Cinderella's Secret Royal Fling. Jessica Gilmore

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      Laurent tightened his grip on the report. This was his chance: his chance to make Armaria truly independent and stable. Industry, jobs, investment... The Chancellor had gathered all the evidence, ready for Laurent to place it directly in Mike Clayton’s hands. He just needed to pick when to present it. Before the ball or after? Before he proposed to Mike Clayton’s beloved daughter or after...?

      He’d always known he’d have to marry strategically; every Archduke did. Their title and position bartered carefully away for influence or money or hopefully both. Why should he be different just because some modern foreign princes and princesses had been allowed to follow their hearts? In a country where the monarch was more than a figurehead, hearts simply couldn’t rule over heads. He’d always known this.

      And now the time had come. Proposing to Bella Clayton was the most sensible thing he could do. He’d be fulfilling his duty to the country and to the throne. She was well-bred, well-educated and brought with her the potential of a new beginning for Armaria. She was perfect.

      Whistling for Pomme to join him, Laurent walked across the shady courtyard, filled with tall plants in earthenware pots and brightly flowering climbing plants. An arched door led into a walled garden, half a flower-filled lawn, half a small tangled orchard of fruit trees. At the far end of the orchard, a small wrought iron arbour stood by the wall, a shady respite from the relentless noon sun, and Laurent’s favourite hiding place. Checking his phone—only eight missed calls, fifteen messages and thirty-three emails since he’d last looked half an hour ago—he headed straight there while Pomme, ecstatic to be freed from palace etiquette, made for the nearest tree. Laurent absentmindedly scrolled through the emails, deleting or forwarding as many as he could, flagging the rest to deal with later.

      Intent on his phone, he didn’t notice a leg lying in his path, not until he tripped right over it, recalled to his surroundings by an indignant, ‘Ouch! Watch where you’re going!’

      Regaining his balance, СКАЧАТЬ