Chapter One
It wasn’t necessarily a dirty job, but someone had to do it. As always, Sir Harrison Montcalm, retired general of the Korosol Royal Army, was that man.
He glanced at his watch as he waited for the private elevator that would take him upstairs. One thing he always prided himself on was his punctuality. Never, in all his years of being a trusted adviser, had he been late for a meeting with King Easton, ruler of Korosol.
As Harrison stepped inside the elevator, he brushed off a piece of lint that dared to alight on the left sleeve of his custom navy suit. One other thing Harrison had always prided himself on was his appearance. At forty-five, he still kept his six-foot frame perfectly fit. Now, of course, it took him an extra half hour in the gym to keep trim, and he’d long ago given up worrying or caring anything about the graying temples that graced his dark brown hair.
As the constant companion to the king, Harrison knew his appearance was important. He was nearly always by the king’s side. Besides, if a seventy-eight-year-old King Easton could look fifteen years younger, Harrison figured he could too.
He contemplated that as the elevator silently whirred upward.
Not that he’d want to be thirty again. His son Devon would turn thirty in just two years, and Harrison was glad that Devon, a captain of the Royal Guard, hadn’t had the wild, careless youth that Harrison had had.
Getting someone pregnant at age seventeen and marrying her out of duty wasn’t a life he’d wish on anyone. Then again, duty was all Harrison really knew.
And it was duty, and a loving devotion to King Easton, that drove Harrison. He’d do anything for his king, and that included doing the upcoming job he dreaded. Even taking a bullet for Easton twenty years ago had been easier. He’d simply reacted, loyalty and duty instinctive.
He’d been knighted for his bravery, which had only committed Harrison further into the service of his beloved king.
Harrison glanced at his watch again. For some reason, today the elevator seemed slower than normal. He tapped his forefinger on the mahogany panel. He was overreacting.
He had to admit the truth.
It wasn’t his appearance, or his age, or his failed marriage that bothered him right now. No, what was bothering him was the upcoming job that King Easton wanted him to do.
For the first time in his life, Harrison wished he wasn’t the most trusted adviser and that someone else could fill his role. The upcoming assignment was a job that Harrison knew he would be uncomfortable doing.
Sure, he’d handled worse jobs, dirtier jobs, and even more dangerous jobs. But this job…For once he dreaded duty.
As Harrison stepped off the elevator, Eleanor, King Easton’s secretary, stood. “Right on time,” she said. “He said to send you straight in as soon as you arrived.”
“Thanks, Ellie.” The plush carpet muffled the sound of Harrison’s Italian shoes.
“You’re welcome,” Ellie answered in English. A slight accent tinged her voice. Although French was the official language of Korosol, while in America, the royal party spoke fluent English. Ellie nodded toward double doors that marked the entrance to the inner sanctum of the king’s American embassy office. A gold Korosolan seal adorned each of the heavy mahogany doors. “Between you and me, he’s particularly agitated today.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Harrison said with what he hoped passed for a reassuring smile.
He and Ellie had become good friends from working so closely with the king these past few years, and Harrison knew that underneath her dowdy skirts and her large glasses, Eleanor Standish had the makings of a knockout. It was probably good she hadn’t discovered it yet, he mused, or some young man would have snatched the twenty-six-year-old from Easton’s service. Right now, with the king’s health being questionable, the monarch needed to be Ellie’s full focus.
Harrison knocked on the door, the sharp staccato echoing as he waited for Easton’s “Enter.” Upon hearing it, Harrison walked into the king’s sanctum.
“Ah, right on time as usual,” Easton said. He glanced up from where he sat behind a large desk. As Harrison approached, Easton put a stack of papers aside.
Harrison executed a bow, one perfected over the years. By now Easton had stopped asking Harrison to perform it. He’d long ago learned that no matter how many times he told Harrison not to bow when they were alone, the younger man would always observe proper etiquette when greeting his king.
“Your Grace,” Harrison said. His eyes narrowed as his gaze studied the king. Easton looked a little paler today. Despite his advanced age, Easton still had a full head of gray hair. It may have thinned, but it still made him look younger. Today, however, Easton just looked tired and drawn. He even seemed slightly shrunken, not quite the six feet that still commanded a formidable but wise presence even when seated. Harrison made one more quick assessment of the king’s appearance. With the stress he’d been under lately Harrison wasn’t too surprised.
Easton hadn’t been in New York City for twenty years. That year had been traumatic for Easton. First there had been the failed assassination attempt. Then, following quickly on the heels of that tragedy, King Easton had had to travel to America to bury his youngest son, Drake. He had died when his private plane crashed.
Recently diagnosed with a rare blood condition of unknown origin, King Easton wouldn’t be in America now if he didn’t desperately need to name an heir to the Korosolan throne.
The trip so far hadn’t been successful. Easton’s first two choices, Drake’s oldest daughters, had both turned down the opportunity to be successor to the crown.
Harrison knew that Easton didn’t need any more stress on his already overfull plate.
“Sit down, Harrison.” Easton gestured to a chair. “I’m sure you suspect why I’ve called you here for this meeting.”
“I believe I do,” Harrison replied as he sat in the overstuffed leather armchair strategically placed in front of Easton’s desk.
He waited for the king to speak. When in private with Harrison, Easton abstained from using what he called his “public speaking persona.”
Easton nodded soberly and drew in a long breath before beginning. Then he cut right to the chase. “With CeCe and Amelia now being married, and refusing the crown, that leaves only my granddaughter Lucia.”
At Easton’s mention of Charlotte Carradigne’s youngest daughter, Harrison’s gut churned. Only years of practice allowed him to school his face into a neutral mask. He pushed the image of the beautiful blonde out of his mind. He didn’t need to think of Lucia. She’d already haunted him enough.
“Lucia is all I have left of Drake’s lineage to be queen,” Easton stated flatly. “I didn’t think it would come to this, but it has. I thought it would be simple, name CeCe and go home. As we know, that didn’t happen.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Harrison said. Then, because only he could take the liberties afforded to him as the king’s right-hand man, he said, “I know how disappointed you are that your plans went awry. But do you think Lucia is suitable?”
Easton
