Royal Protocol (10 page)

Not his ex-wife.

Not his own mother.

The thought brought an involuntary wince.

Lifting his hand, he dragged it over his face, covering his reaction, hiding the thought. Fatigue. It had to be fatigue making him think such things. Weeks of stress and little sleep were bound to affect a man’s brain.

“It’s been a long day,” he muttered, avoiding the question he truly didn’t know how to answer. He didn’t want to spar with her anymore. Not if he was going to have to work with her. Most especially not with her looking at him with what he could swear was real concern. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”

“No,” Gwen quietly agreed. “It’s not.” She backed down even further. “I hope the queen’s decision about the dinner will give you enough to work with tonight.”

It would go a long way. Certainly, it would appease the delegation from Majorco, he conceded to himself, but he wasn’t about to take her into his confidence with more details now. Not when what he really wanted to do was take her to bed and forget everything he’d been forced to deal with in the past two days. The past two months, for that matter. Sex was a great escape. The entanglements afterward were what he had no intention of dealing with. “It would probably be best if we talk in the morning.”

“Probably,” she echoed. She had no idea what to make of the grim set of his jaw, or the sudden bleakness she’d caught in his eyes moments ago. All she knew for certain was that he seemed cautious, too, as he moved to the door.

His hand was on the latch when he glanced back to
her. “Did you know she was going to ask that you be her liaison?”

“Not until you did.”

“It wasn’t something you encouraged?”

“It wasn’t anything we’d even discussed.”

His jaw tightened again. But his only reply was a tense nod before he opened the latch and was gone.

T
he sun streaked the gray clouds with hints of pale mauve as it rose over the ocean the next morning. From where Harrison sat at his wide mahogany desk in his office at the Admiralty Building, he was aware of that color turning more intense by the moment. It turned the air in his office pink. Even the papers he was reading became tinted with that faint pastel glow.

A red sky in the morning, he thought, recalling the old sailors’ adage. It would be a rough day at sea.

Still, that was where he wished he were.

Life was simple at sea. There was order. Discipline. Everyone knew their job. When to rest. When to work. He’d always found a certain comfort in the routine.

He had always found a certain loneliness in it, too.

Leather squeaked as he leaned forward in his chair. He’d managed six hours of sleep. Two more than usual lately. But apparently it hadn’t been enough, he thought,
reaching for his coffee. Not if his mind was still wandering off in such foreign directions.

Coffee would definitely help. Shaking off thoughts of the loneliness he had never considered before, anyway, he lifted the heavy Penwyck Soccer League mug and took a sip of the stout brew. It wasn’t as bad as some of the liquid sludge he’d used to kick-start his brain in the past, but it was always better when his assistant, Lieutenant Sotheby, made it. He’d called her in early two days in a row, but he couldn’t justify doing it again. It hadn’t been as if he needed her to get what he’d wanted, anyway. He’d simply called Pierce, who’d undoubtedly pulled rank himself by calling in an off-duty clerk in Royal Intelligence to get the file he’d requested.

Intelligence maintained files and ran checks on all palace personnel—and anyone else who had access to the Crown.

It was Gwen’s file he was reading now. Just because the queen wanted him to give Lady Gwendolyn Elizabeth Worthington Corbin top security clearance, didn’t mean he would do it without checking out the woman first. More than curiosity fed that need, though he was honest enough with himself to admit that curiosity was there. He had taken an oath to protect and defend the Crown and all who came under it. It wasn’t an obligation he took lightly.

From what he’d read, it didn’t appear that Gwen took her responsibilities lightly, either. With one small, rather interesting exception, she appeared to be an absolute model of loyalty and discretion.

Because of her father’s position, the chronology in her file began shortly after her birth. According to the dry words on the neatly printed sheets, she was the daughter of Ambassador Charles and Lady Patience Worthington,
which he’d already known—and that she had been at the top of her classes through school and university, which he hadn’t.

She had also once been an administrative assistant in the Office of Tourism. Among her duties there, she had acted as a guide for foreign diplomats and their families for tours of Penwyck’s monuments, memorials and major attractions. She’d held that position throughout her eleven-year marriage to Corporal—who ultimately became Major—Alexander Corbin of the Royal Guard.

Because of the circumstances surrounding it, there was nothing in the file about the major’s death, other than that he had died in service to the king. Following that notation was mention that the queen had invited Gwen and her then-ten-year-old daughter to live at the palace and join her personal staff—and that a check for the appropriate level security clearance had been run. That level allowed access to the royal family’s living quarters and had immediately been granted.

According to notes after that, Lady Corbin’s duties had always dealt with the daily lives and responsibilities of the royal family. The queen’s in particular.

There was no evidence anywhere that she had a life beyond that.

Nowhere did he find mention of a single suitor or romantic relationship—something some industrious reporter would have undoubtedly picked up somewhere for the society pages or local tabloids, because anything remotely royal seemed to be fodder for their press. Personal relationships were also something Intelligence would have learned of and checked into because of Gwen’s easy access to the royal family. It wouldn’t be unheard of for someone to use a person with such access for less than honorable purposes.

Gwen, however, appeared to be either impossibly discreet or truly was the ice maiden he’d suspected she was. She had no man. No life beyond her job. The only places her name appeared in the press or in the file notes were in connection with various charity committees as representative of the queen.

There was one item in the file, however, that didn’t fit at all with the image of the otherwise proper and dutiful woman.

Her marriage to Alex Corbin.

According to a newspaper clipping from a twenty-one-year-old society page, that marriage had been something of a scandal. Her parents had even refused to comment, a dead giveaway that they had not been pleased. He figured he could understand why. She’d been engaged to one man when she’d eloped with another.

He was holding the yellowed article, studying the picture of Gwen as a breathtakingly beautiful young woman of twenty-two, when a uniformed woman with short black hair, red lips and the square build of a fireplug stopped ramrod straight in the middle of the open door. She also had a don’t-mess-with-me air that tended to give pause to anyone under the rank of commodore.

“I’ve put on fresh coffee. You didn’t add enough water again.”

So that was the problem. “Thank you, Lieutenant.” Paper rustled as he slipped the article into the file and place it all back into a manila enveloped marked confidential. Her husband’s and her daughter’s file went in, too. “Why are you here so early?”

“You have a meeting with your fleet commanders in an hour. I wanted to make sure we touched base before you leave so I can make any changes you need in your schedule.” The sharp wedge of her hair didn’t budge as
she nodded significantly toward the large leather-bound day planner on his desk. “You’ve been behind lately.”

The command meeting, he remembered with a groan, thinking she had a true gift for understatement. In the craziness of the past couple of days, he’d almost forgotten he still had a navy to run.

That meeting was too important to the daily operations of his bases to cancel. But everything else would have to wait.

“Lieutenant,” he muttered, pushing his cup toward her for a refill. The woman looked as hard as the rivets in a submarine, but she did her job and did it well. She didn’t know the half of what was going on. It wasn’t her job to know. But she protected his backside and covered for him without question, which made her a damn fine officer, as far as he was concerned.

Gwen, on the other hand, questioned nearly everything he said.

At the thought, a scowl lowered his brow.

“How far away are you from a promotion?” he asked.

There wasn’t much that caught Carol Sotheby off guard. As far as Harrison knew, the only thing that had ever flustered her was the day her husband—who had then only been her boyfriend—had balloons delivered to her office, then candy, then flowers and finally showed up himself with a ring. The big construction worker had had her in tears.

The question Harrison had just asked now had her frozen to the industrial gray carpet.

“Promotion, sir?” Focused on his disgruntled expression, confusion pinched her angular features. “Ah…about three months, I think.”

“Remind me to put a commendation in your file. You’ve gone above and beyond the past few weeks. And
call Lady Corbin at the palace for me,” he asked, ignoring the surprise he could see in her eyes. “She’s the queen’s lady-in-waiting. I should be finished here by noon. Find out what time after that she can meet me and Colonel Prescott.”

Gwen hurried along the narrow underground corridor that ran from the public buildings and staff offices to the royal residence. As she understood it, the passage had originally been part of an escape route for the royal family. Now the royals and certain members of their staff took it simply to avoid unplanned encounters with those who’d come to do business at the palace.

She wasn’t using it to avoid anyone herself. It was just an easy way to stay out of the rain. Aside from that, the route was quicker than winding her way along halls and the colonnade.

Her meeting with the cellarmaster had taken far longer than she’d expected. The shipment of premium Beaujolais they had eagerly awaited had apparently become overheated while sitting on a tarmac somewhere and was, according to the agitated Monsieur Pomier, undrinkable. That meant the Margaux would be served with the fois gras.

The royal chef would not be pleased to have his choices made for him, but she would have to deal with the equally temperamental culinary genius later. She was more concerned about the champagne. It still hadn’t arrived. According to Monsieur Pomier—who just knew it was being mishandled wherever it was and that he was going to be fired because of it—no one could seem to trace the shipment.

Hating to see anyone so upset, she had spent twenty minutes assuring him that he was not going to lose his
position if another label had to be served. There were many lovely champagnes, and she was certain he could procure the needed cases over the next four days. She had then suggested that he forget dealing directly with the vintner and call local merchants. Surely, on all of Penwyck there were enough decent bottles of champagne to fill five hundred glasses.

After puzzling over the idea for a moment, he’d declared her brilliant, kissed her hand and grabbed the telephone book. When she’d left, he was looking up wine distributors. She truly hoped he could pull together 110 cases of an appropriate bubbly somewhere. As soon as he did, she could stop worrying about it herself.

As it was, that worry had already given way to another. Because her meeting had taken so long, she now wouldn’t have time to see if the queen had returned from sitting at her husband’s bedside and learn if there were any changes in his health. She barely had time to make her meeting with Harrison.

She wasn’t at all anxious to see him again. He pushed buttons she didn’t even know she had, and had made her restless night even more so. Still, she refused to be late. After his parting remarks last night, and those he’d made before, it was clear enough that he didn’t really trust her. If they were going to work together, it was time he learned there probably wasn’t anyone he could trust more.

Her footsteps echoed on the flat stones as she moved past walls stained with torch soot from past centuries. In the light of the electric lamps, strung sometime in the early forties, she passed a metal door that had also been added a few decades ago—when a boiler room had been built for central heat—and opened the heavy wooden door at the end of the long corridor. Checking her watch,
she hurried up a flight of narrow stairs and opened yet a heavier door that led to a small alcove. From that secluded space, she slipped through the false front of a massive pillar and moved into the foyer.

She was to meet Harrison that very minute in the reception area leading to the royal residence. Yet when she entered the spacious foyer separating the east wing from the west, only the usual pair of red-jacketed guards were there—and a square-jawed soldier in army khaki and a black beret who bore down on her the moment she stepped in view.

“Lady Corbin.” With the practiced eye of man who checked out everyone he met, he managed a deferential nod while skimming an impersonal glance from the sleek twist of her hair to the hem of her slim caramel-colored pantsuit. “Admiral Harrison asked that I bring you to him. If you’ll come with me, please?”

“Where?’ she asked, since the direction he motioned toward led only to the passage through which she’d just come.

“Behind you,” was all he said and preceded her through the secluded alcove to hold open the hidden wood-and-iron door.

He obviously knew where he was going. Assuming they were heading back to the royal offices, wishing she’d known that so she could have just stayed there, she headed down the stairs and stepped once more into the cool, rather damp limestone-lined passage.

The corridor was barely three feet wide. Begging her pardon when he stepped past her, her escort took a dozen echoing steps and came to a halt in front of the metal door.

Opening the door with a key, he murmured, “Follow me, please.”

She stayed right where she was. “Into the boiler room?”

“I realize it appears unusual, my lady.”

That was all he said before he moved inside and held the door so she could pass.

It wasn’t wading in a fountain. And it certainly lacked the charm of sitting atop a bronze horse, but as she eased inside and heard the door slam with a solid clank, she had to admit that she’d just stepped beyond her normal, sedate and admittedly nonadventurous routine.

She’d never been in the boiler room before. Carefully avoiding a rather oily-looking pipe running waist high beside her, she admitted that she wasn’t all that thrilled to be there now. Above her head, steel grating formed walkways that ran between two enormous furnaces. Black pipe formed a giant maze that poked from the furnaces and disappeared dozens of yards away through the walls and the ceiling. She figured that some of those pipes brought in fuel. The rest carried out steam and hot water.

As interesting as it was to know how the radiators were heated, she couldn’t help thinking that Harrison was taking his need for security a little too far. A walk in the garden so they couldn’t be overheard was one thing. A tête-à-tête in the dim, oily-smelling bowels of the palace grounds was another matter entirely. “We’re meeting in here?”

“No, my lady,” the soldier replied, then pointed to the floor as he stepped onto the thick industrial matting. “You’re wearing high heels,” he said, obviously having noted even more than she’d thought in his split-second perusal. “Please, watch your step.”

“Can you tell me where we
are
going?”

“We’re almost there, my lady,” he replied, which apparently meant he could not.

It was because she was watching her step, and uneasily wondering where she was being led, that she didn’t notice the other door they approached until she nearly ran into her guide’s square back.