Читать книгу Capturing the Crown Bundle - Nina Bruhns, Caridad Piñeiro - Страница 17

“And you suspect someone in the palace?”

The voice over the telephone was calm, resonant. It echoed slightly, the way voices over a speaker phone did. The echo did not diminish the effect. It was the same voice that had soothed distraught heads of state confronted with the kidnappings of loved ones. The same voice that had promised—and delivered—results in highly delicate government situations that the public had never even suspected.

Corbett Lazlo was a brilliant, enigmatic man very few people actually recognized. Those who did know him saw a tall, trim man with ice-blue eyes that conflicted with an almost boyish grin that even fewer were ever privy to. Some said he was an ex-CIA operative. Others claimed he was a bored genius with a love for challenges. Still others said he was the illegitimate son of a former French president and had cut his teeth on both foreign policy and espionage. No one knew for sure.

The only proven fact was that approximately twelve years ago, he had formed the Lazlo Group, an international team of highly skilled agents who specialized in, among other things, investigating the deaths of political figures.

The Lazlo Group was one of the best kept secrets of the free world. They were usually called in as a last resort, or when affairs were of such a delicate, discreet nature that no one else could be trusted to handle them.

Corbett Lazlo had no affiliation with any particular nation. He was a citizen of the world. His people did whatever was necessary to get the job done. There were never any questions asked by the party or parties who hired them. It was better that way.

The call Russell had placed to him had been rerouted several times so that Russell had no idea exactly where Corbett Lazlo was located. It was the way Corbett preferred it. Russell didn’t care. Lazlo’s location didn’t matter. All that mattered was finding out the series of events that led up to Reginald’s last day and death.

“I suspect everyone right now,” Russell said, answering Lazlo’s question. “Except for King Weston. And the princess,” he added.

He heard what he took to be just the slightest chuckle on the other end.

“Never be too hasty in your judgment,” Lazlo advised. “The princess stood to gain something from the prince’s death.”

Russell frowned. There had been a treaty riding on the union. As far as he knew, there was nothing on the balance sheet if the prince died before they were married. “What?”

There was a pregnant pause on the other end, as if the man expected more of him. “Her freedom. Theirs wasn’t exactly going to be a fairy-tale marriage. The prince went on whoring to the very end.” He delivered the information as if he had been a witness to Reginald’s behavior. Russell knew that the man kept himself informed on many fronts. “Not quite the behavior for a man who was about to be married to the woman of his dreams.”

Russell could feel himself growing protective again. It had never occurred to him that Amelia might not need a champion, that she would want to fight her own battles at all times. He wouldn’t hear her maligned, even theoretically. “She had nothing to do with it.”

There was just a hint of indulgence in Lazlo’s voice as he abandoned his point. “Nonetheless, we leave no stone unturned. My people don’t come cheaply, Carrington, but they pride themselves on delivering. Everything,” he emphasized. “The good and the bad.”

“Money isn’t a problem.” He knew he spoke for the king when he made the affirmation. The monarch would have no peace until the matter of his son’s death was resolved. And perhaps, sadly, not even then.

“Good. I’ll be sending one of my top operatives to the palace. Her name is Lucia Cordez.” Lazlo’s voice was quick, staccato, leaving no room for argument as he took command of the situation. “You will invite her to the wedding. She will blend in.”

About to protest that there would be no wedding, Russell was suddenly struck by a thought. “How will I know her?”

“Trust me, you’ll know her. She has the disadvantage of being stunning.” A disadvantage, because he preferred his operatives to blend in rather than stand out. But he couldn’t hold Lucia’s beauty against her, not when she was so skilled at what she did. “Don’t let her looks fool you. She’s good under pressure and she is a computer expert.”

That out of the way, Russell questioned the scenario that Lazlo was painting. “The wedding is canceled.”

“Check your scorecard. There’s been a substitution play. The wedding hasn’t been canceled, just recast. Playing the part of the prince will be Russell, Duke of Carrington. Don’t you pay attention to your traditions, Carrington?” When he received no response, there was a note of satisfaction in the older man’s voice as he continued. “You’re paying me to be informed. You’re also paying me to find the truth.” Again Lazlo paused, this time so that his words could sink in one at a time. “One could say that you had a great deal to gain from the prince’s death.”

Russell laughed to himself. Lazlo had no idea how absurd that idea was, he thought. “Feel free to investigate me.”

“Thank you.” His tone indicated that they would have done just that with or without permission. “We’ll be in touch, Carrington.”

With that, the conversation was terminated.

Russell replaced the receiver and stood for a moment, staring at the telephone, not seeing it. Not seeing anything at all in the study.

He was getting married. In less than a day if everything was held to the same schedule as before.

He had no idea how he felt about that. Other than numb.

Amelia adjusted her headpiece. The veil wasn’t falling the right way. She felt tears gathering in her eyes and knew that they had nothing to do with the veil.

Tension brought the tears.

Things were happening much too fast for her. She’d never been one to enjoy life in the slow lane, but this was far more than she had bargained for. Far more than she could assimilate.

Her head felt as if it were spinning.

Less than two weeks ago, she had been in her gardens, fervently wishing that time would somehow find a way to stand still, at least for a little while. Dreading the wedding that loomed before her on the horizon like some creature that had been resurrected in a mad scientist’s laboratory.

And now, despite all the changes, despite the royal tragedy of finding the prince dead in his bed, the wedding was still going to be on schedule. Only the groom had been changed.

She was marrying Russell.

Just the way, in a moment filled with passion and desire, she’d wanted to. Just the way she’d wished. Russell, who had introduced her to the world of lovemaking. Russell, who had grown into a man who was, at the core, kind and gentle and caring.

Russell, who now looked at her with distant eyes.

She knew it was because, in an unguarded moment, she’d allowed herself to tell him the truth. Tell him that, for less than a fragment of a second, she’d had doubts about him.

Dear lord, she had doubts about herself, as well. Doubts about everything right now.

But men didn’t understand the emotional distress that women sometimes found themselves laboring under. Men didn’t understand how women thought with their hearts as well as their heads.

Logic was the only thing that made sense to a man like Russell. And when confronted with what he thought to be the logic of her suspicions, he’d shut down. Shut her out. Grown distant.

In the last day and a half, when she’d tried to reach him, tried to get him alone just to talk to him, he had brushed her off by saying that he was too busy. He seemed to go out of his way to make himself unavailable to her.

If she didn’t know any better, she would have said that he was trying to avoid her.

She adjusted the headpiece for the dozenth time. She stared at her reflection, not seeing the elaborate beadwork that had taken seamstresses weeks to complete. Maybe, she thought, she did know better.

Maybe he was trying to avoid her because she’d committed the sin of suspecting him. Or was it because she was right, and avoiding her until the ceremony was the only way he could handle the problem?

Was Russell involved in the prince’s death?

The question kept haunting her, and every time she thought she’d put it to rest, it insisted on rising up again, like fabled ghosts on All Hallows’ Eve.

She sighed and stared blindly into the mirror, fervently wishing she could see into the future. Her future. Even if only into the next few weeks.

Amelia pressed her hand against her stomach. She hadn’t eaten anything all morning. It seemed to her, as each half hour passed, that the butterflies that had taken up residence there grew a little larger.

“You are gorgeous.” Amelia raised her eyes and focused. Madeline had entered the room, leaving the other bridesmaids in another room, and come up behind her. The woman paused to straighten out her train. “All except for the sad face, of course,” she observed matter-of-factly. “Looking at your expression, you’d think that you were still marrying Reginald, The Black Prince, instead of Bonnie Prince Russell.”

Amelia lifted her head, still keeping her face toward the mirror. Praying that Madeline couldn’t see the hint of tears. “He’s not a prince yet.”

“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to,” Madeline quipped. “Carrington is going to be king once the coronation takes place. Technically, that makes him a prince.” Madeline indulged her. “Or a prince-in-waiting, if you prefer. Besides, if I remember correctly, you thought of him as your Prince Charming not all that many days ago.” She shifted so that she could see Amelia’s face for herself, rather than just the reflection. “Trouble in paradise already?”

Amelia shook her head. The headpiece wobbled. Madeline made a disapproving, clucking sound as she straightened it again.

“It’s just too fast, that’s all.”

“Too fast,” Madeline echoed. “Did I miss something?” she wanted to know. “Switching your emotions from loathing and dread to whoopee shouldn’t be all that difficult.”

It was fine for Madeline to make jokes about it. Madeline wasn’t being served up on a tray named Diplomacy. “I can’t shake the feeling that I’m still being used as a pawn.”

Like Amelia, Madeline had grown up around politics all of her life and had made it a point to pay close heed. Unseduced by the glamour of a fairy-tale wedding, she knew exactly what was happening.

Slowly, she surveyed Amelia from all angles. The ceremony was set to begin in a few minutes. “By your father? Obviously. But since the king on the chessboard is Carrington instead of Reginald, being captured shouldn’t be something to drag your feet about.”

“No, I mean by Carrington. I feel, no, I mean I’m afraid,” Amelia amended, “that he might be using me as a pawn.”

“Carrington?” Surprise and amusement played along her face. “Amelia, think. Carrington doesn’t need you to become king. He doesn’t need an alliance with Gastonia to put him on the throne. But you need him to protect Gastonia from dreadful little countries like Naessa, remember?”

But the fear refused to go away. Because Russell had kept his distance, it had gotten a toehold on her and insisted on festering.

She drew Madeline close to her and lowered her voice. “What if, after our night together, Russell decided to have the prince killed?”

Madeline’s eyes met hers. Amelia couldn’t tell what she was thinking. And then she saw that quirky smile she was so familiar with that lifted only one corner of her friend’s mouth. The one that mocked her good-naturedly. “My, my, and don’t we have the swelled head? Just how good do you think you were in bed?”

Amelia sighed, waving a hand. Madeline was right. She was overthinking this. It was just that it all seemed so surreal to her. “I guess I’m just confused.”

Still looking at her in the mirror, Madeline placed her hands on her friend’s shoulders and gave her a little comforting squeeze. “Honey, Carrington is crazy about you. Anyone looking at him can see that. This is a good thing, I promise.” Releasing, her, Madeline stepped back. “Just this once, it looks as if your fairy godmother has really come through for you. Enjoy it. Enjoy him.” Madeline’s quirky smile made a return appearance. “Or if you don’t want to, I will gladly become your second string and you can send me in to take your place.”

The tension broke and Amelia began to laugh, really laugh. She laughed so hard that she found herself holding on to her sides. “Oh God, that felt good. What would I ever do without you, Madeline?”

Born without a single bone of conceit in her body, Madeline assured her, “You’d muddle through. It would just take you a little longer, that’s all.” Familiar chords began to resonate over the intercom in the vestibule. It was time. Madeline gave Amelia an encouraging smile. “I think they’re playing your song, Princess.”

The butterflies in her stomach made a quantum leap, butting wings against one another. Amelia’s hand flew to her stomach and she pressed against it, feeling as if she was going to throw up. “Oh, God.”

“Just smile and look gorgeous,” Madeline advised. “And remember to say ‘I do’ in the right place.” Bending, she shifted Amelia’s train so that she could walk out of the small room. “Just remember, this could have been Reginald and thank your lucky stars that you wound up dodging that bullet.”

Amelia opened the door. The other bridesmaids, a mixture of women she’d known since childhood and daughters from prominent families, all began talking at once.

The sound formed a wall of noise around her. Amelia forced a smile to her lips and froze it there as she exited the small room.

It was time to meet her destiny.

He looked so stern, Amelia thought as she approached Russell and the altar in rhythmic, measured steps, her hand resting lightly on her father’s arm. Shouldn’t he be smiling?

Russell stood by the minister who was officiating at the ceremony. Close beside him was the king, taking his place as the best man. She knew that the monarch had insisted on it because it made him feel closer to Reginald. Right next to Weston were the groomsmen.

All she could really see was Russell.

His face looked rigid, as if he were waiting for a battle cry instead of his bride-to-be.

Fear ran in on spiked cleats. Was this a mistake? Should she have insisted on having the ceremony canceled, or at the very least, postponed, until matters between them had been ironed out?

Until the matter of whether or not the prince had been murdered was resolved?

Any way she looked at it, this just didn’t seem like the ideal time to get married. The whole country, not to mention the relationship between the two of them, was in a state of chaos. Yet here she was, approaching the altar, about to say the words that would officially join their two countries, their two destinies.

Something inside Amelia wanted her to raise her skirts, turn on her heel and run as fast as she could to the nearest exit. But she didn’t do any of that, she continued approaching the altar. Approaching Russell.

Despite everything, she thought, as King Roman placed her hand in Russell’s, she loved him. That much she was certain of. No matter what he might be guilty of, she loved Russell.

For better or worse.

The words had added significance to her as she heard them being said by the minister. She repeated them, cadence for cadence, glancing up only briefly at the man she said them to.

Russell’s expression remained unreadable. She could feel the frost forming around her heart.

Lucia Cordez, dressed in a stunning, blue street-length dress that lovingly adhered to every supple curve her finely trimmed, martial-arts-trained body had to offer, dabbed subtly at her light blue eyes as she pretended to be moved by the ceremony she and so many others were attending.

No one had questioned her presence. With a Latin father and a mother who was half African American, half Caucasian, and blessed with model-perfect good looks, Lucia had the kind of face and bearing that easily allowed her to fit in anywhere people of quality gathered.

She’d arrived in Silvershire a little more than an hour ago, just in time to catch Carrington before he left for the church. She’d put a few pertinent questions to the duke, the most important of which was whether he knew the whereabouts of the late prince’s laptop. He’d had the presence of mind to place it under lock and key within his own room.

Lucia had commended him for his action and taken possession of the key. The moment the reception got underway, she intended to make herself scarce and get started hacking into the prince’s computer files. Because Reginald had been Silvershire’s future king, his files had been highly secured with intricate pass codes that only he had known. She had come prepared. Cracking them could take her a matter of hours, or it could take as long as several months. Optimistically, she hoped for somewhere in between.

There was no time like the present to get started. But, for the moment, Lucia allowed herself to enjoy the wedding. It was the last word in opulence. Silvershire was not without its resources. And she had always had a fondness for pomp and ceremony. It was leagues away from her own background.

It was what she aspired to.

It felt as if the reception would never end.

Part of Amelia had nursed the hope that it wouldn’t, because part of her was afraid of this moment, when the reception was on its way to becoming just a memory and she was alone in the royal bedroom with her new husband. Not afraid the way she would have been just a few short days ago, but afraid because of the issue that had sprung up between her and Russell. The issue that still remained unresolved, at least for Russell. And maybe, just in the tiniest bit, for her.

She released the breath she was holding. This was absurd. They were married now. They were a united couple before God and the world. It was time to begin acting like one.

Amelia turned around to say something to Russell, who had remained almost eerily quiet since they’d left the ballroom and entered the bedroom. She was still acutely aware that he had refrained from carrying her over the threshold.

To her surprise, she saw that her brand-new husband was crossing back to the doorway. His hand was on the doorknob and he looked as if he intended to leave. A strange chill passed over her.

“Where are you going?”

He glanced in her direction. Wished she didn’t look as beautiful as she did. Wished she didn’t move him the way she did. She was still in her wedding dress, looking as pure as she should have been had he not given in to his earthier instincts. “To my quarters.”

She stared at him, puzzled. “Aren’t these your quarters?”

He didn’t think of them in that way. He’d always felt himself a visitor in the palace, no matter how many nights he’d spent here. “They’re the quarters reserved for the wedding night.”

Because he hadn’t moved away from the door, Amelia crossed to him, taking off her headpiece and veil as she approached. She tossed them onto a wing chair as she passed it.

“Correct me if I’m wrong.” Amelia began to take the pins out of her hair. “But doesn’t the wedding night follow the wedding?”

He watched, unable to draw his eyes away, as her hair came cascading down like sunbeams. “Yes.”

Amelia ran her fingers through her hair, loosening the last of the trapped strands. “And weren’t we the bride and groom involved in the wedding?”

His mouth felt dry. She was distracting him. He had to remember why he had been so determined to walk away. It wasn’t easy. “Yes.”

“Then these should be our quarters,” she concluded, stopping less than a hairbreadth away from him. “Jointly.”

He squared his shoulders. She was making this hard. “Princess—”

“Amelia,” she corrected, trying to bank down the sudden spike of frustration that shot through her. “My name is Amelia.” Despite her efforts, exasperation entered her voice. “Why won’t you call me that? Do I have to give you a flash card?”

She had a point. It was something he was going to have to get used to. They were supposedly equals, now. “Amelia,” he repeated. “There’s no need for you to act out the charade.”

She didn’t follow him. “What charade? That we’re married?”

He struggled to maintain the distance between them. “We don’t have to behave like husband and wife.”

“Why? Why don’t we have to behave like husband and wife? Why wouldn’t we want to behave like husband and wife?” she repeated, her temper heating.

Did he have to spell it out for her? “Because the first element in a marriage is trust and you obviously don’t trust me—”

She had had just about enough of this. “No,” Amelia cut in tersely. “You are the one who doesn’t trust me.”

For a moment, she’d taken the air out of his sails. “What? I—”

She wouldn’t let him continue, wouldn’t let him weave rhetoric until up was down and black was white. And as she spoke, her voice rose and anger came into her eyes, making them almost shoot sparks.

“You don’t trust that I have common sense. You don’t trust that my heart will convince my somewhat confused mind that you are a decent, good man who could never, ever, have anything to do with the prince’s death. All you can do is shoot daggers at me and growl like some wounded, unforgiving bear.” As she spoke, she poked a finger into his chest, emphasizing her words.

“I had a moment, a tiny moment, of doubt, of confusion. A lapse.” She held her forefinger and thumb up, to show him how tiny the occasion had actually been for her. “What does a moment count in the scheme of things? One moment in the face of a billion moments that comprise a lifetime. Our lifetime, if you could get off your high horse and stop looking at me like some wronged soldier who—”

She never got to finish. Her words were inflaming him. She was inflaming him. Unable to resist her any longer, Russell pulled her into his arms.

The next second, her mouth was covered with his.