Friday afternoon Stephen waited backstage at the Madeline & Hyacinth Live! show for his cue, hot and sticky in his starched white shirt and dark blue Armani jacket.
The makeup artist hovered, patting the shine from his brow. “You’ll cool off on the set. It’s freezing out there.”
A few feet from him, tucked in the folds of the stage curtain, Thomas scanned the crowd, talking to his team of three through the com tucked into his sleeve.
Stephen angled around the hulking bodyguard to see the bleachers. The audience of mostly women seemed harmless enough. He had insisted Thomas’s security measures were overkill, but the man stuck to protocol without wavering.
Stephen clapped him on the shoulder. Thomas glanced back with a nod. He should be grateful for the man’s vigilance. It was Stephen’s lack thereof that got men killed. His trust of another man with hidden vicious intentions.
He scanned the audience once again. But not for intruders, but for . . . who?
Corina? The look-alike Corina?
The encounter with the look-alike yesterday in The Wellington lobby tapped his feelings for her. The ones of love and affection he’d rucked to the bottom of his heart’s playing field, piling on every excuse and emotional baggage he could find, never letting them up, never letting them free, never letting them score a try over the goal line of his being.
How did they dare push against him? He should’ve never gone to Florida.
“All secure, sir,” Thomas said, low, in Stephen’s ear. “Outside security is still sweeping the car park, but in-house we’re all clear.”
“Thank you. But I don’t think the King’s Office would’ve cleared this appearance if they weren’t confident of security.”
Thomas made a face. “You know my rule. Never underestimate dinosaur terrorism.”
Stephen laughed. “Isn’t that a ‘blast from the past.’ I’ve not heard you mention that term in a good while.”
“I thought it time to remind you. Never relax your vigilance. An attack can happen anywhere, anytime, at any given moment, unearthed by the anger, passion, opportunity of mere men. Ignored by naive governments. We trick ourselves into believing it all might have gone the way of dinosaurs until it rears its ugly head. It’s the tyrannosaurus rex of our day. Didn’t you see Jurassic Park?”
“So what are you in this scenario? The velociraptor?”
“If you like.” Thomas grinned. “I rather fancy that image.”
Stephen shook his head, smirking, checking his watch. He was due on any second. However, Madeline and Hyacinth were cooking up a meal on stage with animated chef Connie Spangler.
The stage manager flashed “five minutes.”
Still too warm, Stephen slipped off his jacket, draped it over the back of a stool, and took a seat.
Public appearances. He’d kept them limited since Afghanistan. Though lately he’d carried out his share of royal obligations.
However, a few years ago when the Brighton Eagles asked Stephen to do a publicity junket—as their most renowned player—the Crown declined. Too risky. Too public.
Stephen spent most of his rugby years avoiding the spotlight, ducking into the locker room after a test to avoid the press. The recent Fan Day was one of his rare public appearances for the team.
The lads understood. Stephen told them his low profile was for security.
Every time he stepped on the pitch, however, he was aware of the risk. Someone might try to kill him. As time passed, Stephen handled more and more public appearances on behalf of the Crown. But security would always be maintained.
Madeline and Hyacinth had wanted him on the show for years. The King’s Office reported they were “thrilled”!
The stage director approached with a bow. “Your Highness, you’re on after the commercial.”
“Thank you.” Stephen hopped off the stool, adjusted his collar, and tucked his shirt into his jeans, then slipped on his jacket. He liked the casual prince-as-rugby-player attire. He exhaled. He was a wee bit nervous. But this should be fun.
The applause lights flashed and the camera’s red light dimmed. Makeup artists scurried onto the stage like elves, patting and primping the show’s stars, then backed away when the stage manager called, “Thirty seconds.”
Thomas clapped Stephen on the shoulder. “Break a leg.”
Stephen laughed. “Isn’t one ankle enough?”
The show was back from commercial. “Ladies, hold on to your hats. We’ve a surprise for you today.” Blond and fair-skinned, Madeline beamed at the audience, then at her cohost. “I’m beside myself, aren’t you, Hy?”
“Don’t you see the bags under my eyes, Maddie? I slept not one wink. Not one.” Hyacinth, dark-haired and thin, with piercing blue eyes, slipped from her high hostess chair. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to our show for the first time ever, His Royal Highness, Prince Stephen.”
Stephen moved into a wall of cheers and applause, shoulders back, chin up, doing his best to minimize his awkward, booted-foot gait. He strafed the front row, shaking hands, waving at the audience. Then he embraced Madeline and Hyacinth, a break in royal protocol, and took his place between the presenters.
“Well, well, we’re so excited,” Hyacinth started, her comment fueling the audience.
A low chant began in the back. “Strat, Strat, Strat!” An abbreviation of his surname started by sports presenters when discussing the way Stephen maneuvered up and down the pitch.
“His sidestep is like, strat, strat, strat . . .”
Stephen acknowledged them with a wave, relaxed, smiling. He liked his identity as a rugby player. It made him an everyday man.
He felt quite sure he’d surrendered his essence as a prince when men died for him.
“Settle down or we’ll never get to chat.” Hyacinth walked past the cameras into the bleachers, patting the air down with her hands. “We’ve only five minutes with him and you’ve used one already.”
The audience laughed but complied, yielding to Hyacinth’s remarkable charm.
As Hyacinth returned to her chair, Madeline pressed her hand on Stephen’s arm. “We are thrilled to have you. Tell us, what have you been up to, Your Highness?”
“Stephen, please, call me Stephen.” He’d hear from Mum about omitting his title.
“Prince Stephen is your name. Who you are. His Royal Highness, Prince Stephen Marc Kenneth Leopold of Brighton Kingdom.”
“Prince Stephen.” Hyacinth had been around. She knew better. “How’s your ankle? We’re so missing you on the pitch for the summer games.”
“It’s coming on. Still a bit of physio yet to go, but I’ll be back for the fall Premiership.”
Cheers and whistles from the audience.
“Will you be coronated as Prince of Brighton in this downtime?” Madeline read the question from her cue cards. It felt odd, out of place, and perhaps strategized by the King’s Office to get him to yield.
“We’re still talking.” A nonanswer always worked.
“So you’ll be patron of the new War Memorial? We’re so proud you served king and country along with the other chaps.” Hyacinth applauded toward the crowd, stirring them to join in. “He’s a hero on and off the rugby pitch.”
Stephen went cold under the hot lights, shifting forward. He came here to talk about the movie premier. “No, no, the other lads are the true heroes. But it’s all part of the dialogue.” He shot Madeline a sly glance. Move on. Change the subject.
Madeline communicated to Hyacinth with her eyes and the pair moved on. Stephen’s chill morphed into some sort of gummy perspiration, sticking to his skin. All the while the wide sound-stage caged and moved in on him.
Daytime panic was not part of his struggle. Until moments like this—which were rare. Stephen breathed in, long, deep, staying off the very faint sound of a bomb exploding.
Then and only then was he desperate enough to whisper the only prayer he ever prayed these days. God, help.
He caught sight of Thomas in the audience, front and center, and focused on his friend and protection officer. Thomas nodded assurance, and Stephen’s spiking panic abated.
These cryptic moments irritated him. He was a trained RAC airman, a seasoned rugby player. What right did the confines of a telly stage and mention of the War Memorial have to fill his veins with fear?
Because he knew if the world looked a little longer, a little closer, they would see right through him. At his core, he was a poser, a fraud. The exact opposite of a hero. In every sense of the word.
“Tell us what’s going on this summer? We hear you have a busy diary.” Hyacinth tapped his knee, catching on that Stephen had mentally stepped off for a moment.
“Quite right. Yes, busy.” He gathered himself and all of his royal charm. “I’m attending the King Stephen I premier Monday, then I’m at the Children’s Literacy Foundation Art Auction at the Galaxy on Tuesday. So yes, quite a bit going on.”
“Speaking of the premier . . .” Madeline’s expression sparked a different alarm in Stephen’s chest. “We heard you’ve yet to select a date to the event.”
Stephen worked up a laugh. “W–what?” Someone in the King’s Office would pay for this.
“If you don’t mind, Your Highness, we’ve been playing a little game lately with our audience and viewers.” Hyacinth held up her iPhone. “You see, it has not escaped our notice that you have not been in the company of a beautiful woman in quite some time, Madeline and I the exceptions of course.”
“Of course.” He decided to relax and play along, a picture of Corina in his mind’s eye. He’d just been in the presence of a beautiful, intelligent, loving, kind woman. She was one of the mold breakers.
“Ladies, since it seems impossible for any one of Brighton’s fine lasses to catch this hunk of gorgeous prince”—Madeline laughed but her serious tone remained—“we want to hear more from you while Prince Stephen is here. For the rest of the show, tweet how you think a girl could catch the world’s most eligible prince. Be sure to use our favorite hashtag, #howtocatchaprince.”
“Or post on our Facebook page with the same hashtag,” Hyacinth said. “You don’t mind, do you Prince Stephen?”
He gave her a hardened expression. “Actually, Hyacinth—” There was the little matter of the rider. “I don’t think anyone would be interested in tweeting about my boring ole love life.”
Hyacinth tapped his knee, laughing. “We decided not to talk about your love life, you see.” She arched her brow. “So we invented this fun game.”
Ah, indeed, he did see. Next time he’d make the rider more specific. He should have expected them to pull some sort of stunt like this.
He gazed from Hyacinth to Madeline, then scanned the audience. Other than walking off, which sent the King’s Office into a dither, he decided to relax and go with it, grateful the panic moment had faded as quickly as it came, and grateful the hostesses chose a game instead of intimate questions. Compared to Torkham, this was heaven. Might even cause a giggle or two.
“We’ll ask Prince Stephen to pick the best one at the end of the show with the possibility of winning . . .” Madeline’s next words packed a wallop. “. . . a chance to be his date to the premier.”
The audience went raucous. The monitor displaying the tweets exploded with scrolling text.
What? No, no, no . . . Now that he refused to go along with. “Ladies, ladies.” Stephen slipped from his chair, hands in the air. He’d fix this. “I am so flattered, but your intel is wrong. I do have a date to the premier.”
“Oh my.” Ignoring him, Madeline walked over to the monitor, laughing. “They’re scrolling so fast I can’t read them.”
“Here’s a good one . . . From CharonwithaC. ‘Treat him like a regular bloke. He puts his trousers on one leg at a time like every other chap.’ ” Madeline glanced at Stephen. “Is that true? How does a prince put on his trousers?”
“We have a special royal prince trouser machine, you see . . .”
The audience laughed. Madeline slapped her thigh with a bit too much reverie. But Stephen was sweating again. Profusely. How’d the lasses like that about their royal prince?
He sweats. A lot.
“I like this one.” Hyacinth joined her cohost at the monitor. “From Everydaygirl. ‘Be an honest girl with him. Listen to him but share your own soul.’ ”
Stephen nodded. No man liked to be held at arm’s length. He fell for Corina because she loved him, put him in his place when necessary, and offered all of herself without restraint. He could trust her.
“Oh my, here’s one . . . From LiddyWellborn. ‘Ignore him.’ ” Madeline made a face with a visual check at Stephen.
He shook his head. “If she’s ignoring him, he’s not coming round to see her.” Corina ignored him at first, but every time he saw her walking across the campus oval, her dark hair shining in the evening sun, his heart slipped a little bit further in love.
Then he managed a position behind her in the leadership course, and midsemester she finally spoke to him.
“Here’s an interesting one.” Madeline laughed, leaning toward the screen. “But I don’t get it. From CorinaDelRey . . .” She looked puzzled. “Isn’t she that American heiress?”
Stephen’s heart yearned at the sound of her name. Corina? But surely not . . . Impossible. He left her in America. Surely someone was pulling a gag. He scanned the audience. Was she here?
“She tweets, ‘Tell him American football rocks rugby.’ ” Hyacinth cackled, glancing back at him. “Now we know that’s no way to win our Prince Stephen.”
For the next few minutes, the hostesses read the tweets, making jocular comments, while Stephen’s concentration faded toward the possibility of Corina being in the city.
No, surely she was catching the thread on Twitter. It would be 10:00 a.m. in Florida. She’d be at the start of her workday.
In the meantime, he kept smiling, nodding, laughing when appropriate.
“Here’s my favorite. From DebShelton. Her tweet is all hashtags. ‘#fakeittilyoumakeit #pretendingtobeaprincess.’ ”
Hyacinth and Madeline continued reading tweets until the amusement wore thin. Stephen downed a large glass of water, cooling his revving thoughts of Corina.
Madeline and Hyacinth returned to their chairs, going on about how fun it all was, gaining support from the audience, then challenged Stephen, rather boldly, to choose a winner.
“What do you think, Your Highness?” Hyacinth said. “I like LibbyWellborn. She seems like a sport.”
“Deb Shelton stood out to me.” Madeline gazed toward the board, watching the tweets roll through again.
They couldn’t be serious. A blind date? To a royal movie premier?
“Wait, we have to share this one.” Hyacinth spoke between rolling laughter. “From Tricia Gauss. ‘Kiss a frog.’ ”
Laughter floated in the studio.
“Well, there’s that . . .” Stephen said, doing a frog impression for the audience that earned him a round of applause.
“Here’s another one . . . oh, it’s quite different. From Agnes Rothery. ‘Bird would be proud.’ ” Madeline tossed a look to Stephen. “Bird?”
The studio darkened as the light of merriment dimmed in Stephen eyes. Agnes. He’d not heard her name in many years. Bird had been one of his best mates. Before and during Afghanistan. Agnes was his girlfriend. When their tour ended, Bird planned to propose. But he didn’t live to see her again.
Stephen tried to answer but lost control of his words, all the moisture evaporated from his mouth.
“Bird was his mate in Afghanistan.” The answer came from the audience. Thomas. “He died in battle.”
The reality of death punctured the show’s atmosphere. Hyacinth ran her hand down Stephen’s back as the audience rose to their feet with respectful applause.
“Can you tell us more about your tour in Afghanistan?” Madeline motioned for the stage manager to cut something. Probably the Twitter bit. “You’ve never talked about it.”
“No, I can’t. And I–I’ve a date, ladies, to the premier.” The words came, weak, awkward, devoid of his princely charm.
He wanted to exit the set. Disappear. Oh that the floor would open up and make his way of escape.
Agnes? She’d tweeted in goodwill. But it did nothing but remind Stephen he’d failed her and Bird. Broken his promise. But he couldn’t . . . couldn’t go see her.
A subconscious account of what he owed these men ran through his soul daily. And he’d never have the means to repay them. So why see Agnes? Why see Carlos’s sister? Worse, remain married to her, making love, creating a life and family together?
He comforted himself with the idea he’d instruct the King’s Office to locate Agnes’s address. It didn’t mean he’d have to see her, but at least he’d know her whereabouts, make sure she didn’t live in the city’s impoverished east end. He could do that much.
Madeline was frowning at him. “Are you sure you can’t take the winner as your date to the premier?”
“Quite. My date might not approve of my divided attention. My sincere apologies.”
The hostess frowned and sighed. Next to her, Hyacinth quickly offered a Madeline & Hyacinth Live! show prize to the winner. “We’re sorry it can’t be a date with the prince to the premier, but—”
“How about tickets to the art auction? As my guest.” Stephen had somewhat recovered and offered a safe alternative. He’d greet her then move on to his duties.
The audience applauded their approval. Hyacinth read Deb’s responding tweet. “ ‘Ahhhhhhhhhh blimey, yes!’ ”
“So Your Highness, who is your mystery date?” Madeline, without hesitation, barreled right into his inner sanctum. Meanwhile, the stage manager motioned sixty seconds to break.
“A mystery.” Stephen put her off with his best grin. “You’ll have to wait and see.” He’d rope Mum into going with him. Her husband, Henry, wouldn’t mind. Mum was a big fan of the cinema and Clive Boston.
Madeline turned to the camera. “We’ll be right back with Prince Stephen. More on the premier of King Stephen I and his plans for rugby’s biggest test, the fall Premiership.”
The audience applauded and the lights went down. Stephen exhaled, expecting a break, but Madeline leaned into him.
“So, Corina Del Rey? You know her?”
“Some. Years ago.”
“American heiress tweeting about how to catch a prince? Is she in the city?” Madeline gasped. “Is she your date?”
“Certainly not.” Steady, lad. Be a rock.
“Then why did she tweet that American football is far superior to rugby?”
He reached for the cup of water offered him by a young woman wearing a headset. “Cheeky lass. You know how Americans can be. Tweet her back if you want to know.” He’d done it now. Why would he say such a thing?
“Yes,” Madeline said, sitting back, boring him with an intense gaze. “I believe I will.”
She’d napped longer than she’d intended, waking up late in the afternoon when the sun had moved west, leaving her room in cozy shadows.
Pacing the room, shaking off sleep and jet lag, Corina washed up in that fantastic bathroom—she took pictures with the intent of remodeling her condo’s ensuite bath—and let Adelaide in when she brought a bowl of steaming chicken, wild rice, and mushroom soup, and warm, buttery country bread.
The aroma awakened her inner growl. She was famished.
“Adelaide, this is amazing.” Slow down. Savor. Corina dipped the edge of her bread into the soup. “But you don’t have to bring me room service. Where do the other guests eat?” If there was a dining hall, like with a lot of Brighton rustic inns, most on the shore, she’d eat there.
“We’ve no dining hall. We will serve you in your room. ’Tis our privilege. We are servants.”
“Do you serve all your guests in their room?”
She went to the door. “Rest. You’ve a long week ahead of you.”
“Adelaide,” Corina said, laughing softly. “Did you go through my things while I was napping? How do you know so much?”
“I keep telling you ’tis me job. I know why you came to Brighton.”
“Oh? Why did I come?” Corina fished. What did the old woman know? Corina guessed her to be seventy-five. Eighty tops. Despite her smooth skin. She also had an unusual aura around her, like popping lights.
And Brill, he was a bear with a jelly heart, wasn’t he? Kind, yet so . . . Corina searched for the word. Warrior-like. Was that it? As if he’d seen many battles. Though he bore no scars.
“You came to answer true love’s call.” Adelaide closed the door, and her gentle footsteps faded down the stairs.
Corina stared at the door. To answer true love’s call. “Adelaide, how do you—”
Oh forget it. She’d only say, “It’s me job.”
True love’s call. If only he would call. Corina supposed it was up to her to call him since the annulment rested with her. But for now the aroma of the soup beckoned her and she moved her tray to the bed and spied the TV remote.
In the corner, a flat screen powered up, shedding a bluish hue across the shadows. Spooning up her soup, Corina aimlessly surfed channels, stopping when she saw Madeline Stone from Madeline & Hyacinth Live!
She loved their show. They were just getting started when Corina lived here. She took a break every afternoon to watch the show. Carlos was keen on Hyacinth, meeting her once at a party, but he didn’t pursue her because he was deploying.
Dipping her bread into the soup—her taste buds were so happy—Corina was about to take a bite when Madeline announced the day’s surprise guest, “Ladies and gentleman, Prince Stephen.”
Corina choked on her bread, then burned her tongue with a gulp of hot tea.
Stephen. Her heart yearned. He looked . . . amazing. Tall, straight-backed, broad-shouldered, wearing a blue blazer and jeans. Not the baggy kind either. The kind that accented his muscled legs.
And his hair, so thick and wild, bouncing about his head, the free ends going their own way. Gelled or free, his hair made her want to bury her fingers in the dark strands.
Aiming the remote, she upped the volume, listening, laughing, furrowing at the tense look on his face when the hostesses mentioned the War Memorial.
Something bothered him about the war. Something about the event that sent him home surly and dark.
Now Madeline was introducing a Twitter game with the hashtag #howtocatchaprince.
On impulse, Corina scrambled for her phone, nearly toppling her dinner tray. She listened to them reading the tweets, laughing, shaking her head. These people had no idea.
She opened her Twitter app, hesitating. Should she? No, it was too risky. But something about being in this place made her want to break out, shine the light. Edge the tip of their secret into the light.
However, it might also tip off Madeline and Hyacinth. No one knew about their marriage. But that’s because no one went looking. Their relationship had been whirlwind and private. The Military Ball had been the first time anyone had ever seen then in public together. And they made sure the media knew the prince and the heiress were nothing more than friends.
But if she tweeted, she’d tip him off. Why not? Let him know she was lurking about. At the very least, it might motivate him to contact her. Maybe deliver the news she demanded about her brother.
She inhaled, thinking. The tweets were rolling on the screen. Some of them were quite funny. What could she say that was both innocuous and telling? Sports. They were always debating the merits of American football versus rugby.
Their first kiss was after a debate on the rugby field. He was teaching her how to pitch the ball and she kept trying to pass like a Georgia Bulldog QB.
“Now you’re just being obstinate.” He swung her up in his arms.
“No, I’m trying to show you how to really get the ball down the field.”
Their eyes met, and she slid down his body, her feet never touching the ground. He brushed one hand against her face, brushing back her hair, then lowered his lips toward hers.
Trembling so, she lost her hold on the rugby ball. It hit the ground with a thud.
“Are you going to kiss me?” Her heart churned in her chest, making her words wispy and barely audible.
“If you’d stop talking.”
When his lips touched hers, time stopped, and she was lost in the heat of his passion and the power of his arms holding her. Then his hand slid down her back and rested on the curve of her hip. She drew him closer, letting go, telling him what words would not suffice.
I’m yours, Stephen Stratton. I’m yours.
Mercy . . . The memory stirred the dim and dull swaths of Corina’s passions and her feelings for Stephen.
With a glance at the TV and a fortifying bite of Adelaide’s heavenly soup, she decided to do it. Tweet. “Tell him American football rocks rugby.” Adding the hashtag #howtocatchaprince, she hit Send.
Sitting back, she waited, pleased with herself. She’d hidden in the shadows of secrets and death long enough.