Amber And The Rogue Prince

Otherwise there was no way the locals would make the connection between the guy in the ripped jeans, Yankees cap and skateboard shoes and the Prince in the three-piece suit from the meeting the night before.

Though it wouldn’t take long for that to change. There was no doubt the story of Hugo’s public life was being shared and spread.

A prince, fifth in line to the throne of the principality of Vallemont. An Australian mother, a father who had died when his son was fifteen, having infamously run his car off a cliff with his young mistress at the wheel. Now he was the black sheep: independently wealthy and single.

The official palace statement was that Hugo was back at work, but after the wedding debacle he’d needed to escape. Eventually he’d found himself in Serenity. Where his mother had been born.

Days had dissolved into nights, a blur of time and quiet and nothingness; of exploring the empty, echoing house which seemed uninspired by his presence as if he too were a ghost.

Until he’d walked over the other side of the hill and found a hammock strung between two trees in the shade. He’d sat down, kicked off his shoes and fallen asleep.

Upon waking, he’d looked into a pair of whisky-brown eyes. And seen colour for the first time in as long as he could rightly remember.

“Alessandro!”

Hugo followed his name to find Councillor Pinkerton sitting at a colourful wrought-iron table inside a place calling itself “Tansy’s Tea Room”, which looked like a middle-eastern opium den.

She waved him in and, since he needed her support to be granted planning permission for his resort, he entered, leaving Prospero at the door with a, “Stay. Good boy.”

“Sit,” said the councillor. “Have some tea. You look tired. A man as rich and good-looking as you should never look tired. It gives the rest of us nothing to aspire to.” She clicked her fingers, called out, “A top-up on my ‘Just Do It’, and a ‘Resurrection’ for my friend, please.”

“Should I be afraid?” he asked.

“It’s just tea. Mostly chamomile. I’m on your side.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m on Ms Hartley’s side too.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“You want what is best for Serenity.”

“I do.”

“Councillor?”

“Paulina, please.”

“Paulina. Before the town meeting last night, your council had seemed extremely positive about my proposal.”

“They were.”

“And now? Is a green light still assured, or are we now leaning towards...khaki?”

The councillor smiled. “I can see that the resort would be good for us. An influx of tourists means an influx of the kind of money which cannot be sneezed at for a town of our size. But Ms Hartley had a point. The beauty of Serenity is its way of living. The openness, the quiet, the kindness and, most of all, the community. We are self-sufficient in the most important ways, in a great part thanks to the commune.”

“I would have thought the presence of a commune has negative connotations in this day and age.”

“Which is why we call it an ‘Inclusive Community’ on the brochures.”

Two pots of tea landed on their table, slopping towards the rims as the unsteady table rocked.

Paulina poured. “So how is your mother?”

Hugo stilled at the unexpected turn of conversation. “My mother?”

“Anna. Yes. I knew her, you know. Before.” She waggled her fingers as if about to go back in time. “We were good mates, in fact. Went through school together, met boys together. So how is she?”

Hugo went to say Fine, but something about this woman, her bluntness, the intelligence in her eyes, the fact she’d known Hugo’s mother in the before, had him saying, “I think she’s lonely.”

“Hmm. She is remarried, no?”

“Yes.”

“To a French businessman, I hear?”

“An importer, yes. He travels a great deal.”

“Ah.” The councillor nodded again. “Handsome though, I expect. Your father was a very handsome man. I might even go so far as to say, devastatingly so. Add the Giordano charm and...” Paulina pursed her lips and blew out a long, slow stream of air.

“So I have heard.”

Paulina’s eyes hardened. Then she slapped herself on the hand. “Sorry. Insensitive.”

Hugo waved a hand, releasing her of any apology.

His father had been charming, famously so. His mother was only one of the women who’d loved him for it. The mistress who’d been driving the car that had killed him was another.

“I was there the day they met. Your mother and father. Would you care to hear the tale?”

Since Hinterland House, with its air of quiet slumber, had not yet given up any secrets, he found he cared a great deal.

“Your father was ostensibly in Australia to see the reef and the rock and forge relationships on behalf of his little-known country—but mostly to watch sports and try his fair share of our local beers. He came to our small corner to pick peaches. Your mother and I were working at the orchard that summer, handing out lemonade to the tourists. I remember so many long-limbed Germans, sweet-talking French, Americans full of bravado. And there was your father—the brooding Prince.

“A good girl, your mother. Seriously shy, she ignored his flirtation, which was a good part of why he kept it up. He could have offered diamonds, played up his natural charisma, but he was cleverer than that. He brought her hand-picked wild flowers, notes scratched into sheaves of paper bark, the very best peach he picked every day. It took three days. When she fell, she fell hard. And I was glad to see his adoration didn’t diminish for having her. They were so very much in love.

“He left for Sydney a week later. A week after that he came back for her with a ring and a proposal. And I never saw her again.”

Paulina smiled. “I was sorry to hear of his passing, not only for your mother’s sake. How old were you?”

“Fifteen,” Hugo said without having to think about it. His headmaster had been the one to inform him, having been instructed by his uncle to wait until after the funeral. A decision had been made not to send Hugo home to keep him away from the scandal.

“Ah. A trying period in the life of a boy, at the best of times.”

Hugo merely nodded.