Читать книгу A Proposal From The Crown Prince - Jessica Gilmore - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

NICO BOWED SMOOTHLY in his uncle’s direction before backing out of the Great Hall, working hard to keep the irritation off his face. He’d lost his temper too many times in the past and it had never got him anywhere. His uncle made a toddler in the middle of a tantrum seem reasonable, which meant rational debate was as unlikely to work as anger. When King Vincenzo V made his mind up it was well and truly up and neither logic nor reason could shift it. In the past Nico had simply circumnavigated his uncle’s wishes but things were infinitely more complicated now.

‘Dammit, Alessandro,’ he said softly as he finally made his way out of the double doors and into the opulent hallway. ‘You could always handle him so much better than me.’ The guards standing smartly to attention either side of the open doors, hot and ridiculous in the full burnished splendour of their dress uniforms, didn’t betray that they had heard his words with as much as a flicker of an eyelid. Maybe he should take lessons from them.

The hallway was wide enough for two cars to drive down it with ease, the vaulted ceiling at double height, the marble floor kept so highly polished Nico doubted it had ever been subjected to a health and safety risk assessment. As small boys he and Alessandro had skated along here under the disapproving eyes of ancestors frowning down from huge portraits, careering along, narrowly missing the spindly chairs and occasional tables that were dotted along like valuable obstacles in their headlong race. At intervals discreet doors were set into the ornate panelling, leading to suites of offices, other function rooms and rooms that Nico had discovered no discernible use for. He had his own suite now, one here for work, meetings and audiences as well as his private rooms, in the west wing. At least they hadn’t tried to give him Alessandro’s rooms yet. It was hard enough to feel at home in the high-ceilinged formal rooms without mementoes of his cousin scattered around his living quarters.

Not that he’d ever really felt at home here. He’d spent too much time alone in the family suite while his parents had jetted off to Paris, to London, to New York and even when they’d been resident in the palace they’d barely seemed to notice he was there, too busy enjoying the luxuries and privileges of royal life to settle for anything as mundane as private family meals or playing with their son. Luckily he’d been a firm favourite of his grandmother’s—and he’d idolised his cousin, two years older yet with plenty of time for his younger shadow. They were all the family he had needed. And now one was gone and the other fading fast.

‘Your Highness?’

It still took a few seconds for the title to register in Nico’s brain and for him to respond. In a way he hoped that never changed, that he wouldn’t supplant his cousin so easily. He stopped and allowed the harried official rushing along the corridor to catch up with him.

‘Your Highness.’ She was breathing hard, swaying in her too-high heels. Every official dressed as if they were being judged on their power dressing skills, aggressively cut suits the unspoken palace uniform; Nico’s own faded jeans and checked shirt were a pointed contrast. ‘Her Grace would like to see you at your earliest convenience.’

Which meant now. Nico’s grandmother, in her own way, was just as stubborn as his uncle. ‘Thank you.’

The official hesitated; obviously she had orders to bring him then and there but Nico had no intention of being ordered around by anyone, not even Graziella del Castro, Dowager Queen. ‘I’ll be along shortly,’ he added. She didn’t look too placated but nodded and marched away, her heels perfectly balanced on the marble floor. Nico paused, his mini rebellion feeling as paltry as it was. It wasn’t his grandmother he was angry at—nor even his uncle. It was fate. Fate for snatching away his cousin and landing him here in this unwanted spot with this unwanted future. He pivoted and caught up with the official in three long strides. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll head there now.’

She gave him a startled look; palace officials were never worried—at least they were well trained not to look it—but nodded as Nico headed off in the direction of his grandmother’s rooms.

Like her son, the King, and Nico himself his grandmother had two sets of rooms, her formal receiving and business rooms in the main part of the palace and her own private suite in the west wing, compromising her bedroom, her sitting room, dining room, study and roof terrace. Up to a year ago she would usually be found downstairs during the day, sitting erect at her desk in her office or on the ornate chair in her receiving room, refusing to slow down despite having achieved her seventieth birthday a few years before. But since Alessandro’s death she tended to spend more and more time in her private rooms and it was towards these Nico headed, up the grand staircase, along the balcony that overhung the famous hall, the oldest part of the original castle, and through a discreet—at least it would have been if it weren’t for the two heavily armed soldiers guarding it—door that led to the royal family’s private apartments.

The door led into another corridor, as luxurious as the main hallway that bisected the palace in two, but less ornate. These rooms weren’t designed to impress and, although Nico personally found the rose velvet and cream a little cloying, it was a refreshing contrast to the pomposity of the gilt and purples in the public parts of the palace. His own rooms were on the top floor but his grandmother’s were on the first, and it only took a minute before he was rapping gently on her door to hear her voice bid him ‘Enter’. He did as he was told, sweeping a low bow before her and taking her hand in his and raising it to his lips. ‘Your Grace.’

Graziella didn’t look at all impressed by his display of manners. ‘Don’t humbug me, young man.’

Nico rocked back on his heels and grinned unrepentantly down at her. Her silver hair was in its usual elegant chignon and she was dressed with her customary chicness but the shadows under her eyes—and the shadows in her eyes—were new. No wonder, she had lost her husband, youngest son and grandson in the space of five years.

His grandfather’s heart attack had come as no real shock, the warning signs had been there for years, but Nico’s own father’s untimely death in a helicopter crash followed shortly by Alessandro’s sudden collapse had rocked the family—and the island—to the core. Nico still didn’t understand how a man as healthy, as strong as Alessandro could just drop down dead—and none of the reading he’d done on Sudden Arrhythmic Death Syndrome could convince him that he couldn’t have done something, anything, to prevent it if only he’d known.

In that way he was still well and truly stuck in the first stage of grief—denial. He could have held several medical degrees and been right there and still he couldn’t have done anything to save his cousin.

The remaining members of the family still all suffered, still all grieved, but his grandmother had been the slowest to return to some semblance of normality. Nico tried to hide his concern as his smile widened. ‘Not humbugging, just showing respect.’

‘Hmm, and did you show your uncle the same degree of respect?’ She waved him towards the uncomfortable-looking sofa that sat at right angles to her own chair and Nico obediently perched on the edge of the slippery satin.

‘Of course. At least,’ he amended, ‘I refrained from calling him a fool in public.’

‘Nico, he doesn’t like change, you know that.’

She might closet herself away in her rooms but she still knew everything that went on in every hidden palace corner. ‘Grandmamma, we have no choice. Change will come whether we like it or not. Better that we control it rather than let it control us.’

‘But tourists, Nico.’ His grandmother couldn’t have sounded more disgusted if he’d suggested tearing down the ancient woodlands to build a nuclear power station. ‘With their noise and their litter and their shorts and all they can eat. It’s never been our way.’

‘It depends on the tourists, Grandmamma.’ He’d already made exactly these points to his uncle. Nico took a deep breath and re-embarked on the speech he’d prepared. ‘We already get a few who make the journey here because we’re unspoilt, to walk or swim or relax. We just need more of them. We won’t be able to compete with the established Mediterranean resorts and nor should we, but if we market ourselves to honeymooners and couples as a luxury holiday destination and to the thrill seekers who will love our mountains and lakes then we won’t need to change too much. Invest in some new hotels, enable our cafés and restaurants to cater for more people, improve our transport links. Nothing too scary, I promise.’

‘But...’

‘Our people need jobs. Our schools and hospitals need investment. Our youth need a reason to stay. We don’t want them all heading off the island to start their lives elsewhere.’

As he had done.

‘But why, Nico? You’ve only just come home. Why shake things up now with your consultants and plans? Give your uncle some time.’

‘There is no time, Grandmamma.’ He paused, unsure how much to tell her. ‘Look. You know I spent the last year at Harvard doing an MBA. As part of that I studied our finances really carefully.’

The island monarchy wasn’t purely constitutional and the royal family still took a very active role in government. Once Nico had begun to comprehend how much rode on his new position as heir to the throne he’d realised how ill equipped he was for such a responsibility and so had given up his research position at MIT to study business at Harvard instead. It hadn’t taken him long to realise how much work he had ahead of him. A lifetime’s work.

‘I loved my grandfather, you know that, but he was a lavish spender, his father too. Look at how they redecorated the palace—all that marble imported in. And the rest: planes, cars, villas, ski lodges...’

‘And an apartment for every mistress, an annuity for every mistress, jewellery for every mistress—and there were a lot of mistresses.’ Bitterness coated his grandmother’s voice for one unguarded second.

‘For two generations the island was ignored in favour of jet-setting and pleasure. L’Isola dei Fiori needs a lot of careful managing to make up for fifty years of neglect.’

‘And you think tourism will do that?’

‘I think it’s a start. We need more, some kind of real industry as well but that’s a whole other step. One day I would like to see the island a beacon of innovation for renewable energy and other forms of eco-friendly engineering. Expand the university, bring in the expertise, offer the right companies, the right entrepreneurs the right deal so they settle here, build here and create jobs here.’ That had always been his dream. That was why he had put in the hours at MIT, made the right contacts, had worked towards his PhD, never giving up hope that, even if he couldn’t persuade his uncle to throw the weight of the government behind him, he could still return in his own time, at his own will, to start up his own research company.

But the current crisis needed a quicker fix and his own dreams had to be set aside, just as he’d set his research aside.

‘Tell me how I can help, Nico.’

He patted his grandmother’s hand gratefully. ‘You’re a key part of my strategy, Grandmamma. First of all I need you to work on my uncle. I know he’s done his best to put things right but selling the odd yacht and ski lodge isn’t enough. He needs to give the tourism campaign his full backing and ensure the rest of his ministers do as well.’

‘What did he say today?’

‘The usual. That I’m too young to understand, that I’ve been gone too long, that I think fancy degrees from fancy universities make up for my own lack of sense.’ He grinned at her. ‘Nothing he hasn’t said a million times before.’ It didn’t stop the words from stinging though. He was thirty-two, not twenty, and he was proud of his degrees. He’d worked damn hard for them. But his uncle preferred to believe the rubbish in the papers than the evidence before him. Nico had been labelled a playboy Del Castro in his teens, like his father and grandfather before him, and his uncle had no intention of challenging that narrative.

Graziella drew herself up. ‘I’ll speak to him.’

‘Thank you, Grandmamma. There are another couple of things. I need to marry...’

‘Yes?’ Her eyes lit up. This was exactly the kind of project she relished.

‘And I need you to choose me a bride. I know you have a list of suitable names and that’s fine. Better to find a girl who has been raised to manage this kind of life than throw some hapless innocent into the circus. I just have one request...’

‘Just one?’

‘I need a bride who is willing to be wooed. Publicly. The marketing consultant thinks a royal wedding is the perfect international showcase for L’Isola dei Fiori and we should milk it as much as possible. You know, boat rides into the grottos, horse rides through meadows, a royal ball...’ He grinned at the revolted expression on her face.

‘I had no idea you were such a romantic, Nico.’

‘I’m not a romantic. I’m a realist. There’s nothing people like better than a royal love story. So pick me a girl who will play her part and I’ll marry her. The papers follow me around anyway. I might as well make use of my reputation.’

As a young, unattached prince he’d attracted the gossip magazines like wasps flocking around a sweet drink at the tail end of summer. If he’d lived quietly they might have left him alone eventually but he’d hung out with a young, moneyed crowd, enjoying time away from his studies at parties in New York, summer houses in the Hamptons, winter breaks in the Bahamas, on yachts, in clubs throughout Europe. At first it had been an exquisite relief, freedom after the strictures of a childhood at court. At some point it had become habit.

His grandmother nodded. ‘Everyone loves a reformed playboy, I suppose. I’ll find you a suitable bride. But, Nico? Just be discreet, when you find other amusements.’ And for a fleeting second she looked so vulnerable Nico felt a surge of anger against the grandfather who had put that look on her face—and emptied the palace coffers to do so.

‘No need. When I marry I’ll be faithful. It might be arranged but that’s no reason to treat marriage like it’s meaningless. I hope I’m better than that.’ As he said the words a fleeting image passed through his mind, a slim girl on the beach, hair tumbling around her breasts, eyes on his. He’d known then it was his last act of freedom, a sweet goodbye. Something to carry him through the years of duty that lay ahead.

‘And the other thing?’

He winced. He knew she would dislike his next proposal. ‘If we’re going to start the campaign soon we need a few places ready for the tourists we’re hoping to attract. There’s a few decent city hotels, a couple of beach places and some lovely guesthouses but none of the boutique hotels that the kind of holiday makers we want to attract prefer. The consultant has suggested that we invest in several now, do them up over the winter ready for next season.’

‘And?’

‘And one of the places she suggested is Villa Rosa.’

His grandmother didn’t answer but she drew herself up, her mouth tight. Nico watched her sympathetically. Until early last year the villa had been occupied by an aging beauty who, had been involved in a very public and very steamy affair with his grandfather, who had visited her, semi discreetly, by sailing around to the cove at night. The owner had died recently and the villa, as far as he knew, lay empty. His grandmother had always behaved with a dignified ignorance where his grandfather was concerned but installing a mistress on the island had pushed even her resilience to the limit.

‘It has a certain notoriety that will draw people in: the parties that were held there, the famous people that stayed there—and of course the thermal pool and the secret beach.’

‘I see.’

‘I’m sorry to bring it up, Grandmamma, but I think the consultant’s right. It is the perfect location and the Villa Rosa markets itself. Plus the lawyers say it’s likely that my grandfather shouldn’t have gifted the villa away in the first place; because it is so close to the cliff top and because it has access down to the beach it’s situated on Crown land and therefore...’

‘Therefore it can’t be sold or owned by a private individual.’

‘Or inherited,’ he confirmed. He hesitated. ‘I know you keep tabs on everything that goes on around here. I wondered if you know who owns it now? I could ask around but I don’t want word to get out that we’re interested.’

His grandmother shrugged. ‘Apparently that woman left it to a niece or something but it’s been empty or used as a holiday home since she died—they tell me it needs a lot of work. What are you going to do? Serve her notice?’

Nico shook his head. ‘No. I’ll offer her money to sell. We don’t want the delay or cost of going to court—nor the publicity. But we can pay a fair price, tied up in a lot of legal documents that will hopefully persuade her to say yes sooner rather than later.

‘Do you know anything about this owner? Where she’s from?’

His instincts had been right. His grandmother knew everything. She tilted her chin. ‘England, but I believe she arrived on the island a week ago. By public ferry, coach class, one battered bag.’

Which meant she had been there when he and Posy...an unwelcome thought hit him. He hadn’t, had he? ‘What’s her name?’

‘Marlowe. Rosalind Marlowe.’

Relief flooded through him. Not the same woman after all. And coach class with one bag? That added up to one cash-strapped Englishwoman. She’d be putty in his hands. The sooner he got his tourism project up and running, the sooner he got married, then the sooner he could work on his ideas and create something real, something sustainable in his homeland. And then this whole Crown Prince deal might start to feel less like an unwanted burden and more like something he could live with.

It was time to pay the owner of the Villa Rosa one very official visit.