Page 16 of A Problem Princess
“Yes.” That definitive answer brooked no misunderstanding. “The nearest male relative is my father’s cousin Maximilian, but he can never become crown prince because his mother married without my grandfather’s consent. Members of the sovereign family must have the reigning prince’s consent to marry, or they and their children are removed from the line of succession, the same as if they were born illegitimate.” She gestured her hand to indicate the royal residence around them. “You need look no further than your own royal family for examples of that.”
That was part of the reason why her cousin the prince regent had thrown over the love of his life for Caroline of Brunswick, why the future of the British monarchy had been plunged into such uncertainty after his daughter’s death. And why Cordelia was in London at all. After this generation, there were no legitimate heirs to the British throne. New ones needed to be sired. Quickly.
“Without an heir in the direct line of succession, the Crown Council of Monrovia selects a sovereign prince from more distant members of the royal family,” she continued. “It could potentially be any one of over a dozen men. None of them can possibly know if he will be selected.” She glanced past him at the corner cabinet and frowned, puzzled. “How did you know there was alcohol in that cabinet?”
“The prince regent lives here,” he answered dryly and held out a glass for her. “There’s alcohol in every cabinet.”
She blinked at that answer, then accepted the drink and gratefully took a sip. She was parched and craving whatever solace the claret might give.
He thoughtfully swirled the dark liquid in his glass but didn’t drink it, as if he had no taste for the stuff. “That’s what you meant when you said you weren’t important enough to be assassinated.”
She nodded, then sank against the cushions behind her. “My role here is more domestic than diplomatic. I thought everyone here realized that.” She muttered into her glass as she sipped the plum-colored liquid, “Wed, bed, and bred.”
His gaze darted to hers.
Self-recrimination flashed through her. Oh, she’d greatly overstepped with that comment! But she found herself saying all kinds of things to this stranger. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Don’t apologize. You can say whatever you’d like to me.”
Could she really? Faint excitement tingled through her at that possibility. She’d never been able to say what she truly thought before, not to anyone. Lately, she’d found it harder and harder not to speak her mind.
“I didn’t realize an agreement had been formalized.” His mouth pulled down glumly.
She much preferred his charming smiles. “It hasn’t. Not officially.”
“To which royal duke?”
“I don’t know yet.” Then she seized the wonderful new freedom of speaking her mind with him and added, “But I’ve heard they all like to gamble. Perhaps they’ll cut cards for me.”
He narrowed his eyes on her and faintly shook his head. “You seem so…resigned about it.”
“I know what Princess Charlotte’s death meant—the loss of two generations of heirs for the British throne and my cousins the prince regent and the Duke of York both unlikely to father any more children with their wives. That gives all the younger brothers the opportunity to exchange their mistresses for respectable wives who can give them legitimate heirs. While the royal dukes might never become kings themselves, the continuation of the monarchy would be assured.” She traced her finger around the rim of her glass. “More important, so would their government allowances. Your Parliament has already promised funds if they marry.” Her mouth twisted. “The Hanoverians are nothing if not self-interested.”
He tipped his glass at her. “You’re a stranger here. You’re not supposed to have more insight into the British monarchy than the English people themselves.”
“I know royalty everywhere and what usually matters most to them. Not all of them care about their country as much as the rulers of Monrovia do.”
“Lucky Monrovia,” he murmured.
“We have much to be grateful for.” With the glass resting against her lips, she looked again at the dead body. “That man wasn’t Monrovian.” A memory triggered inside her head, and she brought her attention back to the undersecretary. “When you were talking to him before, you called him ‘Scepter.’ Did you know him?”
“I thought I knew,” he admitted contemplatively, “but I was wrong.”
She shook her head. “It’s more than just him, though, isn’t it? That’s what you meant when you said that if you were taken from this room you would be killed.” She straightened her spine to keep her composure even as it crumbled. “He wasn’t working alone, and because you saw him and spoke to him, others would be afraid that you’d learned information that might lead to them.”
“Beautifulandbrilliant.” His lips curled into a smile. “If you tell me that you know how to use a pistol, I might just lose my heart right now.”
Her own heart beat a fierce tattoo at his charming smile. “Your heart is safe.” She didn’t have it in her to laugh at his teasing. He was only trying to put her at ease, she knew, but she couldn’t push down the fear that gripped her. “But why? Why would anyone want to kill me?”
“I don’t know. Who in England would want you dead?”
“Who would wantyoudead?” she volleyed back.
“Too many people to count.” His mouth twisted in a chagrined smile, but instinctively she knew his flippant answer wasn’t a joke.
He set his port aside, untouched. He hadn’t wanted a drink, she realized. He’d wantedherto have one and knew she wouldn’t drink by herself. Uneasiness twined down her spine. What else had he been able to determine about her in such a short time?
Worse—if he was with the Home Office, then what did he already know about her and her family?
