The Rebel King. Melissa James
was here!
‘And your grandmother’s Italian heritage clinched it. When we contacted her family in Milan, got pictures of her at a young age and saw her resemblance to you, Miss Costa, we knew we had the right people.’
Charlie rubbed the healing skin on his neck, where the heat of the fire had gone right through the flame-retardant suit to melt the flesh. The fallout from that fire had done more damage than even he had anticipated. The media had followed him for days, trying to make him a hero. They’d followed him and Toby as they’d visited the kids in hospital, and had awkwardly tried to console the grieving father who’d lost his wife. If he hadn’t been instructed by the service to do it, for the sake of donations and good political mileage…
Damn the entire brigade! Those kids had lost their mother because he hadn’t been able to save her. If it weren’t for the press turning him into something he wasn’t, he’d still be living in happy obscurity.
Whatever happened now, he had a feeling that much was at an end.
Charlie jerked to his feet, bringing Lia with him. ‘This has to be a joke. You have thirty seconds to tell us why we’re really here before we walk out the door.’
‘I am one hundred percent on the level, sir.’ Mr Damianakis handed Charlie a document and a photograph. ‘Here’s the late Grand Duke’s birth certificate, and his photo taken when he came of age, sir.’
Charlie looked down, fighting a spurt of irritation. No one had ever called him ‘sir’ in his life, and never like he was a grand ‘what’ of where.
It was a young Papou in the photo, no doubt of it; Charlie saw the likeness. He’d always been the image of his grandfather. His Papou, who’d always hated war and had only fought over the backgammon table, was dressed in full military getup, covered in ribbons and medals, and the legend said:
1939. The 18-year- old Marquis of Junoar at his graduation from the Hellenican Military Academy, with his parents the Grand Duke and Duchess of Malascos.
The birth certificate gave no reprieve: Kyriacou Charles Marandis, son of His Grace, Athanasius, The Grand Duke of Malascos, and Grand Duchess Helena Marandis, née Lady Helena Doughtry, daughter of the Earl of…
The words blurred in front of him as his head began spinning. The birth date was right; the face was exact. And he couldn’t deny the name— Kyriacou Charles. It was his name as well as his paternal grandfather’s name, in the old tradition, just as Lia was Giulia Maria, named for their grandmother, their beloved Yiayia.
If all this rigmarole was true, their shy, retiring Yiayia had been a count’s granddaughter, an untitled royal nanny for whom Papou had given up his position to run off and marry, if Mr Damianakis could be believed.
He was descended from dukes and earls? He was a lost heir?
‘So when do the man in the iron mask and the three musketeers show up?’ he asked, with a world of irony in his voice.
The lawyer gave him a wry smile in return. ‘It must seem unbelievable: the runaway duke, the lost prince and princess—a massive fortune.’
Lia had read the words on the photo over Charlie’s shoulder and stammered, ‘It can’t be Papou. You have the wrong people. Our last name is Costa. We’re Greek.’
‘Your grandfather took the surname and nationality he was given by the man who created his false identity, and changed Konstantinos to the simpler version—Costa,’ Mr Damianakis said gravely. ‘Probably to avoid media scrutiny and being followed around the world. But there is no doubt. He became the Grand Duke of Malascos at his father’s death, and you became the Marquis of Junoar when your father died. Due to the tragedies in the nation in the past decade, you are no longer merely the Marquis of Junoar or Grand Duke of Malascos.’
Merely? Charlie heard his mind shout in disbelief.
‘But by Hellenican law, as the last male in the direct line, you are Crown Prince, heir to the throne. And you—’ he smiled at Lia ‘—are Her Highness Giulia Marandis, Princess Royal of Hellenia. Your great-grandfather left a massive private fortune to his lost descendants, totalling over five hundred million euros in land, gold and in bank accounts. I think he wanted his son to know he’d forgiven him.’ He rushed around to Lia, who’d turned alarmingly pale. ‘Please sit, my lady.’
Lia released Charlie’s hand and fell into the chair, her breathing erratic. ‘Don’t call me that,’ she said, her voice horrified.
The room swung around Charlie in slow ovals: around and up and down, like he was in a crazy ride he couldn’t get off. But he was a fireman, damn it, and he didn’t fall down under shock. He strode to the window, saw the limousine with diplomatic flags on it, and clenched his fists. The fairy story he wanted to laugh at was crystallising into horrifying reality. ‘You said the king and my great-grandfather disinherited Papou when he married Yiayia. So what do they want with us?’
‘When your grandfather was disinherited, he was ninth in line to the throne, but there were another twenty direct members of the Marandis family to inherit,’ Mr Damianakis said, in the tone of respectful gravity that killed Charlie’s urge to laugh this all off. ‘The past thirty years has been a tragic time in Hellenia. An attempted coup killed several members of your family. Twelve years ago rebel forces created civil war on behalf of the heir of a man in direct rivalry to the throne, named Orakis, in an attempt to reclaim it. The war lasted a decade. Thousands died, towns and villages were destroyed.’
Good God, now he’d gone from romantic legend to an item on the news networks. ‘So if this Orakis guy wants the throne so much, let him have it,’ he snapped. ‘Then nobody else has to die.’
‘Charlie,’ Lia said in gentle rebuke. ‘This isn’t Mr Damianakis’ fault.’
‘Sorry,’ he muttered with distinctly unroyal grace. He waved. ‘Go on.’
‘Not quite two years ago, the Prince Royal and his son contracted meningococcal disease and died within a day of each other, leaving only the Princess Jazmine in line for the throne. The laws of Hellenia do not allow for female inheritance if there is a direct male Marandis to take the throne. The Grand Duke of Falcandis is a descendant, but through the female line. King Angelis began a search for his first cousin, the Grand Duke of Malascos, and his descendants.’
Had they fallen down the rabbit hole? Charlie kept waiting for someone to jump out of a cupboard, yelling ‘Surprise!’. ‘Just call me ‘Charming’,’ he muttered.
Lia chuckled. ‘Yeah, like that’s ever going to happen.’
He grinned at her.
Mr Damianakis spoke again. ‘If you require further proof, sir, there’s a limousine waiting outside to take you to the private jet waiting at Kingsford-Smith airport. It will fly you both to the Hellenican Embassy in Canberra. A representative of the royal family is waiting to answer any questions you have, and give you the papers you need for an immediate flight to Hellenia. His Majesty the King of Hellenia, as well as Her Royal Highness Jazmine, and the Grand Duke of Falcandis, await your arrival.’
As the lawyer said something else, Charlie’s mind wandered. He shook his head, trying to clear it, to wake up and find he’d been knocked on the head. Half the time he barely felt qualified to be a fireman, and now he was…was…
Maybe he’d taken a hit by a supporting beam at that Christmas fire, or suffered brain damage with the smoke inhalation, and kept relapsing into delusions?
‘Charlie…’
He turned on his heel to see his sister’s cheeks holding the dreaded greenish hue. ‘Lia?’ He ran to her and knelt at her chair, checking her pulse automatically. ‘What did you say to her?’
Damianakis licked his lips, distinctly nervous. ‘You didn’t hear me?’
‘Would I need to ask if I had?’ He