A Royal Masquerade

“You are telling me that we have lost the contract precisely because my brother has married a royal princess of Wynborough. Is that correct?”

The bureaucrat bowed his head. “I regret to say that it is.”

It was just as Roland had suspected. His father would not be pleased, and though it was Raphael’s connections that had cost them the contract, it was he, Roland, who would bear the blame. He, after all, had been running Thorton Shipping while his brother had been establishing a construction business in America. Not that he blamed Rafe. Indeed, he would have gladly joined him. The trappings of royalty, he knew only too well, were often as much trap as bother. But someone had to tend the till. Raphael could not suspect how delighted Roland was to have his older brother home and involving himself in the running of the country. Or perhaps he did. Rafe was no one’s fool, and love seemed to have made him unexpectedly insightful. That was one complication Roland was determined to avoid.

Love was well enough when it brought his brother home to his duty, but Roland intended to simplify his own life now. It was time to see to his own future, and he had in mind a certain lush little island nestled neatly between Thortonburg and Roxbury. A Thortonburg principality, it had been suggested for development because of its pristine beaches, but Roland had quietly quashed that idea, envisioning instead a horse ranch and stud farm of unparalleled prominence. To that end, he had begun acquiring the finest stock to be had in all of Europe and was even now arranging the transport of an Irish thoroughbred of supreme line and conformation, a most spirited beast as fast as the wind and black as the night. Roland hadn’t decided on a name for him yet. Something piratical perhaps.

The minister droned on, assuring Roland that Thorton Shipping enjoyed the favor of the Wyndhams and that only circumstance had cost them the contract. He would have said the same things to Montague had the Thortons secured the contract instead. Only the fact that he was a guest at Wynborough prevented Roland from simply getting up and walking out of the opulent chamber. It was with relief and bemusement, then, that he watched a concealed door open in the wainscoting next to the fireplace and a costumed footman appear.

The Deputy Minister scowled at the interruption, but the footman could not be outdone in magisterial hauteur. Back and shoulders straight, he looked down his nose into nothingness and announced pompously, “Begging your pardon, Deputy Minister, I have an urgent personal message for Prince Roland of Thortonburg.”

The Deputy Minister flattened his lips together, obviously disgruntled to have his official business curtailed before all the appropriate niceties were performed and he was given his due by the prince of Thortonburg. Nevertheless, protocol demanded that he cease and desist.

Roland was both thrilled and wary. He welcomed the opportunity to be rid of the minister at the very same moment that he prepared himself for yet another thankless assignment. Rising, he concluded his business with the minister, curtly thanking the silly man for his time. Silently, the deputy backed away, bowing and scrambling as Roland strode straight for the footman. Bending his head, he allowed the footman to whisper into his ear.

“The Grand Duke and Duchess of Thortonburg request your immediate audience, sir. I’ve been asked to escort you to a private apartment via the quickest route.”

Roland straightened and lifted an imperious brow. The quickest route, was it? Immediacy was ever one of his father’s requirements, but this summons contained the flavor of true haste. The mention of his mother made it a family matter. Curious, but convenient. His mother’s presence would temper the Grand Duke’s outburst when Roland told him that his coveted shipping contract was to be denied him for another year. It would be fuel to the fire, however, of the ongoing feud between the Thortons and the Montagues of Roxbury. Personally, Roland found the whole thing asinine. He understood that once the shipping contract had meant the difference between prosperity in the coming year or hard times for the common people, but that had ceased to be a real issue before the Second World War. These days, it was more a matter of ego, a personal vendetta waged by minions on behalf of his father and Prince Charles of Roxbury—and Roland was, unfortunately, one of those minions. Ah, well, best get the thing behind him for another year.

Tugging at the cuffs of a black cutaway coat of a costume that was as much tuxedo as uniform, Roland nodded at the footman. “Lead on, then.”

The footman slid a triumphant look at the thwarted deputy, putting that man firmly in his place, and executed a neat pivot on the heel of one foot, plumes bobbing from his ridiculous headdress. “This way, Your Highness, if you please.” With that he stepped into the opening in the wall and led Roland through a maze of winding, identical passageways and staircases. To Roland’s bemused amazement, they stepped through yet another wall and into the hallway just outside the opulent apartments assigned to his family. The footman stepped up to the door and rapped it smartly with his gloved knuckles.

Roland pushed past him to open the door and walk into the large salon joining his assigned rooms with those of his parents. He was not surprised to find that he was the last to arrive, since he naturally would have been the last summoned. The Grand Duke lived and breathed protocol, hence the heir would always be called upon before the “spare.” Fortunately for Roland, he was genuinely fond of his elder brother and did not covet his birthright in the least. It was difficult, however, to constantly feel the lack of his father’s approval, especially since Raphael was the one who had escaped to America all those years, leaving Roland behind to deal with his royal responsibilities and autocratic parent alone. Now that Rafe had returned to the fold and established a truce with their father, Roland was beginning to scent escape. He truly hoped that Rafe and Elizabeth would eventually settle permanently in Thortonburg and take up the reins of power.

Roland smiled and nodded to his mother, then strolled over to test the waters by delivering a companionable whack to his brother’s shoulder. Rafe slid a small, taut smile at him, his gaze trained warily on their father. Something serious was afoot then, and not even Rafe knew what it was all about yet. Roland turned his attention to the Grand Duke and was surprised to find one-time Wynborough royal bodyguard Lance Grayson standing at his father’s back. Lance was a member of the Thortonburg security team now, head of the Investigative Division.

Roland felt a chill of premonition. His training served him well, however, and he kept the worrisome emotion firmly masked.

“Your timing is impeccable, Father. I had just gotten to the heart of the matter with that little cockroach of a deputy minister.”

Victor, Grand Duke of Thortonburg, removed his elbow from the mantle of a cold marble fireplace and clasped his hands behind his back, lifting his chin imperiously. He was a tall, big man, long-limbed and thick in the chest with silver hair and sharp blue eyes, every inch the regent. “And?”

Roland shook his head, his dread carefully concealed. “King Phillip does not want to appear to be playing favorites. The contract goes to Roxbury again this year.”

Victor turned away in disgust. Something akin to shock settled over Roland as he realized that his father wasn’t going to explode—yet. Raphael sighed loudly and commented, “So you were right, Roland. Good call. Unfortunately.”

Roland’s mouth quirked in a grateful smile. That sensitivity of Rafe’s was working overtime.

“Maybe it’s connected,” Victor said suddenly, turning to Lance Grayson.

Grayson looked down at something in his hands and shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible, but at this point, no one can say.”

Sara Thorton spoke up from her place on the small, French provincial sofa where she sat with her tiny hands folded in her lap, her back ramrod straight, her soft platinum gray hair swept into a classic roll. “Isn’t it time we were all told what has happened? Frankly, you’re frightening me, Victor.”

Victor Thorton sighed, and for the first time in memory, Roland saw his father as tired and uncertain. “I fear you’re all going to be terribly shocked,” he said in an oddly strained voice, “as I am myself. A man’s mistakes often rise up to devour him, and, dammit, I know no other way to fight this thing than to simply take it by the throat. You might as well hear for yourselves, then.” Straightening, he once more clasped his hands behind his back and nodded at Lance Grayson, who cleared his throat, lifted a paper, unfolded it and began to read.

“‘To the Grand Duke of Thortonburg. I have your daughter.”’

The duchess gasped. Like Roland, Raphael stood in frozen shock for a moment, but then he chuckled. “What kind of joke is this?”

Roland, however, was looking at their father, who seemed to have aged several years in the past few moments. “Doesn’t sound like a joke to me,” he murmured.

“What else could it be?” his mother exclaimed. “We don’t have a daughter!”

“You don’t have a daughter,” Victor ground out, turning away guiltily.

“Victor?” Sara said, her voice wobbling high.

“Could we please take this one step at a time?” Victor growled. “Let us at least get through the note. Grayson, if you please.”

The security agent cast a bland look around the room and began again. “‘To the Grand Duke of Thortonburg. I have your daughter. Before you throw her life away as you did that of her mother, Maribelle, take a good look at the enclosed photograph. No doubt you’ll agree that the family resemblance is pronounced. Add to this the existence of a raspberry birthmark in the shape of a teardrop and identification is a certainty.”’

Roland traded looks with his brother. The birthmark was a closely guarded family secret, a hedge against impostors, a secret held by generations of Thortons—until now. Grayson went on reading.

“‘The life of an innocent young woman may mean nothing to you, but have no doubt that the world will know your dirty secrets if you fail to follow my future instructions to the letter. Do nothing—contact no agency—until then.’ And it’s signed, ‘The Justicier.”’

“What does it mean?” Sara asked after a moment fraught with heavy silence.

Before taking it upon himself to answer, Lance Grayson glanced at the Grand Duke, who turned to lean both arms against the mantlepiece, presenting his bowed back to the room. Grayson folded his hands, feet braced wide apart in a familiar stance. “Obviously the kidnapper considers him or herself the dispenser of justice, which I expect takes a monetary form. Otherwise, he or she would merely leak this young woman’s existence to the press and be done with it.”

“You’re saying this person, this alleged Thorton daughter, exists,” Rafe stated unequivocally.

Lance Grayson said nothing to that, merely looked pointedly at the Grand Duke. Victor slowly straightened, tugging at the hem of his eggshell-white, military-style ceremonial coat. Turning, he extracted something from a pocket, a photograph. Looking down at it, he seemed to struggle for a moment. When he looked up again, he had eyes only for his wife.

“It only happened once,” he said stiffly, “long ago, and her name was, indeed, Maribelle.”

Sara lifted a trembling hand to her mouth. In that moment, she appeared as something less than the Grand Duchess of Thortonburg. Instead, she looked, for all the world, like every loving wife facing her worst moment of betrayal. Roland felt his hands curl into fists, but by sheer habit the anger that his father all too often aroused in him remained carefully, tightly controlled. Rafe glanced his way before stepping forward to address their father.

“You’re telling us that we have a sister?”

“I’m telling you that it’s possible, even probable.” With that, Victor handed over the photograph. Rafe stepped close to Roland and lifted the small, camera-developed snapshot. The resemblance was unmistakable. Dark hair, blue eyes, patrician features in an oval face. She was smiling, the photo obviously having been taken in an unguarded moment. Roland felt his heart lurch. His sister. A surge of fierce protectiveness surprised him.

“She looks to be about my age,” he said.

“A year older, I would expect,” Victor confirmed. He turned to his wife defensively. “It happened over twenty-seven years ago. We married for duty, Sara, but love came later, didn’t it?”

She nodded, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a linen handkerchief that had appeared from somewhere. “I remember,” she said. “We were…estranged.”

“Yes. It was so hard to understand and admit that the marriage of duty into which we had entered had become so very…emotional.”

“I suppose it was my fault,” she said, looking up at him through her tears. “I changed the rules on you. I was the one who wanted, needed, more.”

The duke bowed his head momentarily and cleared his throat before saying, “That’s not entirely true. I just didn’t know how to deal with changes in my own feelings. I…ran away.”

“To Glenshire,” Sara added, remembering, “the old hunting lodge.”

“I met Maribelle there in Glenshire,” he rasped. “I thought that an affair with her would restore my perspective, and it did, only not in the way I expected. She was dear and lovely and lonely, I think, and we both knew that I would never stay with her. When I ended it, I knew that the only woman I would ever again want was waiting for me at home.”