He gazed fondly around the high-ceilinged, tapestry-hung office on the second floor of his palace. Perhaps his successor, after she was crowned, would allow him to occupy this room a little longer…but no. When he handed over the reins of power, he must do so completely.
Feeling restless, the seventy-eight-year-old monarch sprang to his feet and strode to the high, multipaned window. From here, his gaze swept the beloved scene he was about to hand over to a virtual stranger.
Although it was evening, the king could fully appreciate the sweep and splendor of the landscaped grounds, having long ago memorized every inch of the gardens and ponds. Even in February, they were free of snow because of the mild, Mediterranean climate.
To his right, the royal-blue-and-silver flag of his homeland flapped as a groundsman lowered it for the night. A semitame deer raised its head at the sound. Seeing nothing to fear, it resumed grazing.
There was nowhere else in the world quite like Korosol, Easton thought. Tourists flocked to this refuge, which sloped from the mountains to the sea between France and Spain. They prized the beaches and mountain hot springs, the good weather and the rare wines.
He knew that his people credited him with much of Korosol’s affluence and stability. Easton, who had performed his duty for over fifty years to his hundred thousand subjects out of love, only hoped his successor would do as well.
Until last year, the obvious heir had been his eldest son, Byrum. Then, while on safari in Africa, Byrum and his wife, Sarah, had died when their Jeep exploded.
Although by tradition Easton’s choice should have fallen to their son, Markus, terrible rumors had reached him. A few of his grandson’s acquaintances believed Markus was somehow involved in the death of his parents. Even if they were mistaken, Markus’s drinking and dark moods made him unsuited to ruling.
Grieving for Byrum, Easton had let the matter slide until this month, when his intermittent weak spells had intensified to the point that they alarmed his physician. The doctor had sent him to Paris for secret medical tests.
The verdict: Easton suffered from a rare blood disease of unknown origin. The doctors said he would grow frailer over the coming months and had at most a year to live.
The need to choose an heir became urgent. While it was true that, in its eight-hundred-year history, Korosol had rarely been ruled by anyone not in a direct line of father-to-eldest-surviving-child descent, the law allowed the king to name his own successor.
That was what he planned to do.
A discreet knock at the door heralded the entrance of General Harrison Montcalm, Easton’s royal adviser. A thoughtful man with erect military bearing, Sir Harrison stood six feet tall, the same height as the monarch.
At age forty-five, however, the retired general was considerably more muscular. A good man to lean on in a crisis, in more ways than one, the king reflected.
“Is everything set, Your Majesty?” asked his adviser.
“The royal jet can leave first thing in the morning, as we discussed,” Easton said. “My daughter-in-law was most receptive to my plans, although I suppose she’d have been happier with more than a day’s notice.”
“You are springing quite a surprise on her,” Sir Harrison said.
“She doesn’t know the half of it yet.” Easton smiled, picturing stylish Charlotte DeLacey Carradigne. He hadn’t seen her in—how many years? Twenty? Amazing.
The last time they’d met had been after his youngest son, Drake, died in a plane crash, leaving a wife and three daughters in New York. Busy running her family’s DeLacey Shipping Co., Charlotte hadn’t traveled to Korosol since the funeral, and, Easton had to admit, he’d sorely neglected his granddaughters.
Time passed so quickly. Much too quickly, he could see now.
“You didn’t mention your purpose?” Sir Harrison asked. Like his monarch, he chose to speak in English in preparation for their trip. In addition to French, the nation’s first language, almost all Korosolans spoke fluent English and Spanish.
“I did not.” Easton hoped he was doing the right thing by keeping his illness and his plans secret. “I want to see my granddaughters as they really are. The less preparation they have, the better. Especially Cecelia.”
“You haven’t reconsidered Prince James?” Only Sir Harrison would dare to ask such a question. It was, indeed, his duty to make sure the king weighed all aspects of this crucial decision.
“Out of the question,” Easton said sadly. “I wish it were otherwise, believe me.”
His middle son had turned out wild. Thrice divorced and a heavy drinker, James worked as something called a “wildcatter” in Wyoming. Easton believed his job had something to do with oil wells, although he wouldn’t put it past his renegade son to hunt mountain lions for a living, either.
James had a variety of children by an assortment of unsuitable wives. It seemed unlikely any of them would be prepared to assume the mantle of monarchy.
No, Charlotte’s daughters were his best bet, the king mused. Their mother, a debutante from a well-connected family, met Easton’s high standards, and her daughters were the toast of New York society.
Her eldest daughter, Cecelia, had earned an MBA and served as executive vice president of DeLacey Shipping. At twenty-nine, she appeared well qualified to run a country.
There were two younger daughters as well. While he assumed they had also been raised with a sense of propriety, Easton knew little about them.
The only other younger member of the royal family was the king’s nephew, Christopher, a married father of two, who lived in California. Unfortunately, Christopher was the illegitimate son of Easton’s deceased sister, Magdalene, and therefore not really considered part of the royal family.
“As you requested, we’re taking only a small staff,” Sir Harrison said. “I believe we can keep our presence out of the press.”
“I certainly hope so. The people of Korosol should learn of their new ruler from me, not from some scandal sheet,” the king said. “Ellie’s agreed to go, has she?” Eleanor Standish, a young woman of good family who had been his wife’s goddaughter, served as his personal secretary.
“Certainly. She’s devoted to you.”
“Glad to hear it.” Lively Ellie lifted the king’s spirits and saw to his comfort whenever they were away from the palace.
“We’ll take six bodyguards, two per eight-hour shift,” the adviser continued. “The captain of the Royal Guard will accompany us, of course.”
Sir Harrison made no reference to the fact that Captain Devon Montcalm was his son. The young man, a fine military officer who had been knighted two years ago, was not close to his father.
“The Duke of Raleigh is coming also, is he not?” Easton demanded. “It was my personal request that he be assigned to the embassy in New York.”
“Of course,” said Sir Harrison. “He understands the delicate nature of his assignment.”
The duke, Cadence St. John, was to serve as acting ambassador. In reality, as a commander in the Korosol Special Operatives, Cade was under orders to watch for any threat to the three New York princesses.
If Markus had indeed arranged the deaths of his parents to promote his own succession to the throne, he wouldn’t stop at frightening or even killing one of his cousins. The king wanted Cade St. John to keep an ear to the ground.
“Since we’re leaving in the morning,” the adviser said, “perhaps Your Majesty should get some rest.”
“I’m not decrepit yet.” Easton’s doctors had assured him that he could make this trip safely if he didn’t overexert himself.