Capturing the Crown: The Heart of a Ruler

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.