A Royal Masquerade. Arlene James
history, you mean,” Roland Thorton interrupted with droll impatience, secretly amused to see the little man jerk and grapple with his composure.
“Oh, no, Your Highness. Never!” The man gasped, as if shocked to his core.
“Come now,” Roland said, frowning and drumming his fingertips on the ornate arms of his chair in a show of regal boredom while delightedly baiting the snobbish little twit. “We Thortons are not ashamed of our forebears. Pirates they were, fierce and unscrupulous, and they kept our marvelous isle afloat with their ill-gotten gains. Our current shipping concerns are but a pale, distant image of those magnificent marauders of our past. We are pirates of banking and horseflesh, oil and tourism now. And it is the same with our smaller neighbor of Roxbury, though I have little doubt that Prince Charles would deny it. Pirates we were, sir, battling for the same plunder. Now we are but dignified and proper purveyors of goods, vying for the same contract year after year with your honorable King Phillip for no good reason except that it is tradition. So, who shall it be? Does my father, the Grand Duke of Thortonburg, or Prince Charles Montague of Roxbury win this year’s shipping contract with Wynborough?”
The little man gulped and dug a finger beneath the tight, starched collar of his shirt, bobbing from the waist in that perpetual bow. “As to that, my lord Roland, His Majesty King Phillip bears the highest regard for Thortonburg and all its interests.”
“I should hope so,” Roland drawled. “He saw his daughter married to Thortonburg’s heir apparent, after all.” He leaned forward suddenly, skewering the statesman with a pointed glare. “I should think that as my brother Raphael is son-in-law to your king, special consideration might be given to us. Even now Princess Elizabeth awaits the birth of a child who will further both royal lines.” Actually, it was his father, the Grand Duke, who thought special consideration should be given, despite the fact that Rafe refused to ask his wife to intervene on Thortonburg’s behalf. Roland had his personal doubts, which his father, as usual, chose to ignore.
Wynborough’s Deputy Minister of Trade drew himself up to his official best and finally—finally—approached the heart of the matter. Roland gritted his teeth, suspecting what was coming and dreading what would follow.
“There, Prince Roland, you have hit squarely upon the problem. Surely you understand that His Highness must avoid all semblance of favoritism. He means to rule justly, you see.”
Impatiently, Roland crossed his legs and flicked lint from the trousers of his ceremonial costume. “Yes, yes. Out with it, if you please, while I am still young. Do we or do we not have the contract?”
The minister pursed his lips, abandoned diplomacy and answered baldly, “Not.”
Roland slumped, half in relief, half in regret and wholly in exhaustion. The celebration of King Phillip’s twenty-year reign as monarch of Wynborough continued unabated, despite the fact that numerous business meetings such as this one were taking place all over Wyndham Castle. In truth, it was the business that brought Roland to Wynborough. Although his presence as a member of the royal family of Thortonburg was required and expected, he had little patience with pomp and circumstance, which, to his mind, was to be endured rather than enjoyed and then only when absolutely necessary. Twenty-six years of training, however, immediately had him straightening his spine again. Squaring his shoulders, he gave his head that regal tip.
“You are telling me that we have lost the contract precisely because my brother has married a royal princess of Wynborough. Is that correct?”
The bureaucrat bowed his head. “I regret to say that it is.”
It was just as Roland had suspected. His father would not be pleased, and though it was Raphael’s connections that had cost them the contract, it was he, Roland, who would bear the blame. He, after all, had been running Thorton Shipping while his brother had been establishing a construction business in America. Not that he blamed Rafe. Indeed, he would have gladly joined him. The trappings of royalty, he knew only too well, were often as much trap as bother. But someone had to tend the till. Raphael could not suspect how delighted Roland was to have his older brother home and involving himself in the running of the country. Or perhaps he did. Rafe was no one’s fool, and love seemed to have made him unexpectedly insightful. That was one complication Roland was determined to avoid.
Love was well enough when it brought his brother home to his duty, but Roland intended to simplify his own life now. It was time to see to his own future, and he had in mind a certain lush little island nestled neatly between Thortonburg and Roxbury. A Thortonburg principality, it had been suggested for development because of its pristine beaches, but Roland had quietly quashed that idea, envisioning instead a horse ranch and stud farm of unparalleled prominence. To that end, he had begun acquiring the finest stock to be had in all of Europe and was even now arranging the transport of an Irish thoroughbred of supreme line and conformation, a most spirited beast as fast as the wind and black as the night. Roland hadn’t decided on a name for him yet. Something piratical perhaps.
The minister droned on, assuring Roland that Thorton Shipping enjoyed the favor of the Wyndhams and that only circumstance had cost them the contract. He would have said the same things to Montague had the Thortons secured the contract instead. Only the fact that he was a guest at Wynborough prevented Roland from simply getting up and walking out of the opulent chamber. It was with relief and bemusement, then, that he watched a concealed door open in the wainscoting next to the fireplace and a costumed footman appear.
The Deputy Minister scowled at the interruption, but the footman could not be outdone in magisterial hauteur. Back and shoulders straight, he looked down his nose into nothingness and announced pompously, “Begging your pardon, Deputy Minister, I have an urgent personal message for Prince Roland of Thortonburg.”
The Deputy Minister flattened his lips together, obviously disgruntled to have his official business curtailed before all the appropriate niceties were performed and he was given his due by the prince of Thortonburg. Nevertheless, protocol demanded that he cease and desist.
Roland was both thrilled and wary. He welcomed the opportunity to be rid of the minister at the very same moment that he prepared himself for yet another thankless assignment. Rising, he concluded his business with the minister, curtly thanking the silly man for his time. Silently, the deputy backed away, bowing and scrambling as Roland strode straight for the footman. Bending his head, he allowed the footman to whisper into his ear.
“The Grand Duke and Duchess of Thortonburg request your immediate audience, sir. I’ve been asked to escort you to a private apartment via the quickest route.”
Roland straightened and lifted an imperious brow. The quickest route, was it? Immediacy was ever one of his father’s requirements, but this summons contained the flavor of true haste. The mention of his mother made it a family matter. Curious, but convenient. His mother’s presence would temper the Grand Duke’s outburst when Roland told him that his coveted shipping contract was to be denied him for another year. It would be fuel to the fire, however, of the ongoing feud between the Thortons and the Montagues of Roxbury. Personally, Roland found the whole thing asinine. He understood that once the shipping contract had meant the difference between prosperity in the coming year or hard times for the common people, but that had ceased to be a real issue before the Second World War. These days, it was more a matter of ego, a personal vendetta waged by minions on behalf of his father and Prince Charles of Roxbury—and Roland was, unfortunately, one of those minions. Ah, well, best get the thing behind him for another year.
Tugging at the cuffs of a black cutaway coat of a costume that was as much tuxedo as uniform, Roland nodded at the footman. “Lead on, then.”
The footman slid a triumphant look at the thwarted deputy, putting that man firmly in his place, and executed a neat pivot on the heel of one foot, plumes bobbing from his ridiculous headdress. “This way, Your Highness, if you please.” With that he stepped into the opening in the wall and led Roland through a maze of winding, identical passageways and staircases. To Roland’s bemused amazement, they stepped through yet another wall and into the hallway just outside the opulent apartments assigned to his family. The footman stepped up to the door and rapped it smartly with his gloved knuckles.