Princess Ever After (Royal Wedding Series) Read online

  “Tanner,”—Nathaniel paused in the doorway and offered his hand—“your king and your country thank you.”

  Tanner clasped his hand with the king’s, the significance of this moment a weighty mantle around his soul.

  The last one hundred years of Hessenberg’s history had been traveling toward this moment. First with the speed of a ship adrift at sea, then as the decades passed, with the steady force of a motorcar. But now, as the Brighton-Hessenberg Entailment neared its end, the weeks passed with the power of a rocket ship.

  And Tanner was the lone pilot who must not fail.

  June 13, 1914

  Meadowbluff Palace

  I’ve my final sitting today in the meadow by the thicket for Mr. Renoir. He claims I am a great beauty and must be painted to perfection. Though he must be weary of me sitting before him day after day. Nevertheless, we are having the most beautiful Hessenberg summer, so I don’t mind being out of doors.

  Uncle is quite pleased with Mr. Renoir’s work and has declared we’ll have a great unveiling when the portrait is complete. So, it’s off to the thicket as the light is perfect there midday. It’s quite magical. I feel peace when I cross the lawn to the meadow and the edge of the thicket.

  It’s there I say my prayers with the most faith that God is listening. I’m not ashamed to say I’ve asked him for a husband. I rather fancy Rein Friedrich, as does Mamá, but he’s not called at the palace since the spring. Nor have I seen him in attendance at the summer socials.

  Lady Sharon says she heard rumor that Rein joined the army. Though which army I don’t know. Hessenberg has not one to speak of. I know because it’s vexing Uncle as his prime minister is insisting he rebuild our armed forces.

  I’m not sure what Uncle is thinking, but while in the meadow the other day, waiting for Mr. Renoir, I noticed Uncle moving his beloved Starfire #89 into the stable. I thought it rather odd, but when I asked him about it at dinner, he said he stored it there for safekeeping.

  My own art lessons will advance next month. Mamá has invited renowned artist Rose Maynard Barton to spend July at the palace. She accepted and graciously offered to tutor Esmé and me. But Esmé would rather play sports than paint, so I’ll have this talented woman all to myself. I’m delighted.

  Alice

  FOUR

  On Friday nights, Reggie held court. At least that’s what Al called it. Reggie’s Court. And he dubbed the crowd of friends and family who gathered at the barn the courtesans.

  But Reggie was no queen. Just an ordinary girl sharing her life with the people she loved. The weekly “court” happened rather spontaneously one week right after she and Al opened the shop. A few of Reggie’s colleagues from Backlund & Backlund happened by to see if her blind leap into the car restoration business was worth sacrificing her future as a well-paid CPA.

  They had their doubts, but Reggie had a feeling the success of the Challenger restoration would bring them around. Then friends started coming by to watch the transformation of the car. And perhaps Reggie. Could she do it?

  Rafe mounted speakers outside the barn, under the eaves, and around five o’clock on a Friday night, Reggie turned up the music—a blend of country and soul—and ordered a dozen pizzas.

  Six months later, it wasn’t just her court anymore. Al’s friends and family came by. Wally’s grandkids. Lately, car enthusiasts and friends of friends joined the Friday night throng.

  Tonight Reggie walked out of the barn with a cold bottle of root beer in her hand. She’d ordered the pizzas and looked forward to an evening of music and laughter.

  And maybe, just one or two “I told you so’s” when she recounted the Challenger’s success. Maybe she’d talk Al into dropping a few hints to the courtesans about the Duesenberg.

  Perching on the picnic table, Reggie took a swig of her drink and grinned at Carrie, her best friend since forever, trying to teach Rafe a line dance. He moved with the grace of a lumberjack after a long hard day. He went left when he should’ve moved right. He was a soldier, not a dancer.

  “Give it up, Carrie,” Reggie called.

  “Never,” she called back, grabbing Rafe around the waist and steering him along.

  He laughed and glanced down at the petite, dark-haired Carrie. Well, well, lookey here. Something more than friendship was developing between those two.

  Good for you, Car-bear. Good for you. Rafe is one of the good guys.

  Reggie shifted her gaze to Al as he came out of the shop with an armload of folding chairs. Wally followed with a wicker basket of chips and, hopefully, his famous onion and horseradish dip.

  “Great night for holding court, Reg,” Al said, leaning the chairs against a tree.

  “Don’t start with the court business, Al.”

  “Why not? I find it rather fitting.”

  “You’ll get everyone saying it.”

  But it was a great night for court. If court meant being with people she loved. This evening was the first night of fall and the equinox had graced the Florida panhandle with a crisp, thin breeze.

  “Hey.” Mark hopped onto the table next to her, causing the boards to pop. The scent of his Obsession soaked the air between them. “Clear your decks. We’re going sailing tomorrow.”

  “Sailing? Mark, I get seasick if the bathtub is too full.” Reggie scooted away from him. Because he sat too close. Because she didn’t want him getting too cozy. She’d kept him within their friendship bounds the other night, but his “I’m not going away” sounded all of her alarm bells.

  “You’ve never really tried sailing, Reg.”

  “What? I’ve gone deep-sea fishing twice.” What was she thinking when she did a repeat of that disaster? She hung over the side of the boat the first time, puking, trying for six hours not to inhale the smell of cut-up squid bait. “And three times Backlund’s Christmas party was on a yacht. I spent the entire time dancing with the toilet. Don’t tell me I’ve not tried it.”

  “Not like this, with the wind in the sails and—”

  “Mark, I’m not stepping on a watercraft just to puke over the side all day with nary a piece of land in sight.” Really, did he not know her? See her? “I’m sleeping in tomorrow, eating pancakes,”—it was a spur-of-the-moment idea, but she liked it—“and working on the books.”

  As a CPA, it went without saying that Reggie would handle the shop’s finances when she and Al hung out their shingle.

  “All work and no play makes Reggie a dull girl.” His voice rose up and down, in a silly singsong, as he hooked his arm around her shoulders. “Come on, live a little. Devin Swain and his girlfriend invited us to St. George. You remember them from the fish fry. Kate really liked you.”

  “What about being queasy and sick, wishing I were dead, is ‘living a little’?” Reggie snapped her fingers by his ear, then leaned closer, whispering, “I’m not going sailing.”

  “All right. Sheesh, Reg.” Mark moved off the table. “Say, I’ll be back in time for dinner tomorrow night. I can pick up Chinese and meet you at your place . . . eight o’clock?” He regarded her, brows raised.

  But what she saw in his expression wasn’t a successful, well-groomed businessman but a skinny kid longing for attention.

  “Mark, I, um . . .” Her mercy toward him was not sanctified. Her faux compassion allowed him to foster romantic hopes. Saying they were just friends, holding up the physical barriers to keep him from stealing her first kiss. The one she was reserving for her very own Prince Charming.

  But Mark needed real, truthful words. A clear, distinct expression from her heart about their relationship. Trying to spare his feelings would only hurt him more in the end.

  “Eight then?” He backed away, pointing at her. “I see Bob Boynton over there, and I’ve not talked to him in a month of Sundays.”

  “Eight it is.” She smiled. Tomorrow she’d sleep in, work the books, and then pray, asking God to help her find the words to convince Mark of the truth.

  Rafe fired up the outdoor lights
, and Reggie made the rounds among the courtesans, checking in to see how their workweek went and asking if anyone had fun weekend plans. One of the newer courtesans, a legislative aide, had Wally cornered in an intense conversation about an antique Mercedes he’d found online.

  A cheer erupted with bottles and cans raised in the air when the pizza delivery car turned down the drive. Reggie pulled a fresh root beer from the cooler and leaned against the side of the barn, watching the pizza huddle, listening to the conversations, loving the bursts of laughter.

  “Happy?” Carrie joined her against the wall.

  Reggie thought for a moment, then nodded. “Very.”

  “I’m proud of you, Reg. For taking a leap, going into the car restoration business.” Carrie was the opposite of Reggie. An FSU sorority girl turned political lobbyist with her eye on politics, she went to spas for a whole day, flew to New York in the spring and fall to shop, and took yoga vacations. “You made believers out of us all, Regina Beswick, quitting your job and following your heart.”

  “You dare doubt me?”

  Carrie laughed. “Foolish, I know, but even the strong falter once in a while.”

  Reggie shot her a sideways glance. “I see you and Rafe are getting a bit cozy.” Rafe was way outside Carrie’s usual taste in men. She dated legislative aides. Fellow lobbyists. Fund-raisers. Men who wore designer suits and had standing manicure appointments.

  But the last boyfriend? A narcissistic zombie. Truly.

  “Rafe and me? Naw . . .” But even the approaching cloak of night couldn’t hide the pink tint on the woman’s cheeks. “He wanted to learn to line dance. That’s all. He’s not my type.”

  “What type is that? Human?”

  “Har-har. Very funny.” Carrie shifted her lean body against the wall, one foot propped behind her. “I admitted you were right about zombie man.”

  “I’m right about Rafe too. Give him a chance.”

  “You assume he wants a chance.”

  “Are you telling me he doesn’t?”

  Carrie’s blush deepened, sweetening her smile. “We’re going to dinner and a movie tomorrow night.” She pushed off the wall, her finger pointed at Reggie. “Not a word. Not a word.” Carrie fell against the barn again, then hollered to Rafe to bring her and Reggie some pizza.

  “Remember how Mama and I used to sit out on the back porch at night, watching the stars?” Reggie said, sentiment waxing over her heart. “She’d ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up, told me to dream big.”

  “I wonder if she’s looking down over the edge of heaven, busting her proverbial gold buttons with pride.” Carrie glanced at her. “Do you think they have that kind of pride in heaven?”

  Reggie shook her head. “I don’t know, but I kind of think God says to all of heaven, ‘Hey, look at what my kids are doing. Aren’t they cool?’ But this,”—she knocked on the side of the barn—“is far from what I claimed I wanted to be.”

  “No kidding.” Carrie laughed. “You were going to be a princess.”

  “I blame Great-Gram Alice for that wild idea.”

  Gram used to make a game of it with Reggie and Carrie, creating construction paper crowns and decorating them with glitter.

  “I still have one of the crowns I made with her,” Carrie said.

  “Even at ninety-seven, when she could barely see, she still loved to play pretend.” Reggie wove her arm through Carrie’s. Besides Daddy and stepmom, Sadie, Carrie was her only link to those childhood memories, the only other person on earth she could reminisce with about Gram and Mama.

  Rafe showed up with two paper plates of pizza, flirting with Carrie who . . . giggled. A twenty-nine-year-old giggler? Definitely, love was blooming.

  Reggie made her way back to the picnic table where the courtesans always reserved a space for her. As she stepped over the bench, something between the shrouding oak branches and the top of the barn caught her eye. Made her heart flutter.

  What was that? Reggie settled her pizza on the table and scanned the fading twilight patches visible through the tree.

  There. A blue flash. Something in the clouds. Reggie squinted, trying to see between the light. What was that? It made her pulse pound.

  “Reg, you got enough room?”

  She placed her hand on Seth Davis’s shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, you’re fine. I just thought I saw something.” But she didn’t, did she? Surely her imagination was playing tricks on her. With a final glance at the dimming sky, Reggie sat down, pressing her hand over her heart, shivering. Call her crazy, but for a split second, she could’ve sworn Gram’s gentle blue eyes were peering down at her.

  FIVE

  Tanner’s departure for America was derailed by a media firestorm.

  An informant had alerted every print and online paper of the newfound princess.

  The details were exaggerated and, in some places, downright wrong. But nonetheless, the stories exploded all over the media.

  The Princess Has Been Found! So Long, Brighton Rule!

  An Independent Hessenberg Cannot Stand. We’ll Fail.

  Old Laws to Kick In Once We Break from the Entail. We’ll Go Backwards 100 Years!

  The Liberty Press, the supposed newspaper of record, ran an irreverent political cartoon with a ghostlike image of old Prince Francis giving King Nathaniel II and the royal family a swift kick with a jackboot, including the king’s newly arrived fiancée, Susanna.

  So Tanner spent his departure morning putting out fires and holding an impromptu press conference. All of which delayed his mission.

  “What do we know of the new princess?”

  “Is she a loon?”

  “What if she’s undesirable? Unappealing? Unattractive?”

  “How can we trust a foreigner to lead Hessenberg?”

  The questions were bold, unrefined, from the gut. Tanner did his best to field the questions with gentle answers, but in truth, he wondered much of the same himself.

  He’d spent the evening before going over the details of the princess’s dossier. She seemed nice. Her driver’s license photo was pleasant enough. But more than that . . .

  He did not know. It seemed she worked at a motor car garage but she was college educated. How did he decipher those facts?

  While he dealt with the press, Louis collected intel from the Wettin Manor staff and suspected the media leak came from the governor’s office.

  What are you up to, Seamus?

  The man had not been happy with the king selecting Tanner to meet with the princess. But surely he’d not stoop so low as to undermine the security of the mission.

  No matter, he mustn’t dwell on it. None of yesterday’s shenanigans altered the king’s edict. “Bring back the princess.”

  Tanner had landed in Florida in the early hours of Friday morning and checked into his hotel, collecting himself, trying to adjust to America’s time zone.

  Along about evening, he decided to drive out to Miss Beswick’s garage.

  Stepping out of his hotel into what seemed like a cloud fallen to earth—how did they endure this humidity?—he motored west, according to the rental car’s GPS. The investigator’s report indicated Miss Beswick spent Friday evenings at the shop where she worked.

  Easing through downtown and weekend traffic, he passed the university, Florida State, where flags and banners waved from windows and walls bearing the likeness of a Native American.

  It was American football season, and Tanner felt the exuberance of the city in his chest. He recognized the sensation from his nearly two decades in the rugby leagues.

  His emotional memory stirred, lifting its head. He wondered . . . might he pop in on the game? Maybe Miss Beswick—

  An icy chill froze his musings. Hours on his own in America, and already he was mentally straying off course.

  Stay on task! Focus.

  This was how he failed so miserably before, how he ruined his life’s calling. Ten years later, after being given a second chance, being shown grace, he found he wa
s no more mature than he was at twenty-two.

  Look, something shiny. And off he’d go.

  What had the last ten years been about if not disciplining his emotions and thoughts, his body to be in control?

  To be worthy.

  Tanner cut the SUV through the dark swags descending on the city. Along the curb, the streetlamps began to glow with a low burn.

  He practiced his introduction again. On the flight over, he’d written it out a dozen times and read it aloud while pacing the customized fuselage, envisioning himself repeating the words to Miss Beswick, who may or may not be aware of her destiny.

  Assuming she knew nothing, Tanner attempted to front-load his speech with backstory, which took entirely too long. She’d think him crazy long before he got to, “Are you the true great-granddaughter of Alice Edmunds, born December 10, 1897?”

  He possessed a good memory and had memorized the dossier and the details of his future princess. Now to relay them to Miss Beswick in an appealing manner.

  Regina Alice Beswick. Born March 21, 1985. Only child of Noble and Bettin Beswick. Bettin was killed in an auto accident in 1997.

  Great-grandmother, Alice Edmunds, died a year later in February 1998. Age one hundred and two months.

  Education. Graduated Florida State University. BA Finance. CPA accredited. Senior associate, Backlund & Backlund. Resigned six months ago. New occupation. A motorcar garage owner.

  Father, Noble, owned plumbing company. Stepmum, Sadie, bank president.

  His mind’s eye studied Miss Beswick’s driver’s license and graduation photo. Pleasant enough. Lots of red hair and blue eyes, like Princess Alice.

  As he continued driving west, the city sights and sounds began to fade into a rural area with houses set back off the road, guarded by trees and all sorts of brush. Was this right? Had he not been paying attention? He glanced at the GPS. The direction arrow remained on course.

  Exhaling, he released his taut grip on the wheel. It wouldn’t be the first time he missed his mark because he’d been mentally reading a document or rereading a book he’d memorized.