It didn’t take long for my mood to sink. And when it did, it sank like a stone.

I’d been with enough tossers—one in particular—to know one when I saw one. And these peacocks were all tossers.

They talked about where they traveled on their private jets. Their eyes strayed one too many times to the plum-sized sapphire on the Queen’s lapel. They were too caught up in trying to impress, in being impressed by the box and the sapphire and the pomp, to be genuine in any way.

I glanced longingly at the front of the box. Wondered if the people below would catch me if I made a run for it and flung myself off the edge.

There was one literal bright spot in the seemingly endless procession of guys. I found myself battling a case of butterflies as I got closer to Hollywood Blue Eyes. His slight discomfort in his morning suit was the only honest thing in the room. I couldn’t help but move toward it. The way a ship moved toward a beacon, the only light in an otherwise dark night.

By the time I stood in front of him, the Queen at my elbow, I was breathless with anticipation. In my heels, I was almost eye to eye with him. Close enough to see the dark stubble on his neck. Smell the sweet scent of whiskey (where’d he get that?), mixed with an undercut of sultry aftershave, that wafted off him.

I found myself hoping stupidly, recklessly, that he would be honest. Different.

“Hello,” I said, holding out my hand. “I’m Jane. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

His eyes darted between mine. Once, twice. Like he was deciding something. Like he was nervous. Which was sort of endearing.

But then, as if it’d never been there at all, his discomfort evaporated, replaced by a smirk. A coldness that dulled that thrilling blue in his eyes.

“Charles Redford.” He took my hand. But instead of shaking it, he brought it to his lips. “And the pleasure is all mine, Your Royal Highness.”

My heart had begun a free fall somewhere around the last syllable of Charles. It kept falling when he brushed his lips to my knuckles, like some errant Mr. Darcy in a bad knockoff of a Jane Austen novel.

This didn’t square with the honesty I’d seen in his eyes earlier. The raw interest. He was playing at interest now. Playing a part. For some reason his betrayal felt personal.

It hurt.

I pulled my hand away.

“And where are you joining us from, Mr. Redford?” the Queen asked.

“I flew in from Zurich just this morning.” Puke. “Although I call San Francisco home. It’s where my company is based. Well. One of my companies. I own many of them.”

I suddenly felt lightheaded. I didn’t want to be with this man. I didn’t want to be with any man, period. Why, then, this weird hurt? It sat like an elephant on my chest.

Maybe it was just depressing to have had my assumptions about these peacocks confirmed. I hadn’t realized how much I’d wanted to be proven wrong. And be proven wrong by a man with lips like Hollywood’s.

Would anyone ever see past my title to the human underneath? Kit had found someone who had. So had Rob. But I was starting to think I never would.

Which was fine. I was fine being by myself. But the thought of never even finding a friend who cared more about me than my title—

“And what do you do?” my grandmother said.

Charles’s eyes met mine. They sparkled, like he had a perfectly timed knockout punch coming.

“I’m the principal of Redford Real Estate, among other things. We develop commercial properties in the Bay Area. Just completed our third skyscraper. Don’t know if you’ve ever heard of it—the Redford Tower? It’s the tallest in the city.”

Probably means you’ve got the shortest dick.

I needed to get out of here. Stat. Before I took that champagne out of his hand and threw it in his smug face.

“I’m sorry,” I said, taking a step back. “I need some air.”

There was a flash of hesitation in Charles’s eyes. Hesitation that was genuine, at odds with his swagger.

The Queen narrowed her eyes at me. “Are you unwell?”

“I just—long morning—shoes hurt…” I looked at Charles one last time. “Good day, Mr. Redford.”

And then I turned and darted out of the room, ignoring the murmurs that erupted in my wake.

I needed a real drink. A cigarette. Anything to take the edge off this ache in my chest. There was a balcony downstairs beside the bar—a designated smoking area. I could hide out there until the races were over.

I headed for the elevator.

I watched Jane flee from the room like it was on fire.

What the ever living fuck?

I’d thought Jane was into guys like Charles Redford. Hell, she’d married one, hadn’t she?

But Jane clearly hated Charles. That look on her face when I’d done the prerequisite ass kissing, the flaunting of my supposed wealth—it was like I’d stabbed her.

I didn’t fucking get it. But I needed to figure it out if I wanted this con to work.

The Queen was looking at the door Jane had just escaped through, brow furrowed. Looking as confused as I felt.

“Good heavens, I am terribly sorry, Mr. Redford.” She met my eyes. “If you’ll excuse me, I should go look after her.”

“The races are about to begin,” I said, thinking quickly. I could still salvage the day. I just needed one more shot with Jane. “I wouldn’t want you to miss them on my account. I’ll bring Her Highness some refreshment.”

The Queen’s gaze flicked over my face. “You don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” I said, trying on my most lethal smile.

It worked.

Ducking her head, the Queen moved on to her next guest in line.

I made a beeline for the door, grabbing another glass of champagne from a waiter on my way out.

I noticed no one else in the room offered to go after Jane. The day’s supposed grand prize.

Dickheads.

As I moved through the door, I locked eyes with Prince John—the public called him Jack—who was standing off to the side.

“Your Highness,” I said, inclining my head.

He just looked at me. Eyes narrowed. Face otherwise expressionless.

Part of earning Jane’s trust would be earning the trust of her family. But I didn’t have time right now. I’d work on Jack later.

I walked out of the box and found myself in a long hallway. I’d studied maps of The Royal Enclosure; Jane had said she’d needed air.

Balcony.

There was a large balcony on the level below this one. A smoking area.

According to her dossier—and some paparazzi pictures I’d found Googling her—Jane was known to enjoy the occasional cigarette.

I ducked into a nearby stairwell and loped down the steps, holding the champagne up so it didn’t spill.