Cinderella's Secret Royal Fling

CHAPTER TWO

‘WELL, OF COURSE we’ll say no.’ Amber’s green eyes burned with indignation as she paced up and down the small sitting and dining room housed in a conservatory at the back of the house. The whole of the ground floor was given over to office space apart from the galley kitchen and this light, if slightly cramped, area. Upstairs, the first floor and attic floor each housed two bedrooms and a bathroom; Alexandra and Emilia had one floor, Amber and Harriet the other.

Emilia wasn’t sure what lucky star had been shining down on her the Christmas Eve she had decided to stay late at work rather than face her lonely rented room and ready meal for one. As she had finally left the modern South Bank building where she worked she had met first Harriet, then Alexandra and Amber, all, like her, in their early twenties and all with nowhere to go that Christmas. An impromptu drink had lengthened into a meal and, several years later, they were business partners, housemates and sisters, a bond even Harriet’s recent engagement to their former boss, Deangelo Santos, couldn’t break. Although Harriet officially now lived in Deangelo’s penthouse apartment while she and her fiancé looked for the perfect home, she still had her own room at the Chelsea townhouse and often stayed over when Deangelo was out of town. And not even a billionaire fiancé could tempt her to stop working. The Happy Ever After Agency was born of their hopes and dreams. It was far more than a job. Making it work was their top priority and, although they all knew that Deangelo would gladly bankroll them, their independence was too important to allow them to accept a penny.

‘Simone will pay whatever I quote, money no object. And think of the publicity, Amber.’

Alex nodded. ‘The Archduke of Armaria is notoriously private. A ball hosted by him, the first in the royal castle in twenty years, will be headlines in all the gossip magazines, headlines which will give us the kind of boost we need to really get ourselves ahead.’

‘We’re doing okay and we can get ahead another way. Amber’s right. You can’t be an employee at your own father’s birthday.’ Harriet squeezed her hand. ‘You should be there, dancing the night away, not worrying about missing musicians and whether there’s enough canapés.’

‘We all know the only way I’ll be there is if I can invoice for the privilege. Family gatherings are not my style and it’s easier for them to play happy, perfect families without me lurking in the background like the Ghost of Family Past. Look, if we consider this objectively then you know I would be mad to turn it down. It’s a great job.’ Part of her even believed what she was saying, another part, the bewildered little girl she tried hard to forget, just wanted to be at her dad’s birthday party. And the sensible part of her agreed with her friends. She would be much better off turning the event down.

But no way was she giving Simone the satisfaction.

‘Do you want any of us there as backup?’ Alexandra asked in her usual calm, cool way and Emilia seized onto the practical question gratefully.

‘No, thanks. There is plenty to do here; in fact I have another two birthday parties for the pampered Princelings and Princesses of Chelsea, a Golden Wedding and an engagement party in the next three weeks, plus a restaurant launch and a charity coffee morning. Amber, I know you have a lot of your own work on; will you be able to manage?’

‘With your notes and if you’re on the end of the phone, of course,’ Amber said stoutly.

Emilia smiled at her gratefully. ‘We always planned to be doing huge charity balls and corporate launches; it’s time we moved on from children’s games, even if Pass the Parcel has a real diamond bracelet inside. How nice if we got to employ someone to take care of the small events and I could concentrate on the big league. Look, Simone thinks she’s putting me down with this whole scheme, but she’s actually doing us a huge favour so let’s treat this like any other job. Who knows anything about Armaria?’

‘Isn’t it the smallest country in Europe?’ Amber asked, but Harriet shook her head.

‘Third, I think, or fourth. It’s a principality, but the ruling Prince is actually an Archduke for various historical reasons I can’t remember. Armaria is fiercely independent and proud, very patriotic, very beautiful. It’s in the sweet spot between France, Switzerland and Italy so gorgeous coastline, mountains and forests. Castles to die for; you couldn’t ask for a more picturesque location, Emilia.’

‘And how do you know so much about Armaria?’ Alex arched elegant eyebrows at her friend.

‘Deangelo considered investing there. The Archduke wants industry beyond tourism and farming without going down the tax haven route; it wasn’t right for him then but he’s been keeping an eye on the place to see how things change. The Archduke’s father died when he was just a little boy and his mother was regent for many years and she concentrated on stability not growth, which means the economy has stagnated. It’s still an absolute monarchy; there’s some agitating for more democracy, but the last referendum was pretty decisive in favour of the status quo.’

Harriet clearly hadn’t finished but she was interrupted by a squawk from Amber, who waved her phone in the air. ‘According to Your Royal Gossip the pressure is on the Archduke to marry. The next closest heir is an older, unmarried second cousin who runs the local hospital and has no interest in changing that. Rumour is that Prince Laurent d’Armaria is looking outside the usual pool of local aristocrats and European royalty for fresh blood and fresh money...’

‘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.