Her Secret Prince (10 page)

“Wait—what?”

“Finally, my turn, love you, bye,” she said, dragging out the final vowel before hanging up.

*

Dee needn’t have
worried about the flight to Paris. Within minutes of take-off, the faint cry of a baby came from the front of the plane. It didn’t bother her or Jed—they
were far enough back that they could tune it out. But as was the habit of babies on international flights, it refused to stop. And it bothered a man sitting nearby.

The general chatter on the plane hushed when he shouted. Necks craned, trying to watch the altercation between him, the parent, and several flight attendants. He wouldn’t be calmed.

“What a moron,” Dee muttered.

“Hm.” Jed had leaned
into the aisle, watching the conflict.

“Reckon I should go tell him to back off?”

“Better to fight fire with water.” He looked at her, smiling faintly. “You could hold your own sitting next to him, right?”

She feigned insult.

“Thought so,” he said, and unfolded into the aisle. Within minutes, he’d spoken to the attendants and arranged for seats to be swapped. A seamless solution, aside from
one thing. With arms crossed, Dee watched the man make himself comfortable in Jed’s seat, lowering it for sleep with a self-satisfied smile. He caught her eye a moment before closing his.

She grinned.

Sure, she respected that Jed could fight fire with water. Flowing cool and calm, putting out tempers and pleasing all parties. It was an admirable trait, for a peaceful approach was rarely the
easiest.

It had never been her approach.

“Hi,” she said, leaning close. “I’m Dee. I’m nocturnal, can talk the paint off a wall, and will decide to clamber over you to get to the bathroom approximately every twenty minutes. Hope that’s fine by you.”

The man’s eyes snapped open.

Dee liked Jed’s approach. He could cool all tempers so that she could be the last fire burning.

*

“Good flight?”

Dee’s eyes were puffy as she appeared beside him at the terminal. Jed knew he didn’t look any better. That baby had some serious stamina.

“Woeful, but productive.” With nothing for it, he’d sketched the next few weeks’ worth of his comic. “You?”

“Woeful, but vindicating.” She sounded bitter, sagging at the shoulders as they headed for the exit. The beauty of travelling with
carry-on only. “Now I need food and caffeine.”

“Let’s stop.”

“No.” Her answer was sharp. “I don’t want airport coffee.”

“It might be an hour before we find a place with decent coffee in Paris.”

Her only answer was a stubborn lift of the chin as she strode on. Jed hid a tired smile. These would be the withdrawals she’d mentioned. Without speaking, he veered towards a café and ordered a latte
and pre-packed fruit salad.

“What are you doing?”

He glanced over his shoulder. Pocket-sized and grumpy, Dee stood with arms by her sides, fedora askew, and a bleary blue-eyed glare pinned on him.

“Mitigating the strain on our immediate future.”

Her bottom lip grew plump. She sagged a little lower.

“A bad cup now,” he said, “and we’ll be able to spend more time tracking down the good stuff
later.”

“Fine. I want to go to sleep.”

Jed accepted the cup and plastic tub. “It’s only three o’clock.” He passed both to her. “Fight the urge.” As they resumed walking—Dee muttering about the sludge served at airports—he pulled out his phone. “I’ll find us a hotel.”

“I’ve already booked a place. It was part of my French fantasy.”

“Where?”

She sipped from the cup, grimacing. “Can’t remember.”

Best wait until the caffeine had set in. “Let’s sit down for a minute.”

“No.”

“Let’s do it anyway.”

Miraculously convinced, Dee struck a path towards the nearest bench and sat, hunched over the coffee. Jed stood beside her, content to stretch his legs. After a few minutes, the fruit tub opened and blue eyes flashed up at him sheepishly. By the time the tub joined empty cup in the bin beside
them, the color was back in her cheeks and the woman he knew had regained control.

“That coffee was disgusting,” she announced, standing up. “But thank you for feeding my addiction. Mind if I call Alexia before we move on?”

“Go ahead.”

As the call connected, Dee turned her back, saying, “It’s me, I know, I’m sorry, that was a bad way to end a phone call.” Her spine was straighter as she paced,
but she still looked weary. She’d have to stay awake until the sun set; after that, he suspected she’d be unreachable. Jed pulled out his own phone and absently checked emails. A response from Oscar, a few that looked like fan mail, and one from Felix, with the subject “Hmm”.

Curious, he opened that first.

*

From: Felix

02-05-2015 (5 hours ago)

To: Jed Brown

Subject: Hmm

Couldn’t shake the feeling that this Oscar situation is far-fetched, so I ran a google image search on those pics he attached. The more recent photo brought up nothing. The older one…well, I dunno how to say this, but you’re either royalty or being royally screwed.
Check out the results
.

*

The email ended
there. Perplexed, Jed glanced to where Dee was still talking. Then he clicked the hyperlink and was directed to a website dedicated to the Principality of Leguarday. The introduction was similar to what he’d read before. An independent city-state, bordered by France and Belgium, home to a culturally and linguistically diverse people. French, German, and English were all official
languages. Jed scrolled down, frowning, wondering what the hell Felix was on about. There was a section on history, geography, even on governance.

His heart stopped.

Sovereign Prince Oscar Montaigne II is the reigning monarch of the Principality of Leguarday. He is unmarried and has no children, legitimate or otherwise. His nephew, Claude Edmond Lambert, is heir presumptive. Prince Oscar is
one of the wealthiest royals in Europe, with assets valued at more than –

Jed sat heavily on the bench.

On autopilot, he called Felix.

“Yet again, great timing,” his friend answered, words groggy.

“Are you messing with me?”

Felix paused, before exhaling loudly. On the tail end, the sigh became a chuckle, and Jed was struck by frustrated relief.

“I never took you as the pranking type,” he
said. “Royalty, seriously.”

His friend’s humor faded. “I’m not being funny. It’s genuine.”

Sure it was. “Give it up. You laughed.”

“You’d laugh in my position. It’s outrageous.” Then Felix’s voice changed. Took on the edge that came out when he was being particularly serious. “It’s a weird situation, man, so I searched the photos. That site isn’t the only one out there. Search Prince Oscar
Montaigne and you’ll believe me.”

Unease had Jed pulling the phone down and doing as his friend suggested. The search term had page after webpage showing up, while the image results left no room for doubt. They were all of the man that he’d believed—until twenty seconds ago—was his father. Somehow, he got the phone back to his ear. He wanted to say, “What the hell?” but couldn’t get his mouth
to cooperate. He grunted instead.

“I hear that you’ve seen proof,” Felix observed dryly. “I’ve had more time to think about it. And although I was convinced it must have been a scam, I’m starting to change my mind.”

Jed tried to answer that. Honestly, he did. But he was suffering stage-five confusion and his tongue wouldn’t budge.

“I’ll fast-track your thought process. Finding out that you’re
a secret prince is about as probable as finding out you’re The Artist Formerly Known As Prince. Whereas, having someone use the internet to fool you into thinking that your long-lost dad is the prince of Le Garderobe because they find it funny—well, you’d think that’s more likely.”

Jed grunted again. The scam angle was too bent for him to buy it. The alternative was plain madness. There had to
be a third explanation.

“Here’s what we know.” Felix continued his monologue. “The photo you were originally sent is of Prince Oscar Montaigne. Prince Oscar looks inarguably a lot like you. You were originally emailed by someone who expressly avoided telling you that the man in the photo was a sovereign prince.”

Jed couldn’t argue with those facts.

“I also confirmed the email provider is in
Leguarday, so it almost definitely came from there.”

Another grunt to keep up his part in the conversation.

“Here’s what we don’t know. The sender might be your real dad. The sender might legitimately be Prince Oscar, who doesn’t want to freak you out by telling you he’s royalty. The sender might be a scammer in a principality no one knows about with way too much time on their hands. The sender
might be your dad as well as a scammer, in the sense that he’s not a prince, he’s not the guy in the photo, but he believes you’re savvy enough to do a background search—and thinks the only way you’ll turn up at the agreed time and place is if you think your long, lost daddy is in charge of a whole damn country.”

“Principality,” he corrected numbly.

“Precisely.”

Jed shut his eyes and rubbed
his face. “That’s stupidly complicated.”

“And highly unlikely.”

“The term
likely
isn’t going to stick to any of this.”

Felix gave a single laugh. “Agreed. But I now think the simplest explanation—despite being the most outrageous—is the right one.”

“I’m not the son of a prince.”

“You might be.”

In a world where ghosts ascended thrones, sure, but not in this one. “I’m not.”

“Two good reasons,”
his friend requested.

“Royal families don’t misplace their heirs. And even if this one has, they wouldn’t attempt to lure him home via the contact form on his online comic.”

Felix paused. “Admittedly, that part is strange. You’d assume they’d have tried to track you down in person, and definitely before now.”

At that, Jed’s memory snapped. Cold realization seeped out.