A Royal Masquerade. Arlene James

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      “The Grand Duke and Duchess of Thortonburg request your immediate audience, sir. I’ve been asked to escort you to a private apartment via the quickest route.”

      Roland straightened and lifted an imperious brow. The quickest route, was it? Immediacy was ever one of his father’s requirements, but this summons contained the flavor of true haste. The mention of his mother made it a family matter. Curious, but convenient. His mother’s presence would temper the Grand Duke’s outburst when Roland told him that his coveted shipping contract was to be denied him for another year. It would be fuel to the fire, however, of the ongoing feud between the Thortons and the Montagues of Roxbury. Personally, Roland found the whole thing asinine. He understood that once the shipping contract had meant the difference between prosperity in the coming year or hard times for the common people, but that had ceased to be a real issue before the Second World War. These days, it was more a matter of ego, a personal vendetta waged by minions on behalf of his father and Prince Charles of Roxbury—and Roland was, unfortunately, one of those minions. Ah, well, best get the thing behind him for another year.

      Tugging at the cuffs of a black cutaway coat of a costume that was as much tuxedo as uniform, Roland nodded at the footman. “Lead on, then.”

      The footman slid a triumphant look at the thwarted deputy, putting that man firmly in his place, and executed a neat pivot on the heel of one foot, plumes bobbing from his ridiculous headdress. “This way, Your Highness, if you please.” With that he stepped into the opening in the wall and led Roland through a maze of winding, identical passageways and staircases. To Roland’s bemused amazement, they stepped through yet another wall and into the hallway just outside the opulent apartments assigned to his family. The footman stepped up to the door and rapped it smartly with his gloved knuckles.

      Roland pushed past him to open the door and walk into the large salon joining his assigned rooms with those of his parents. He was not surprised to find that he was the last to arrive, since he naturally would have been the last summoned. The Grand Duke lived and breathed protocol, hence the heir would always be called upon before the “spare.” Fortunately for Roland, he was genuinely fond of his elder brother and did not covet his birthright in the least. It was difficult, however, to constantly feel the lack of his father’s approval, especially since Raphael was the one who had escaped to America all those years, leaving Roland behind to deal with his royal responsibilities and autocratic parent alone. Now that Rafe had returned to the fold and established a truce with their father, Roland was beginning to scent escape. He truly hoped that Rafe and Elizabeth would eventually settle permanently in Thortonburg and take up the reins of power.

      Roland smiled and nodded to his mother, then strolled over to test the waters by delivering a companionable whack to his brother’s shoulder. Rafe slid a small, taut smile at him, his gaze trained warily on their father. Something serious was afoot then, and not even Rafe knew what it was all about yet. Roland turned his attention to the Grand Duke and was surprised to find one-time Wynborough royal bodyguard Lance Grayson standing at his father’s back. Lance was a member of the Thortonburg security team now, head of the Investigative Division.

      Roland felt a chill of premonition. His training served him well, however, and he kept the worrisome emotion firmly masked.

      “Your timing is impeccable, Father. I had just gotten to the heart of the matter with that little cockroach of a deputy minister.”

      Victor, Grand Duke of Thortonburg, removed his elbow from the mantle of a cold marble fireplace and clasped his hands behind his back, lifting his chin imperiously. He was a tall, big man, long-limbed and thick in the chest with silver hair and sharp blue eyes, every inch the regent. “And?”

      Roland shook his head, his dread carefully concealed. “King Phillip does not want to appear to be playing favorites. The contract goes to Roxbury again this year.”

      Victor turned away in disgust. Something akin to shock settled over Roland as he realized that his father wasn’t going to explode—yet. Raphael sighed loudly and commented, “So you were right, Roland. Good call. Unfortunately.”

      Roland’s mouth quirked in a grateful smile. That sensitivity of Rafe’s was working overtime.

      “Maybe it’s connected,” Victor said suddenly, turning to Lance Grayson.

      Grayson looked down at something in his hands and shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible, but at this point, no one can say.”

      Sara Thorton spoke up from her place on the small, French provincial sofa where she sat with her tiny hands folded in her lap, her back ramrod straight, her soft platinum gray hair swept into a classic roll. “Isn’t it time we were all told what has happened? Frankly, you’re frightening me, Victor.”

      Victor Thorton sighed, and for the first time in memory, Roland saw his father as tired and uncertain. “I fear you’re all going to be terribly shocked,” he said in an oddly strained voice, “as I am myself. A man’s mistakes often rise up to devour him, and, dammit, I know no other way to fight this thing than to simply take it by the throat. You might as well hear for yourselves, then.” Straightening, he once more clasped his hands behind his back and nodded at Lance Grayson, who cleared his throat, lifted a paper, unfolded it and began to read.

      “‘To the Grand Duke of Thortonburg. I have your daughter.”’

      The duchess gasped. Like Roland, Raphael stood in frozen shock for a moment, but then he chuckled. “What kind of joke is this?”

      Roland, however, was looking at their father, who seemed to have aged several years in the past few moments. “Doesn’t sound like a joke to me,” he murmured.

      “What else could it be?” his mother exclaimed. “We don’t have a daughter!”

      “You don’t have a daughter,” Victor ground out, turning away guiltily.

      “Victor?” Sara said, her voice wobbling high.

      “Could we please take this one step at a time?” Victor growled. “Let us at least get through the note. Grayson, if you please.”

      The security agent cast a bland look around the room and began again. “‘To the Grand Duke of Thortonburg. I have your daughter. Before you throw her life away as you did that of her mother, Maribelle, take a good look at the enclosed photograph. No doubt you’ll agree that the family resemblance is pronounced. Add to this the existence of a raspberry birthmark in the shape of a teardrop and identification is a certainty.”’

      Roland traded looks with his brother. The birthmark was a closely guarded family secret, a hedge against impostors, a secret held by generations of Thortons—until now. Grayson went on reading.

      “‘The life of an innocent young woman may mean nothing to you, but have no doubt that the world will know your dirty secrets if you fail to follow my future instructions to the letter. Do nothing—contact no agency—until then.’ And it’s signed, ‘The Justicier.”’

      “What does it mean?” Sara asked after a moment fraught with heavy silence.

      Before taking it upon himself to answer, Lance Grayson glanced at the Grand Duke, who turned to lean both arms against the mantlepiece, presenting his bowed back to the room. Grayson folded his hands, feet braced wide apart in a familiar stance. “Obviously the kidnapper considers him or herself the dispenser of justice, which I expect takes a monetary form. Otherwise, he or she would merely leak this young woman’s existence to the press and be done with it.”

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