Royal Protocol. Christine Flynn
only at exterior doors.
An old sense of loss, of anger, rose inside her. Uneasily, she pushed it right back down. She didn’t want to think about the events that had last required such tight security. Even though there never had been a sense of closure about them for her—or for her daughter—they were over and done with. They also had no part at all in what was going on now.
Reminding herself of that, she let the latch click quietly into place and pressed her hand to her stomach. She would think only of the present. Of this moment. And at that moment, she could still feel an odd, lingering heat where Harrison’s fingers had gripped hers when he’d so abruptly moved her hand. Preferring to ignore the sensation, she drew a breath of air that still smelled faintly of citrus and something distinctly, boldly male.
His aftershave.
Even when he was no longer physically present, the man had the power to unnerve.
Not wanting to think about him, either, Gwen headed for the desk, thinking about him, anyway.
She’d had little occasion over the years to directly encounter the admiral, but she could swear that, on the rare occasions they did meet, he made a point of provoking her. She had no idea why that was. Nor was she going to waste energy trying to figure out his warped power-hungry psyche. She knew only that he was reputed to be frighteningly intelligent, obsessed with his job and position and impossible for any woman to land.
Not that one would want him, she thought, heading for Mrs. Ferth’s painfully neat desk. The man possessed the sensitivity of stone.
There had been no blood. At least none that was immediately visible, he’d said, oblivious to the mental pictures such doubt would put in a mother’s mind.
She couldn’t believe the blunt way he’d responded to the queen’s request for information about her son. She couldn’t believe, either, that he would burden the queen about the alliance. Not that the queen wouldn’t be able to handle matters of state. The woman was enormously bright, well-read and far more politically astute than His Majesty tended to realize, or admit. It was just that King Morgan, though an eminently kind and wise monarch, wasn’t the most liberated ruler in the western hemisphere. To his royal mind, politics was man’s work. His queen was to tend their children and the plethora of women’s duties that kept Penwyckian arts, charities and hospitality the envy of the civilized world.
She had the feeling the admiral was just as narrow.
Frowning at how he invaded her thoughts, she automatically picked up a stack of lists near the queen’s personal calendar.
She had planned to check the silver services for the state dinner with the chef’s captain that morning, and to meet with the royal sommelier about the wine, provided that she had been able to get a decision out of the queen. The chef had made his recommendations, but he needed Her Majesty’s approval to serve the Margaux with the fois gras, rather than hold it for the main course of filet with truffles. Aside from the queen’s uncharacteristic indecision, there was the matter of champagne. It was nonexistent.
The cellar had been depleted of champagne last month due to Princess Meredith’s hastily planned and executed nuptials, and the order of Dom Perignon had yet to be received. Monsieur Pomier, the sommelier, lost sleep each night those dark-green bottles were being agitated by drivers and deliverymen and not resting properly in his cellar.
Returning the lists to the desk, Gwen stepped back. Because many of the elements for the dinner had been borrowed for the wedding, she had scrambled to redesign seating arrangements, floral displays, the menu, the music. But she felt none of the energy, or the urgency, that had sustained her for the past weeks.
What she felt was concern. Even before the horrible, unbelievable news of the prince’s kidnapping, the queen’s manner had seemed oddly withdrawn. Over the past week she had also become totally apathetic about the preparations for the dinner. It wasn’t like her to not care about such an important function. Her fingerprints were usually all over everything, from the choice of silver to be used to the color of ink on the place cards. But lately Marissa couldn’t have cared less about such details.
The queen had dismissed her own lack of enthusiasm as postwedding letdown following the frantic preparations for the royal wedding. Gwen wanted to believe that was all that was wrong, but she’d known the queen too many years not to feel that something more was going on.
When she’d asked, Marissa had insisted there wasn’t—and spent most of the past several days avoiding her by going for long walks. Alone.
Knowing that the woman didn’t need to be alone just then, she headed for the door of the salon. It didn’t matter at the moment why the queen had been acting so strangely. The dinner didn’t matter, either. With the prince missing, it would undoubtedly be postponed, anyway. All she really cared about was Prince Owen.
For his sake and the sake of his mother, she hoped desperately that he hadn’t been harmed.
She also hoped that Admiral Arrogant and his men could find him.
The same thought was on Harrison’s mind when he was awakened by the telephone before the sun rose the next morning. But with that call, concern about the prince was replaced with a more pressing problem.
Chapter Two
T he kidnapping of Prince Owen was not the Royal Elite Team’s first priority. Under most other circumstances, it certainly would have been. But the RET was presently perpetrating a royal hoax they were duty-bound to continue. That was why the complexities of locating the missing heir simply blended into the mix of duties and dilemmas Harrison took to bed with him a little before midnight.
Ordinarily he slept like the dead. Some would have claimed that was because he had no conscience. But his conscience was just as keen as the rest of his mind, and if he slept well, it was because an exhausted body had no choice. Sleep tonight was fitful, though. He still felt a niggling dread every time his subconscious stirred with thoughts of who was actually wearing the king’s robes.
What the public didn’t know was that their beloved King Morgan was at that very moment locked away in the bowels of the palace, deep in a coma. He was being cared for in secret by an elite medical team with access to the most brilliant minds in modern medicine, but that didn’t change the fact that the monarchy was not precisely what the RET was honor bound to make it appear on the surface.
The situation, as Harrison had come to think of it, began over six weeks ago when King Morgan had unexpectedly fallen ill and slipped into unconsciousness. Viral encephalitis had been the diagnosis. A rare form from Africa that the king’s body might be able to fight off—if it didn’t kill him first.
No one had any idea how he had contracted it. But once the diagnosis had been made, there had been no real question about what needed to be done. Because Penwyck had been—and still was—involved in its history’s most critical treaties and alliances, the RET had been forced to implement a plan the king himself had devised years ago in the event of his incapacitation.
His Majesty wanted his estranged identical twin, Prince Broderick, to impersonate him. Plan B, he had called it. B for Broderick.
The RET had collectively cringed at the idea. All any of them really knew of the prince was that his relationship with his brother had been as volatile as it was strained while they’d grown up, and that Broderick had been estranged from his family ever since the boating accident that killed both their parents when the elder royal twins were in their early twenties.
It had been known for some time prior to that, that the reigning king and queen had favored Morgan over his ineffective, unproductive sibling. When it was discovered upon their parents’ deaths that Morgan had been named heir-apparent and was crowned king, Broderick had bought himself a surprisingly modest estate on Majorco and quietly gone into seclusion.
No one knew if he’d been grieving for his parents or merely licking his wounds. It was as if the man had dropped off the planet. For years Broderick ignored all of King Morgan’s attempts to draw him back into the fold. When Broderick