion, following the prince’s covered body as it was being taken to the ambulance, before he said anything. He stood back with the king as the driver and physician lifted the gurney into the rear of the vehicle.

“Your Majesty, perhaps you might want to employ a more sophisticated agency to look into this matter for you.” When the king made no reply, he continued, “I know of an organization that is very discreet.”

As if rousing himself from an unnaturally deep sleep, Weston rendered a heartfelt sigh before finally answering. “Yes, you’re probably right. Abernathy and his two will never get to the bottom of this if it is the slightest bit involved.” Inside the ambulance, Dr. Neubert extended his hand to him, but rather than take it, the king suddenly turned to Russell. “Where were the bodyguards while this was happening? Where are they now?” he demanded heatedly. “Where were the people who were supposed to keep my son safe?”

“That will be one of the first things that will be addressed,” Russell promised. The absence of the men who usually surrounded the prince had struck him as odd from the moment he’d discovered the body.

Finally taking the hand that the doctor offered, the king climbed into the rear of the ambulance, to take a seat beside his son. To grieve over the eyes that would never again open to look at him.

He turned to look at Russell before seating himself. “All right, I leave it in your hands, Carrington. Have it looked into. Find someone to do this for me, to bring me all the answers. I need to know what happened.”

Russell already knew who he would approach. There was an organization known as the Lazlo Group. It was an international agency that could be trusted to be both professional and thorough in their investigation. They did not come cheaply, but they were well worth it. The organization guaranteed results and from what he had picked up abroad, the Lazlo Group always delivered on its promise.

“Right away, Your Majesty.”

Russell stood back as the driver moved to close the ambulance doors. He caught one last look at the king. For a moment, Weston was not a ruler of a small, proud country, nor a man who had helmed that country into prosperity for the last thirty years. What Russell saw was a broken man.

“Is it true?”

Russell turned away from the fireplace. April dampness had brought a need for a fire to take the chill out of the air. Or perhaps, he mused, it was the circumstances that had rendered the chill and the fire was only an illusion to keep it at bay.

He’d followed the ambulance to the palace. A clinic was maintained on the premises, where the king or the prince could be seen when they weren’t feeling well without being subjected to the public’s prying eyes. The royal staff came there as well to be treated for things that were not of a serious nature. But now one of the clinic’s three rooms had been converted into a makeshift morgue.

Russell had left the king there and gone to the receiving room to collect his thoughts. When he saw the fire, he’d been drawn to it. He’d wanted to warm himself somehow before calling the Lazlo Group.

He hadn’t expected to run into anyone, least of all the princess.

Amelia crossed to the fireplace, waiting for an answer to the question that had been burning on her tongue for a number of hours. There had been rumors that the prince was dead, that he had been killed or had taken his own life. Any one of a number of unsettling theories were making their way through the palace, not to mention the news media, and she didn’t know what to think.

The only thing she did know was there was one person in the palace she could trust to tell her the truth. Russell. The moment she’d heard he was back, she’d gone looking for him. One of the palace maids had sent her here.

Russell turned away from the fire. He tried to read her expression. Fear? Joy? Relief? He couldn’t tell. She had the princess thing down to a science, he couldn’t help thinking. Her expression was unreadable.

“Is what true?”

A guttural sound of disgust managed to escape her lips. “Don’t play the game with me, Carrington. You’re the one person I’m counting on to tell me the truth. Is it true?” she repeated. “Is the prince dead?”

“Yes.”

Even though she’d been the one to ask the question, it took Amelia a second to process his answer. Reginald was dead. Dreading the very idea of marriage to him, she still found it hard to wrap her mind around the concept that he was gone, that he no longer posed a threat to her independence, to her happiness.

It took her breath away.

That he was dead meant that she was free. But at the same time, it meant that her homeland would continue to be at risk because it did not have the protection of a larger country.

Mixed emotions assaulted her, each tugging her in a different direction.

“How?” She took a breath before lengthening the question. “How did he die?”

Russell almost asked if she was sure she wanted to know the details. But she was not the delicate princess of old, too sensitive to know the truth. He wasn’t going to insult her by keeping her in the dark.

“Not violently. At least,” he amended, “there were no bruises, no marks on his body.”

But a professional assassin would know where to land blows where they might not be detected at first, Amelia thought.

“That you could see,” she corrected.

The hint of a smile that curved his lips had no humor in it. “I could see a great deal.” Despite everything, he found himself pausing. Even though he thought of her as capable and intelligent, he kept finding himself wanting to protect her, to shield her from the nastier side of life. “Are you sure you want me to continue?”

Her eyes darkened. “I’m not a child, Carrington. Nor was there any affection lost between the prince and myself. I think you know that.” Whatever he told her wasn’t going to reduce her to tears. Disdain, maybe, but not tears. He had to be aware of that.

Russell forged ahead. “I found the prince in bed. He was naked.”

Somehow, that didn’t surprise her. It was in keeping with Reginald’s reputation. More than ever, she felt like someone who had just dodged a bullet. But for the moment, the world would see the man as her fiancé. That meant that there would be humiliation by association. “I see. Was there anyone—?”

She didn’t have to finish. Russell knew what she was asking. “No, the prince was alone when I found him. Very alone,” he emphasized. When she raised a quizzical brow, he added, “There wasn’t anyone in the entire mansion.”

That almost seemed impossible. In photographs of Reginald, he had always been surrounded by people. He had a huge entourage following him wherever he went. That they were gone could only mean one thing. “Rats leaving a sinking ship?”

Most of Reginald’s hangers-on were less than savory. The ones employed by the crown were supposed to be more steadfast, but fear could send troops scattering. It all depended on what had happened in the last few hours. Russell intended to get answers. “I suppose that’s as good a guess as any.”

Amelia studied his face, trying to discern his thoughts. Trying not to have any of her own that were unseemly at a time like this. But then, she had never loved Reginald, hadn’t even liked him. If she felt no grief at his passing, only relief, she could be excused for that. “But you don’t think his death was natural.”

“No, I don’t,” he admitted. “The prince was thirty years old and as healthy as a horse.”

The prince brought another kind of animal to mind as far as she was concerned. “He also behaved like a rutting pig.”

“That kind of behavior could have gotten him a knife in his back,” Russell pointed out. “It wouldn’t have killed him like a silent thief in the night.”

Amelia paused, thinking. The prince was given to excesses of all kinds. Alcohol, women, drugs. According to more than one article she’d read, life had to be one continuous party, or Reginald was bored. “It could have been an overdose.”

“Possibly.” It was the first thing he’d thought of, but he wasn’t satisfied with that explanation. “But I’ve seen the prince consume enough alcohol for two men and still remain standing. He had an incredible tolerance for both alcohol and recreational drugs.” He shook his head. “Something isn’t adding up.”

If it turned out that natural causes hadn’t taken him and he hadn’t accidentally died by his own hand, then the only conclusion to be drawn was that the prince had been murdered. The thought made her uneasy. When one royal was struck down, they were all vulnerable. Unless it was personal. “Who stands to gain from his death?”

“I was thinking more of the people who actively disliked him.”

She laughed softly to herself. She wasn’t the only one who had dodged a bullet today. Silvershire had been spared, as well. “From what I hear, that could be most of the country. Since he was Weston’s only heir, who is next in line for the crown?”

Until she asked, he hadn’t even thought about the immediate consequences of Reginald’s death. Or what that meant to him, personally. Since the prince had been so vibrant, the idea that Reginald might not be around to ascend the throne had never even occurred to him.

But now that it did, he found the notion appalling. He had always disliked notoriety. It had only gotten more intense as he had grown older and placed more value on his privacy. Russell’s expression was grim as he replied, “I am.”

Her eyes widened as she felt her heart jump. She hadn’t known that. She’d had no reason to know that. “You?”

He nodded. “According to the rules of succession of Silvershire. Weston ascended the throne because King Dunford had no sons, no children of his own. There were two dukes he felt were equal to the task. Everyone felt he was leaning toward Lord Benton Vladimir. But then he suddenly changed his mind and chose Weston to be the present king.”

Thoughts she didn’t want to entertain began whispering along the perimeter of Amelia’s brain. And if she could think them, so could others who were less charitable. Others who didn’t love Russell.

Amelia pressed her lips together as she looked at him. “If the prince died under suspicious circumstances—if he was murdered—someone might think that you had something to do with it.”

She thought about the night they had spent together. Had that prompted Russell to rethink his position and take matters into his own hands? Was she the reason behind what had happened to the prince? Or could Russell have conceived an elaborate plan to capture the crown and she had blindly played into his hands?

No! How could she even think that way? Amelia upbraided herself. Russell was too honorable a man to be guilty of something like that. She was willing to bet her life on that.

On what? a small voice demanded. On a man she hardly knew? On a boy who used to put bugs into her bed? She didn’t really know the man who stood before her, she reminded herself. She only knew the boy he had been. A great many years had come and gone between then and now.

Amelia felt torn. Logic pointed one way, but she refused to believe that her heart would have led her astray like that. There was goodness in Russell, she could see it in his eyes, feel it in his touch. She had no answer for it; she just did.

His eyes met hers. “Do you?” He couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Something froze inside him. “Do you think I had something to do with it?”

“No.”

Amelia had hesitated for a moment. If she’d believed in him, she wouldn’t have, he thought. “But you’re not sure.”

She knew that protests were useless. He could see right through her. She could only tell him the truth. “Can I swear to it in a courtroom on a stack of Bibles? No. Because I don’t have any way of actually knowing where you were every moment. But do I doubt your loyalty to the crown? No. Do I think that you are a murderer? No.”

His eyes held hers for a long moment as he thought of the night they’d spent together. The night that should never have happened.

“My loyalty to the crown could come under question,” he reminded her quietly.

She drew her shoulders back. “That wasn’t a matter of loyalty.”

That was exactly a matter of loyalty, he thought. “Then what was it?”

“A matter of two kindred spirits coming together.” From out of nowhere, a thought occurred to her. “Or was that out of pity?” she asked suddenly.

“What?”

Amelia shook her head. She was just being overwrought, she thought. She shouldn’t have said anything. “Never mind.”

But he didn’t want to let it drop. “No, what did you mean by that? Was there anything that entire time that could make you suspect what happened was even remotely inspired by an emotion as condescending as pity?”

He sounded hurt, offended. She hadn’t meant for any of that to happen. “No. I’m sorry. This whole situation is extremely distressing. I came here to be married to a man whose reputation I loathed—since he’s gone, I don’t see the point in hiding that,” she said in response to the look in his eyes. “Now that he’s dead, am I free of my obligation? Or am I, by default, betrothed to the next man in line?” She looked at him. “To you.”

He measured out his words evenly. There seemed to be no emotion behind them. “Would that be so terrible?”

She took a breath. To his surprise she said, “That all depends.”

“On what?”

“On how you feel about it.”

He couldn’t gauge by her voice how she felt about it herself. “How do you think I feel?”

Her temper came very close to breaking. “If I knew, would I be asking? A wondrous night of lovemaking does not automatically mean you want a lifetime of those nights. Sometimes magic is just that, magic. Meant for a hour, a night, not forever.”

“So you’re saying you wouldn’t want to have to marry me.”

Why did she suddenly feel like weeping? That wasn’t like her, but she was so tired of being a pawn. “I’m saying I don’t want to have to marry anyone, just as you don’t want to be told who to marry. Marriage is a commitment that should come from the heart, not from a committee. The piece of paper involved should be a marriage certificate, not a treaty between two countries. I am a person, not a pawn.” And then, like someone waking up from a bad dream, she stopped and blew out a breath. “I’m sorry, I had to get that out.”

Russell inclined his head. “I understand, Princess.”

She pressed her lips together again, impatience, frustration and a host of other emotions vying for control over her.

“‘Princess,’” she echoed, shaking her head. “We are embroiled in intrigue, in murder and in heaven knows what else. We’ve slept together and might very well be married to each other before the week is out. My name is not ‘Princess,’ my name is Amelia.”

The unexpected noise behind her sent adrenaline racing throughout her body. Amelia swung around to see that her father had entered the room and with him were several of his men. His complexion was flushed. Had he overheard her?

Chapter 10

Startled, it took Amelia a moment to rally. Since she acted as her country’s representative in a great many diverse situations, her training under fire had been extensive. No one would have guessed that inside, she was still the young girl who had once tried so desperately to curry her father’s favor.

Aware that the king had to have heard at least the end of her conversation with Russell and knowing that her father was far from a stupid man, she assumed he had put two and two together. But now was not the time to be upbraided for “conduct unbecoming.” She was quick to throw the focus onto something that really mattered.