A Royal Masquerade

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ARLENE JAMES

grew up in Oklahoma and has lived all over the South. In 1976 she married “the most romantic man in the world.” The author enjoys traveling with her husband, but writing has always been her chief pastime.

Contents

Chapter One (#u3a930fa7-189e-593b-bd0a-4617e291ea07)

Chapter Two (#udcb40bce-c721-5ba2-a8e0-c2f7d6115998)

Chapter Three (#udc2fa454-c574-55f0-a94e-a9fde850cd32)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One

The obsequious little man in state dress, complete with the sash of office, made yet another bow and droned on. “We of Wynborough understand, of course, and most assuredly admire the rich maritime history of our trusted and revered ally Thortonburg.”

“Our piratical history, you mean,” Roland Thorton interrupted with droll impatience, secretly amused to see the little man jerk and grapple with his composure.

“Oh, no, Your Highness. Never!” The man gasped, as if shocked to his core.

“Come now,” Roland said, frowning and drumming his fingertips on the ornate arms of his chair in a show of regal boredom while delightedly baiting the snobbish little twit. “We Thortons are not ashamed of our forebears. Pirates they were, fierce and unscrupulous, and they kept our marvelous isle afloat with their ill-gotten gains. Our current shipping concerns are but a pale, distant image of those magnificent marauders of our past. We are pirates of banking and horseflesh, oil and tourism now. And it is the same with our smaller neighbor of Roxbury, though I have little doubt that Prince Charles would deny it. Pirates we were, sir, battling for the same plunder. Now we are but dignified and proper purveyors of goods, vying for the same contract year after year with your honorable King Phillip for no good reason except that it is tradition. So, who shall it be? Does my father, the Grand Duke of Thortonburg, or Prince Charles Montague of Roxbury win this year’s shipping contract with Wynborough?”

The little man gulped and dug a finger beneath the tight, starched collar of his shirt, bobbing from the waist in that perpetual bow. “As to that, my lord Roland, His Majesty King Phillip bears the highest regard for Thortonburg and all its interests.”

“I should hope so,” Roland drawled. “He saw his daughter married to Thortonburg’s heir apparent, after all.” He leaned forward suddenly, skewering the statesman with a pointed glare. “I should think that as my brother Raphael is son-in-law to your king, special consideration might be given to us. Even now Princess Elizabeth awaits the birth of a child who will further both royal lines.” Actually, it was his father, the Grand Duke, who thought special consideration should be given, despite the fact that Rafe refused to ask his wife to intervene on Thortonburg’s behalf. Roland had his personal doubts, which his father, as usual, chose to ignore.

Wynborough’s Deputy Minister of Trade drew himself up to his official best and finally—finally—approached the heart of the matter. Roland gritted his teeth, suspecting what was coming and dreading what would follow.

“There, Prince Roland, you have hit squarely upon the problem. Surely you understand that His Highness must avoid all semblance of favoritism. He means to rule justly, you see.”

Impatiently, Roland crossed his legs and flicked lint from the trousers of his ceremonial costume. “Yes, yes. Out with it, if you please, while I am still young. Do we or do we not have the contract?”

The minister pursed his lips, abandoned diplomacy and answered baldly, “Not.”

Roland slumped, half in relief, half in regret and wholly in exhaustion. The celebration of King Phillip’s twenty-year reign as monarch of Wynborough continued unabated, despite the fact that numerous business meetings such as this one were taking place all over Wyndham Castle. In truth, it was the business that brought Roland to Wynborough. Although his presence as a member of the royal family of Thortonburg was required and expected, he had little patience with pomp and circumstance, which, to his mind, was to be endured rather than enjoyed and then only when absolutely necessary. Twenty-six years of training, however, immediately had him straightening his spine again. Squaring his shoulders, he gave his head that regal tip.