“So Albert thought that you were this Robert Johnson’s child?”
“Well, apparently not. Apparently Albert knew that my mother was pregnant with another man’s child when she married Robert. She asked Albert to let me believe Albert was my father, even going so far as to arrange for a fake French birth certificate for Luc Dumont, listing Albert as my father and Katherine as my mother.”
Juliet could see why he felt betrayed. The man he thought was his father turned out not to be his father after all. So many lies.
His voice was harsh. “Luc Dumont doesn’t really exist.”
“Of course you do. I’m looking at you, pacing my office like a caged lion.”
“Why did you have to set up shop down here anyway?” He dropped onto the empty chair and fixed her with an aggravated glare. “We could have found you a bigger office in the north wing.”
“I love it here.” She waved a hand at her small but cozy surroundings. The grey stone walls dated back to the 16th century, their irregular surface still showing the marks where they’d been chiseled by hand. Aside from the oak table she’d retrieved from the royal storage room, she had a pair of mismatched Chippendale chairs, a mahogany bookcase and a lady’s Victorian chintz armchair all squeezed into the tiny space. A tattered Oriental rug covered the stone floor. “You can see the gardens right outside my window.”
She paused a second to enjoy the climbing pink roses that grew along the tower walls, framing her view of brilliant-colored flowering shrubs beyond, including luscious rhododendron and some late-blooming azaleas, graced by a trio of white butterflies dancing in the air. In the distance were the beds of sweet-smelling peonies and vibrant poppies and irises in colors ranging from deep purple to palest white.
She never tired of looking outside and drinking in the natural beauty. It fed her soul. Not that she’d ever tell anyone that. They already thought she was a little strange, a bookish oddity.
“The tower is one of the oldest parts of the palace,” she continued. “Since I’m researching the history of St. Michel for my postgraduate work, this is the perfect place for me.”
“Close enough to the boiler room that you can hear the pipes clang in the winter.”
“True, but it’s spring now. And you’re trying to sidetrack me.” She returned her gaze to him. “It won’t work, you know. I have a one-track mind. It’s why I’m so good with research. Once I get an idea into my head, I carry it through. So let’s get back to you and your family. You said earlier that it all started with Prince Philippe’s wedding to Katie. How so? Did Katie know your mother?”
“You don’t understand. Katie was my mother.”
Juliet was stunned. “But…but…” she sputtered. “That would make you…”
“The missing heir.” Luc nodded. “Bingo. Now you see why I said I was having a bad heir day. Here I’ve been chasing all over Europe and America and it turns out I’m the missing heir. How ironic is that?”
She didn’t know about ironic, but it was certainly freaking her out. She could only imagine how Luc must feel.
When he’d said that his father wasn’t really his father, she’d never made the connection between his royal search and his family life. Luc had always been like her—an outsider to the inner circle of royalty, someone with regular rather than royal blood.
But not anymore. Now even that link between them was being broken.
“You’re the missing heir,” she repeated slowly. “Your father was…”
“King Philippe, who, when he was still a prince, married my mother Katherine, whom he called Katie. I should have made the connection.” He was on his feet and pacing again. “I’m a trained investigator, for heaven’s sake. But it never even occurred to me. She died when I was so young, I don’t remember much about her. The only thing I have is a book on St. Michel she used to read to me. I kept it for sentimental value.”
“Who else knows about this?”
“Sometimes it feels like everyone knew but me.”
“What are you going to do?”
“How should I know? I’m still trying to absorb it all.”
“Queen Celeste will not be pleased.” Celeste was King Philippe’s fourth and most recent wife, now widow. When King Philippe had died of a heart attack, the country had grieved, but those in power had panicked.
For one thing, according to ancient St. Michel law, the throne couldn’t be passed to a female. And when the dowager queen had made her startling declaration that the king had married secretly at the age of eighteen and that a child had resulted…well, the palace had been turned upside down.
“Celeste is still maintaining that the child she’s carrying is a boy,” Juliet said.
“And I suppose she’s still refusing to have an ultrasound to determine the baby’s sex, right?” Luc asked.
Juliet nodded. “Correct.”
“What a mess.”
“You’re the heir,” she repeated. “The oldest male. The future king of St. Michel. I’m going to have to practice curtsying.”
“You do and I won’t speak to you,” he warned her.
“But it’s protocol to curtsy to the king.”
“What do I know about being a king?”
“Well, for one thing, you’re very good at giving orders,” she pointed out with a grin.
“Sure. Orders are easy. Reporting what I just found to the prime minister and dowager queen, that is not going to be easy.”
“Why not?”
“Who’d believe that I’m the future king?” Luc scoffed. “I’m not a diplomatic man. I don’t know anything about governing.”
“You can learn. I’m certain the prime minister and the dowager queen will be delighted with this news.”
“I brought proof with me,” he said abruptly. “Not so much to convince them as to convince myself. It seems my mother left a key to a safety deposit box in Albert’s care, to use if I ever came asking about my birth father. Since I didn’t know Albert wasn’t my father, it was doubtful I’d ever think to ask him anything. Inside the box was a registered copy of my birth certificate. I thought it had to be another fake, but I checked the paper trail, this time using my mother’s name and it checks out. Before that I was looking for Katie Graham, her name on the marriage certificate to Prince Philippe. I’d already traced Katie back to Texas and found she married Ellsworth Johnson.”
“I thought you said his name was Robert Johnson?”
“Americans have this irritating habit of not using their proper Christian given names, especially Texans. Robert was his middle name. It was all there in the safe deposit box. Marriage certificates, my birth certificate and a letter from my mother.”
“Really? What did she say?”
“I haven’t read it yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know if I can forgive her,” Luc said bluntly. “And I don’t think there’s anything she could have written in that letter that would justify her lying to me, or letting me live a lie.”
“Maybe she