for bravery led to an investigation which showed your grandfather’s entry papers into Australia weren’t on the level. The Greek records showed that the real Kyriacou Charles Konstantinos, who shared your grandfather’s birth date, died in Cyprus in the second year of the Second World War, eight months before your grandfather arrived in Sydney in 1941 using the same certificate.’
‘That doesn’t prove anything but that Papou was an illegal alien,’ Charlie argued. It was something he’d always suspected. Papou had always worked for himself, and worked for cash whenever he could.
Charlie frowned, realizing for the first time that Papou had built and paid for the house and everything in it with cash—a man who’d claimed to be the son of a humble bricklayer, and who had only ever worked as a carpenter. Where had the money come from?
‘No, in itself it proves nothing—but it was a start.’ Mr Damianakis shifted again in his seat, reacting to Charlie and Lia’s obvious discomfort with the situation. ‘Your father’s name is the Marandis family name—Athanasius, like your great-grandfather, the twelfth Grand Duke. Your grandfather’s medical records showed some family anomalies, such as the crooked little finger on the right hand, and the AB-negative blood type, which is usual in the male Hellenican line, but rare among Cypriots, and is not at all in the Konstantinos family.’
Lia’s grip tightened on Charlie’s hand, and he could think of nothing to say to comfort her. Damn, he wished Toby was here!
‘And your grandmother’s Italian heritage clinched it. When we contacted her family in Milan, got pictures of her at a young age and saw her resemblance to you, Miss Costa, we knew we had the right people.’
Charlie rubbed the healing skin on his neck, where the heat of the fire had gone right through the flame-retardant suit to melt the flesh. The fallout from that fire had done more damage than even he had anticipated. The media had followed him for days, trying to make him a hero. They’d followed him and Toby as they’d visited the kids in hospital, and had awkwardly tried to console the grieving father who’d lost his wife. If he hadn’t been instructed by the service to do it, for the sake of donations and good political mileage…
Damn the entire brigade! Those kids had lost their mother because he hadn’t been able to save her. If it weren’t for the press turning him into something he wasn’t, he’d still be living in happy obscurity.
Whatever happened now, he had a feeling that much was at an end.
Charlie jerked to his feet, bringing Lia with him. ‘This has to be a joke. You have thirty seconds to tell us why we’re really here before we walk out the door.’
‘I am one hundred percent on the level, sir.’ Mr Damianakis handed Charlie a document and a photograph. ‘Here’s the late Grand Duke’s birth certificate, and his photo taken when he came of age, sir.’
Charlie looked down, fighting a spurt of irritation. No one had ever called him ‘sir’ in his life, and never like he was a grand ‘what’ of where.
It was a young Papou in the photo, no doubt of it; Charlie saw the likeness. He’d always been the image of his grandfather. His Papou, who’d always hated war and had only fought over the backgammon table, was dressed in full military getup, covered in ribbons and medals, and the legend said:
1939. The 18-year- old Marquis of Junoar at his graduation from the Hellenican Military Academy, with his parents the Grand Duke and Duchess of Malascos.
The birth certificate gave no reprieve: Kyriacou Charles Marandis, son of His Grace, Athanasius, The Grand Duke of Malascos, and Grand Duchess Helena Marandis, née Lady Helena Doughtry, daughter of the Earl of…
The words blurred in front of him as his head began spinning. The birth date was right; the face was exact. And he couldn’t deny the name— Kyriacou Charles. It was his name as well as his paternal grandfather’s name, in the old tradition, just as Lia was Giulia Maria, named for their grandmother, their beloved Yiayia.
If all this rigmarole was true, their shy, retiring Yiayia had been a count’s granddaughter, an untitled royal nanny for whom Papou had given up his position to run off and marry, if Mr Damianakis could be believed.
He was descended from dukes and earls? He was a lost heir?
‘So when do the man in the iron mask and the three musketeers show up?’ he asked, with a world of irony in his voice.
The lawyer gave him a wry smile in return. ‘It must seem unbelievable: the runaway duke, the lost prince and princess—a massive fortune.’
Lia had read the words on the photo over Charlie’s shoulder and stammered, ‘It can’t be Papou. You have the wrong people. Our last name is Costa. We’re Greek.’
‘Your grandfather took the surname and nationality he was given by the man who created his false identity, and changed Konstantinos to the simpler version—Costa,’ Mr Damianakis said gravely. ‘Probably to avoid media scrutiny and being followed around the world. But there is no doubt. He became the Grand Duke of Malascos at his father’s death, and you became the Marquis of Junoar when your father died. Due to the tragedies in the nation in the past decade, you are no longer merely the Marquis of Junoar or Grand Duke of Malascos.’
Merely? Charlie heard his mind shout in disbelief.
‘But by Hellenican law, as the last male in the direct line, you are Crown Prince, heir to the throne. And you—’ he smiled at Lia ‘—are Her Highness Giulia Marandis, Princess Royal of Hellenia. Your great-grandfather left a massive private fortune to his lost descendants, totalling over five hundred million euros in land, gold and in bank accounts. I think he wanted his son to know he’d forgiven him.’ He rushed around to Lia, who’d turned alarmingly pale. ‘Please sit, my lady.’
Lia released Charlie’s hand and fell into the chair, her breathing erratic. ‘Don’t call me that,’ she said, her voice horrified.
The room swung around Charlie in slow ovals: around and up and down, like he was in a crazy ride he couldn’t get off. But he was a fireman, damn it, and he didn’t fall down under shock. He strode to the window, saw the limousine with diplomatic flags on it, and clenched his fists. The fairy story he wanted to laugh at was crystallising into horrifying reality. ‘You said the king and my great-grandfather disinherited Papou when he married Yiayia. So what do they want with us?’
‘When your grandfather was disinherited, he was ninth in line to the throne, but there were another twenty direct members of the Marandis family to inherit,’ Mr Damianakis said, in the tone of respectful gravity that killed Charlie’s urge to laugh this all off. ‘The past thirty years has been a tragic time in Hellenia. An attempted coup killed several members of your family. Twelve years ago rebel forces created civil war on behalf of the heir of a man in direct rivalry to the throne, named Orakis, in an attempt to reclaim it. The war lasted a decade. Thousands died, towns and villages were destroyed.’
Good God, now he’d gone from romantic legend to an item on the news networks. ‘So if this Orakis guy wants the throne so much, let him have it,’ he snapped. ‘Then nobody else has to die.’
‘Charlie,’ Lia said in gentle rebuke. ‘This isn’t Mr Damianakis’ fault.’
‘Sorry,’ he muttered with distinctly unroyal grace. He waved. ‘Go on.’
‘Not
