The princess deception, p.11
The Princess Deception, page 11
“I’m here, I’m here.” Toby’s syllables slurred around the edges. “Go on and tell me.”
His voice dripped with indulgence, and Duke felt her lips curl in a silent snarl. The bastard was condescending to her. She momentarily entertained the thought of offering a red herring while keeping the real news a secret. If Toby wasn’t going to take her seriously, what use would he be?
Then again, she was untested, unproven. That didn’t excuse his condescension, but it did explain the underlying skepticism. And none of it changed the fact that despite his being an ass, she still owed him.
“The Belgian prince is AWOL, and his sister is impersonating him.”
“What?”
“Princess Viola is pretending to be Prince Sebastian. I don’t know why.”
“How sure are you?”
Duke swallowed another surge of irritation. He had no way of knowing whether she was trustworthy or prone to jumping at shadows. “I’m sure. I first noticed some inconsistent mannerisms of his at the event this afternoon, and then I had a face-to-face conversation with him tonight that only reinforced my theory.”
“You had a…how the hell did you score that?”
Duke was absurdly pleased at the awe in his voice, but she tried to keep her own tone casual. “The Dutch princess recognized me and invited me to the VIP box.”
“Holy shit.”
“I’m interviewing her tomorrow and ‘Sebastian’ sometime later this week,” Duke continued. “But I obviously can’t come out and ask him whether he’s actually his sister in disguise. I have to figure out why the real Sebastian is off the grid, and I don’t know where to start. I need your help.”
For a long moment, the only sounds she heard were those in the background: the muffled thump of the music and the indistinct blur of shouts and cheers. He was probably shocked, and she wished she could see his face—it would do her self-esteem some good.
“I’m coming back to the hotel right now,” he said, the slur gone from his voice, as though her news had sobered him. “Show me everything.”
* * *
Paris, France
Viola forced herself to enter the hospital room ahead of her parents because she wanted so badly to hide behind them. The impulse made her angry, and the anger gave her courage.
Unlike the last time she had seen him, Sebastian was sitting up in bed. He was still connected to an IV drip, but there was some color in his cheeks, and his gaze seemed lucid. The moment he saw her, one corner of his mouth quirked in a clear attempt at a smile.
“Hi,” she said softly, going to the chair at his bedside and clasping the hand not bound to the IV. It trembled in her grip, and she wondered how much pain he was in. “It’s so good to see you. How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay,” he said hoarsely. “Vi…” He trailed off before he could even start to finish his sentence, eyes welling. She blinked her own tears back, not wanting to burden him with her own grief.
“It’s all right.” She released his hand and grabbed two tissues from the nightstand. She had no idea what he needed to hear right now, and she only hoped it aligned with what she needed to say. “I love you. I want to do everything I can to help you get well. Okay?”
He blotted his cheeks, nodded, then swallowed hard. “Thanks. I just wish…I wish I could go back in time.”
“I wish that, too,” she said, aching for him, for her parents, for herself. “But since none of us can, we’ll move forward together. We’ll be strong for each other. Remember that story Mom likes to tell, about when I was moved to your incubator in the NICU and you put your arm around me?”
He nodded but didn’t speak.
“Well, now it’s my turn.” Viola scooted her chair closer to the bed and leaned in to wrap her arm around his shoulders. “Lean on me. On us. We’ll be your strength until you get your own back.”
The tears came in earnest, now, streaming down his face, overwhelming his efforts to mop them up. When their father moved to her side and held out his handkerchief, Viola gently took the used tissues from Sebastian’s hand and replaced it with the soft fabric, embroidered with their family crest. While she did her best to comfort him, their parents flanked her chair, offering their silent support.
Once he had regained control, Sebastian tried to return the handkerchief, but instead, their father gently closed Sebastian’s hand around the cloth.
“Keep it, son,” he said. “I only wish I had a clean one to give you.”
“Thanks.” Sebastian sat up straight and met each of their eyes in turn. “I want you to know how sorry I am for letting…this…happen. You’re the most loving and supportive family in the world, and I don’t feel like I deserve you.” When their mother started to gainsay him, he held up one hand. “Please hear me out. I’ll work hard in rehab, I promise. I’ll make you proud.” He choked a little on the last word but pushed on. “I love you.”
Discomfited by the guilt and self-loathing she heard in his voice, Viola leaned forward, grabbing his attention. “We’re here for you, no matter what,” she said. “And we only want what’s best for you. Work toward that. What’s best for you.”
A knock at the door drew their attention and Ruben entered, his expression apologetic. “Pardon the interruption, Your Majesties, Your Royal Highnesses. Sirona’s transportation has arrived and the counselors are waiting nearby.”
Panic flashed across Sebastian’s face before he mastered himself, and Viola felt her heart break all over again. “We’re allowed to send you letters,” she said into the fraught silence. “I’ll write one every day.”
“And you’ll continue filling in for me, with the bid campaign?” he said anxiously. “Whenever you can, I mean. I know it’s a lot to ask—”
“Yes, of course,” Viola said, willing her voice to remain smooth despite the sudden spike in her pulse. “I met with Maes yesterday to go over the details. We’ll take care of everything. Don’t worry about a single detail.”
“We’ll come to see you as frequently as we can,” their father said, leaning over to embrace him.
“We love you so much,” added their mother, hugging him in turn.
Ruben returned with a hospital nurse and the two counselors—one male, with streaks of gray in his neatly trimmed beard, and one female, who seemed to Viola to be near her age. After introductions were made, Viola stood to the side with her parents as the counselors spoke to Sebastian and the nurse detached him from the IV. Then there were documents to sign—his discharge papers and the contract with the rehabilitation center.
Viola watched the pen shake in his hand, feeling more helpless than she could ever remember. She hadn’t been very religious in recent years, but she found herself praying now: that the treatment would help him, but more importantly, that he would find the strength to want to help himself.
The counselors helped him into a wheelchair, and then it was time to say their good-byes. When the door closed behind them, her mother sat on Sebastian’s vacated bed and wept. Viola sat beside her, silently handing over tissue after tissue, while her father comforted her as best he could. When her tears finally ran dry, she let out a shaky sigh and grasped their hands in her own.
“I know this isn’t our fault,” she said. “But I keep wondering what we could have done differently.”
The pain in her voice made Viola ache, and she hurried to stop her mother from descending into a spiral of self-recrimination. She could see her father gathering his own thoughts, but as Sebastian’s twin who was not an addict, the answer would be more compelling coming from her.
“Mom, no. Please don’t,” she said, squeezing gently. “Addiction is a disease—ask any well-respected doctor. You didn’t keep us in ignorance when we were young—you did everything you could to give us the information to make smart choices. And our family is close-knit and supportive of each other, so there’s no logical reason for why Sebastian didn’t come to us for help.”
She took a deep breath. Her mother’s expression still reflected her despair, and Viola prayed she could somehow reach her.
“Unfortunately, addiction isn’t logical,” she continued. “Yes, he made a choice to try heroin for the first time. But from what I’ve read, the drug started changing his brain immediately, making him feel as though he needed it. That’s not your fault. That’s not anyone’s fault.”
“But his life is stressful because of who he is,” her mother said, agony inflecting every syllable. “He is always in the spotlight, always being watched, and that made him self-conscious about his image and contributed to his lack of confidence. Whoever introduced him to these drugs must have preyed on that insecurity.”
Viola had never heard her mother summarize Sebastian’s state of mind so succinctly, and her bluntness was surprising. So was the depth of her guilt. For a moment, it had sounded as though she regretted ever becoming part of the monarchy, with all its public responsibilities and expectations. Viola was sure she hadn’t meant to hurt her father but wondered if that was an unintended consequence. Instead of pointing out her insult, she decided to take a more rational approach.
“Yes, Sebastian’s life is stressful. But many other people lead even more stressful lives by most measures. Some are addicts. Some are not. We attend parties given by people drowning in money, where any drug is available. But even if we were a so-called ‘normal’ family of middle income, we would have plenty of access.”
The uncertainty and pain in her mother’s face made Viola want to weep like the little girl she could not afford to be right now. She knelt at her feet, linking their hands, hoping for the right words.
“There’s nothing you could have done to stop this,” she said, “but there’s so much we can do now. Sebastian needs us more than he ever has. He needs us to be strong for him while he’s struggling. The guilt you’re feeling—is that going to give you strength? Or will it leach away at your confidence and make you weak?”
At first, no change appeared in her mother; she remained slumped where she sat, folding in on herself in her misery. But then, slowly, her shoulders straightened and she raised her face to Viola’s. Her mother’s expression was still suffused with sorrow, but beneath it was a steely determination that had been missing.
“You’re right,” she said with a tremulous smile. “I should learn to be more like you, my fierce, brave, sensitive child.” She cupped Viola’s face in her hands and bent to kiss her cheeks. The comforting familiarity of that gesture overwhelmed Viola’s self-control, unleashing the tide of tears she had held back since entering the room.
Over the sounds of her own sobs, Viola heard the reassuring murmur of her mother, mingled with her father’s deep baritone. Their arms came around her where she knelt, holding her through the storm of her own grief and fear.
Chapter Nine
Belvédère Castle, Brussels, Belgium
Thanks to soccer, Duke had visited countries from Canada to Qatar. She had marched in the opening and closing ceremonies of the summer Olympics. She had even been a guest of the White House. Touring the Rose Garden and shaking the president’s hand in the Oval Office had been a surreal experience, and sometimes she still looked at the photographs just to make sure it had really happened. But as she caught her first glimpse of the Chateau de Belvédère, its pale rotunda rising above the distant trees, Duke thought she must have entered a fairytale.
She had been on the train from The Hague to Brussels yesterday morning, typing up her notes from her interview with Eveline, when she received a call from “Monsieur Maes, Secretary to Prince Sebastian,” asking whether this was a convenient time to discuss a meeting with His Royal Highness. How she had managed to reply that, “Yes, thank you, this is a good time,” without stammering, she still didn’t know. Five minutes later, she had an appointment with Sebastian for the following afternoon, as well as an email detailing the palace protocols regarding photographs, video, and audio recordings.
“A car will be sent for you,” Maes had concluded. “Please stay on the line to confirm your address with my assistant.”
Duke had expected a higher end sedan—an Audi perhaps, or a BMW. Instead, as she left the front door of her new home away from home, she found a black and gold Rolls Royce Phantom idling at the curb. The driver was standing at the rear passenger’s side door. At her approach, he opened it, bid her a good afternoon, and introduced himself as Tomas. If he noticed her stunned expression, he didn’t let on.
Once Duke got over her initial awe, she decided to risk chatting up Tomas. Surely, he wouldn’t think her curiosity to be odd, and he might give some useful detail away without realizing it. She asked him how long he had been in the royal family’s employ (six years), which car he preferred to drive (His Royal Highness Prince Sebastian’s Aston Martin), where he lived (in the chateau), and what that was like.
He paused before answering the question—not with the wariness of someone choosing his words diplomatically, but with an earnestness that made her believe he was grasping for the right ones.
“It is a privilege to serve the royal family,” he said. “They do a great deal of good in this world, and I am honored to be able to help them, even in such a small way.”
As Duke was reflecting on his loyalty, he politely changed the subject away from himself. “I understand you are a reporter for Goal?”
Duke felt a moment’s surprise before she reflected that he must be part of the palace’s security staff as well as a driver. That would make sense, and it would also explain his knowledge of her identity.
“I am.” Duke could see part of his face in the mirror, and she watched him closely. “I met Sebastian this past weekend and he generously agreed to an interview.”
Tomas did not so much as flinch when she mentioned the prince’s name. “His efforts on the bid are a source of national pride.”
“I can imagine. I hope it’s successful.”
That, she supposed, could be at least one reason why Viola had decided to masquerade as her brother—to keep the bid running smoothly. But that idea got her no closer to an explanation of why Sebastian couldn’t attend to the bid himself. He could be very sick and want his privacy, but Duke doubted it. Why not make an illness public knowledge and have Viola substitute for him as herself? That would go a long way toward generating sympathy and admiration for the entire family and their effort, which would in turn be politically expedient.
The street culminated in a roundabout, its inner circle boasting an ornate stone monument that seemed at first glance to be the lopped-off spire of a cathedral. As the car curved around it, Duke realized it was larger than it first appeared and functioned as a pavilion, sheltering the statue of a man.
“The monument of Leopold I,” Tomas said, “First King of the Belgians.”
Duke had read about that quirk: the king and queen were titled “of the Belgians,” indicating that they were bound to the Belgian people rather than to the territory of the country. It was an interesting distinction, especially since their children were the prince and princess “of Belgium.” As the elder twin, Sebastian had another title—the one given him by virtue of his status as heir-apparent—the Duke of Brabant.
The car exited the roundabout and turned down a narrow road that was almost immediately barred by a wrought-iron gate. A woman emerged from the nearby guardhouse and exchanged a few words with Tomas, who let down the rear window.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Duke,” she said, her accent sounding more German than French. “May I please see your identification?”
The guard took her passport into the small structure, presumably to check it against some kind of computer system. She returned a few minutes later and handed it back, only to ask Duke to step out of the car.
Duke’s first reaction was surprise, followed by apprehension. Had there been some kind of red flag on her passport? Some of what she was feeling must have been visible, because the guard took it upon herself to explain that a brief body scan was protocol for all visitors. As she stood with her legs splayed and arms out, Duke wondered whether this particular measure was a response to the increase in terrorism over the past few years. She also wondered how Viola and her family felt, knowing they were targets. Was that something a person ever got used to? Somehow, Duke didn’t think so.
“Enjoy your meeting with the prince, ma’am,” the woman said.
Duke slid back into the car, a tiny kernel of doubt flowering in her mind. Unbidden, both Tomas and the guard had referred to “the prince,” which suggested one of three possibilities: either she had entirely misjudged the situation, or Viola was fooling them as well (which seemed highly unlikely), or the monarchy’s security team was all in cahoots about her charade.
Moments later, the tree-lined street gave way to a cleared space dominated by the chateau’s blue-gray facade. Its square-shaped main building was bisected by two identical wings, one stretching to the east and another toward the west. A cupola, its dome made of the same stone as the rest of the palace, crowned the center of the roof. Tomas pulled the car up to the entrance, a gray granite staircase that led to a landing dominated by four white pillars carved in one of the Greek styles. A tall, lean man in a black suit, his ginger hair cropped close in a military-style haircut, stood at the top with his hands clasped behind his back.
Tomas opened her door. “Here you are, ma’am. One of His Royal Highness’s guards is waiting for you, just there.”
She murmured her thanks, swallowed hard against a rush of butterflies, and began the short climb.
“Ms. Duke.” The man’s handshake was firm. “Welcome to Belvedere Castle. I am Thijs. His Royal Highness is awaiting you in the small study.”
“Thank you.” Duke followed him into a spacious foyer, its marble floor gleaming in the light cast by a three-tier chandelier. Twin staircases made of dark brown wood and polished to a lustrous shine framed the entryway, leading to a narrow balcony on the second floor. Two arched corridors stretched out to either side, both above and below. A door stood open across the length of the chamber, allowing her a glimpse of what appeared to be some kind of sitting room, apportioned in rose and gold furniture. Thijs took the right staircase, turned into the hallway, and led her past several closed doors. By the time he paused in front of one, Duke guessed they must be near the end of the western wing.
