Cinderella's Secret Royal Fling Read online

  ‘Your stepsister is single, isn’t she?’ Harriet asked and Emilia nodded.

  ‘As far as I know. Simone was hoping for a duke or one of the Windsors but obviously that didn’t happen. I wonder if that’s what she meant by closer ties? What’s he like, the Archduke?’

  ‘Handsome in a cold, blond way. Said to be proud, standoffish.’ Amber held her phone out to Emilia but she waved it away. She’d see him for herself soon enough.

  ‘Okay, I think we’ve decided that we’re going for it, right? In that case I declare this meeting officially over. Let’s celebrate our new contract the usual way.’

  ‘Pyjamas, cheese on toast and mugs of hot chocolate?’ Harriet punched the air. ‘Bags me choose the film; Deangelo is on a nature documentary phase and it’s interesting but I am gasping for a good old-fashioned romcom.’

  They all smiled in agreement, but Emilia knew her friends’ smiles all masked concern and that they would be watching her carefully all evening long to make sure she was okay. But as she watched Harriet start to slice the sourdough bread she’d brought over from Borough Market, and Amber grate the cheese while Alexandra began to heat the milk, Emilia also knew that she’d survive. She had before, and this time, thanks to the Agency and the girls who ran it, she wasn’t on her own.

  * * *

  Emilia was doubly glad of the optimism and support of her friends when, two days later, she found herself suspended over the famous Armarian royal castle. The helicopter engine was so loud she could barely form a sentence, even in her head, but if she could she was sure that sentence would be Help. Human beings were not meant to travel in tiny metal cages held up in the air only by rotating rods.

  The helicopter hovered over the castle for a brief moment, giving Emilia a bird’s-eye view of the ancient building, all delicate spires and battlements, looking more like a child’s dream of a castle than a real-life building, home to the royal family of Armaria, seat of the small country’s Parliament and famous tourist attraction. Thanks to Harriet’s detailed briefings and Simone’s even more detailed notes, she knew that the Archdukes of Armaria had lived right here, in this very spot, for generations beyond memory, the original keep long since enfolded into the growing castle, the whole remodelled in the eighteenth century by an Archduke whose tastes had run to the gothic. The sun shone overhead and to one side the sea sparkled a deep blue, to the other the mountains rose up to meet the sky, the very furthest still topped with white. Even through her fear Emilia noted that she had never seen anything more idyllic in her entire life.

  She sucked in a deep breath as the helicopter began to descend. She was here; there was no changing her mind now. And she didn’t know what was more terrifying: putting together an event for hundreds of people, an event that would be reported on by every gossip magazine and blog in the western world, in just three weeks—or facing her father and his family.

  With a final sickening lurch the helicopter juddered to a stop and Emilia gingerly undid her seat belt and alighted, head bent as far down as she could get it even though the blades were far above her. Glad she had elected to wear sensible flats and trousers to travel, she pulled her light linen jacket down and smoothed her hair back, checking it was still in its smooth ponytail. She was here to work and she needed to make the right impression straight off. This she could do. She’d been working since she was sixteen years old and that was the way she liked it. She’d soon learned that the busier she was, the less time she had to think. Or to feel.

  A tall, angular woman was waiting at the far end of the helipad and, after seeing that her bags were being collected by a young, uniformed man, Emilia made her way over to her. ‘Hi,’ she said, holding out her hand in greeting. ‘I’m Emilia, the event planner.’ It was only as she spoke that she realised she had omitted her surname. Clayton was common enough a name but it might be easier not to be associated with the guest of honour or asked any difficult questions. Emilia only it would be then, unless anyone asked outright.

  Her hand was ignored in favour of a condescending nod. ‘Come with me. I’ll show you to your office. You do not have much time so I hope you are ready to start straight away.’

  ‘That’s okay. I once organised a takeover announcement and launch of a whole new brand in just forty-eight hours. I thrive on pressure.’ Uncomfortably aware she was beginning to sound over eager and might break out into the crazy metaphors of a reality show contestant any second, Emilia hurriedly changed the subject. ‘It’s very beautiful here; what an amazing setting. I usually like to start off by walking around a venue, getting to know it properly. Will there be any issue here if I do the same? I’m aware that the building has several functions and that the royal family actually live here and the castle is home to Parliament as well.’

  ‘Your security clearance has been arranged.’ As the older lady spoke they arrived at a small side door, guarded by a perspiring man in an antiquated-looking uniform, all braid and gilt. ‘This is the door you will use to enter and exit the palace at all times. You need to show your pass here and then sign in once inside. No pass, no admittance, no exception.’

  ‘Understood.’ Emilia smiled at the guard, who stared woodenly back before she followed her guide into the long entrance hallway. It took a few moments for her details to be registered, her passport scrutinised and the all-important pass to be issued and she was then led down the corridor, rooms pointed out as they went.

  ‘That’s the main aides’ office, the housekeeper’s room and the garde de campe’s suite. You’ll find the kitchens along there, turn right and down the stairs; the staff dining room is next to it. Breakfast is available between six and eight, lunch between noon and two and dinner from eight. If you require anything in the meantime, ask a page and she or he will get it for you. You do not help yourself. Most people are fluent in English; the official language is French, but day-to-day we speak an Armarian dialect which is a mixture of Italian and French.’

  ‘I have passable Italian and my mother was French so I should be fine,’ Emilia reassured her and the confidence elicited a begrudging smile. This lady was a difficult audience, but she’d had worse.

  ‘Your pass gives you access to everywhere you should need to go. If it’s locked then it’s a private area, accessible only to the royal family and their immediate staff. You are not to trespass. This side of the castle is the administrative and housekeeping wing and so the royal family are very unlikely to be seen back here, nor should you encounter any Members of Parliament; their offices and debating chambers are on the other side of the castle. If you should see the Archduke or his mother you curtsey and do not speak until spoken to. If you need to check anything with them, you ask me and I will arrange it.’

  ‘Great. And you are?’

  The thin lips pursed even tighter. ‘Contessa Sophy D’Arbe. The Archduchess’s secretary.’

  ‘Got it.’ Emilia looked around her with interest. Although the windows were narrow and glazed with ancient-looking glass, the curved ceilings high and the stone underfoot uneven, grey and very old, the corridors were still impersonal and corporate, with nondescript watercolours on the walls and the painted, closed doors were numbered like in any work space.

  ‘Your office is on the floor below; it’s small and a little dark, but it was the only space we had available. It should have everything you need, including lists of all the palace suppliers. Your bedroom is in the attic. The key to your room and directions to all areas of the castle are on your desk and your belongings have already been taken to your room.’ The Contessa came to a stop by a narrow staircase and nodded to it. ‘Your security pass will unlock your office door. Down those stairs, turn right, room twelve. If you need any refreshments, ask a page. I’ll arrange a meeting with you tomorrow to see how you’ve got on. Oh, and welcome to Armaria.’ And with that the Contessa nodded one more time before sweeping away without a backward glance.

  Emilia stood at the top
of the stairs, torn between an urge to laugh and an urge to turn around and scamper back to the safety of her Chelsea home as fast as she could. ‘The Contessa and Simone seem destined to become BFFs,’ she muttered. ‘I must introduce them.’ Right. She took a deep breath. Time to find and check out the adequate office. Time to locate a page and order some much-needed coffee. Time to write out her first of what would be many to-do lists. And then time to familiarise herself with the castle and the grounds. She had all this wonderful, old, picturesque space to play with. The more she had to do, the less time she had to worry about actually seeing her father. It was time to get busy.

  * * *

  ‘Ah, Your Highness...’

  ‘His Royal Highness will know the answer...’

  Eyes forward, head up, Laurent silently repeated as he swept down the grand corridor, determinedly not looking left, right or up onto the gallery, where at least three people were trying to grab his attention. He slid his gaze slightly to the right to ensure his Armarian Spaniel, Pomme, was following him, then snapped them straight ahead, allowing one hand to briefly rest on the dog’s head as he marched on.

  It came to something when a man couldn’t find any peace in his own castle. Laurent just wanted a corner to sit and read through the proposal his Chancellor had pressed upon him earlier that day, but every corner seemed to be full of cleaners or decorators or florists. There wasn’t an inch of the palace that wasn’t being buffed, polished, repainted or reupholstered and the air was thick with paint, dust and turpentine. Even his own suite of rooms wasn’t immune, although he had made it very clear to anyone who would listen that they at least were strictly off-limits to cameras, guests and onlookers. Even a prince needed a room of his own—or, in his case, five rooms including a study and a bathroom, his bedroom, dressing room and en suite bathroom, neatly housed in one of the four turrets which rounded off every wing of the castle. Although he would never admit it, Laurent was still secretly glad that he had his own turret room. It seemed like the least a boy growing up in a castle could expect, a small consolation against the lack of privacy and tourists around every corner. Against the role he had no choice but to occupy.

  ‘Just the man! Your Highness...’

  But Laurent had long since learned the key to getting from A to B undisturbed. He simply strode fast, head high, eyes not focusing on a single face, not catching anyone’s gaze. And because it was considered bad manners—if not downright treasonous—to accost the Archduke without an explicit invitation, this tactic usually worked. But it was hard to walk purposefully when one had to keep dodging ladders, buckets and toolboxes and every now and then Laurent would accidentally catch someone’s eye and that would be considered the explicit permission that person needed to unburden themselves to their sovereign, as was their right and his duty. But when all they wanted was his view on paint colours or a ticket to this damn ball and he had a proposal to read, his patience was wearing thin fast. It was with a huge sense of relief that he finally reached the tiny side door to which only he owned a key and stepped out into the sunny courtyard beyond, the precious proposal a little more bent and dog-eared and still unread. He closed the door firmly behind him as Pomme made a dash for the nearest potted plant.

  Laurent tightened his grip on the report. This was his chance: his chance to make Armaria truly independent and stable. Industry, jobs, investment... The Chancellor had gathered all the evidence, ready for Laurent to place it directly in Mike Clayton’s hands. He just needed to pick when to present it. Before the ball or after? Before he proposed to Mike Clayton’s beloved daughter or after...?

  He’d always known he’d have to marry strategically; every Archduke did. Their title and position bartered carefully away for influence or money or hopefully both. Why should he be different just because some modern foreign princes and princesses had been allowed to follow their hearts? In a country where the monarch was more than a figurehead, hearts simply couldn’t rule over heads. He’d always known this.

  And now the time had come. Proposing to Bella Clayton was the most sensible thing he could do. He’d be fulfilling his duty to the country and to the throne. She was well-bred, well-educated and brought with her the potential of a new beginning for Armaria. She was perfect.

  Whistling for Pomme to join him, Laurent walked across the shady courtyard, filled with tall plants in earthenware pots and brightly flowering climbing plants. An arched door led into a walled garden, half a flower-filled lawn, half a small tangled orchard of fruit trees. At the far end of the orchard, a small wrought iron arbour stood by the wall, a shady respite from the relentless noon sun, and Laurent’s favourite hiding place. Checking his phone—only eight missed calls, fifteen messages and thirty-three emails since he’d last looked half an hour ago—he headed straight there while Pomme, ecstatic to be freed from palace etiquette, made for the nearest tree. Laurent absentmindedly scrolled through the emails, deleting or forwarding as many as he could, flagging the rest to deal with later.

  Intent on his phone, he didn’t notice a leg lying in his path, not until he tripped right over it, recalled to his surroundings by an indignant, ‘Ouch! Watch where you’re going!’

  Regaining his balance, Laurent turned and looked down at a young, slim woman, lying under a tree, long legs sticking out in a most dangerous way. ‘I shouldn’t need to watch where I’m going,’ he said in his most repressive manner. ‘This garden is private.’

  It was only as he spoke that he realised the young woman had spoken and he had replied in English.

  Flushing to the roots of her honey-brown hair, the young woman immediately scrambled to her feet, notebook in one hand, pen in the other. ‘I did wonder,’ she confessed. ‘The door was so well concealed, but when it opened...’

  ‘You slipped inside and hoped no one would see you?’ It should have been locked. Only two gardeners had the key; one of them had slipped up.

  ‘That’s about the truth of it. They gave me an office, but it’s so noisy in the palace I couldn’t think so I rewarded myself for a solid afternoon’s work with an explore of the gardens. I couldn’t believe my luck when I found this place. Not that the rest of the gardens aren’t exquisite,’ she added hurriedly. ‘But they are so formal. I like a bit of wildness in my nature. I’m Emilia—’ she stuck the pen into a pocket and held out a hand ‘—the event organiser. I am so sorry. I promise not to trespass again.’

  Laurent was slow to take her hand, struck as he was by two things. One was the frank expression in her clear hazel eyes, an expression untinged by awe. The other was her surprising admission that she preferred this small, shady garden to the famous royal gardens of Armaria. He did, of course, but as far as he knew he was in a minority of one. ‘You don’t like the Royal Gardens?’

  She stepped back, hand dropping as she looked around at the orchard as if seriously considering his question. ‘Oh, no, they are beautiful and they will make a wonderful backdrop for the ball. But they’re very...’ she paused ‘...very grand. And perfect. I worry about crushing a blade of grass, or casting a shadow on a carefully cultivated scene. I’m much more of a throw myself on the ground and sprawl kind of girl, as you found out. Sorry again.’

  ‘In that case,’ Laurent said, ‘you must come here whenever you wish. I’ll order you a key.’

  ‘But this is obviously private; won’t the Archduke mind?’

  For a moment all Laurent could do was stand there with an expression he was sure was the most undignified one he’d worn since ascending to the Dukedom at the tender age of seven. ‘Mind?’

  ‘If it’s usually locked then isn’t it his? That’s what I was told—that all locked areas are private, for the royal family only.’

  And that was when he realised what was odd about this conversation. There was no awe in her expression, no hesitation in her manner because she had no idea who he was. Laurent could not remember the last time that had happened—if indeed it ever h
ad. True, he’d been helping shift furniture in the throne room and hadn’t changed out of his oldest jeans, the ones that made his mother sigh on the rare occasion she saw him in them. His hair wasn’t neatly combed but falling into his face, and his short-sleeved shirt was covered with dust. No one expected to see an Archduke look like one of the many labourers working away to make the palace perfect for the ball of a potential billionaire fairy godfather. For one moment he was tempted to pretend that he was one of them, to enjoy this pomp and ceremony-free moment a little longer.

  He pushed the enticing thought aside. Surely she’d wonder how a palace workman could give her permission to be in a private place and, besides, such games were beneath him.

  He held out his hand with the straight-backed formality that had been drilled into him since before he could walk. ‘I didn’t introduce myself. I’m...’ But the words were thick in his throat. Oh, he had a few, a very few, handpicked friends, men he could trust, who he could be some semblance of normal with for a few precious hours a week, but even with them there was an unspoken acknowledgement of his rank. When had he last had a conversation this free and easy? He liked the frank way she chattered on, despite her embarrassment at having been caught trespassing. That would disappear in an instant once he revealed his identity. ‘I’m...’ But before he could complete the introduction Pomme came bounding over, his interest in the pretty stranger clear.

  ‘Hello, beautiful, who are you?’ Emilia bent over and found the exact spot behind Pomme’s ears where he loved to be scratched. Laurent grinned as he watched his dog writhe with no self-consciousness whatsoever. ‘What glorious colouring. Almost calico.’

  ‘Pomme is an Armarian Spaniel. Originally bred to be hunting dogs, but he’s a pampered pet, aren’t you, Pomme?’

  ‘He’s absolutely gorgeous. Does he belong to you?’