Page 44 of A Problem Princess

Her head spun with sickening dizziness that matched the roiling knots in her stomach. She knew this moment was coming, had known for years that a reckoning would arrive. But she never expected it to come like this, and not from the one man in the world she trusted.

Now, certainly, he was a man who also thought she’d betrayed him.

She pressed her hand to her belly as if she could physically calm her pitching stomach. “How…how did you find out?”

“Rumors are being passed among French troops on the Continent, accusations they heard from questioning prisoners of war.” The anger had left his voice, but his frustration still rang clear. “None of them would have been credible by themselves. Nothing more than fabrications. Prisoners will say anything they think their captors want to hear just to ease their imprisonment.” He paused. “But when I heard what they’ve been saying, on the heels of the attack…”

“You realized they weren’t mere fabrications.”

“Yes.” His deep voice was closer than before, and she knew he’d come up behind her. “So help me sort through them and separate out the truth so we can figure out how to protect you.”

“You can’t protect me.” A raw, emotional cry came from deep in her throat, and she covered her mouth with her shaking hand. “Not from this.”

He took her upper arms in his hands and lowered his head to speak over her shoulder into her ear. “I can, if you’re honest with me.” He hesitated, then reassuringly brushed his lips against her temple. “Cordelia, what did he do?”

She ached to lean back and bring herself against his hard front, to have his arms encircle her and hold her safe and protected. But she couldn’t. If she did, the tears would fall unchecked, and she’d never be able to get through this.

“He…misappropriated funds that were supposed to have purchased supplies for Monrovia’s military.”

“How?”

“Monrovia has a secretary of war who oversees the day-to-day military operations of the sailors and soldiers, but we’re such a small country that the secretary reports directly to the reigning prince, who oversees the military’s finances and materials.” She pulled in a deep breath and explained, “The secretary tells the soldiers where to march, but the reigning prince supplies the boots they march in.”

“No one monitors the sovereign prince?”

She gave a half-hearted shrug. “The Crown Council, but only if they have reason to suspect misdeeds, and who would have enough spine to challenge their monarch during a time of war?”

“What exactly did he do?”

She paused to take a deep breath to steel herself. “He was supposed to arrange contracts for supplies from merchants and manufacturers so our men would have the best equipment available. Instead, he contracted cheaper, inferior supplies, but he told everyone the costs were the same, only to keep the difference himself.” She tightened her hands into fists and dug her nails into her palms, welcoming the pain. “The men were given thin blankets that fell into rags after only a few weeks, uniforms that did the same, boots so poorly made they couldn’t march in them, and gloves—” Her voice choked, and she swallowed down the knot of emotion in her throat. “Our men weren’t properly equipped, and they suffered for it. Many froze to death in the Alps. Others were killed unnecessarily in battle when they were sent to fight with guns that misfired and artillery that jammed, exploding in their hands and faces…”

She didn’t dare turn toward him, too afraid of the condemning expression she’d see on his face. He was a soldier himself, after all, responsible for his men the way her father should have been for his.

“Why would your father do that?” Clayton asked. “He was already a wealthy prince.”

“You think men don’t want more money simply because they’re already rich, that they’re somehow incapable of being bought?” She almost laughed at the idea. “All men can be corrupted, even the wealthy, and all men want even more money and the power that comes with it.Especiallythose who already know its benefits. Look around the world—dictators and tyrants are never poor.”

“But your father was neither.” He squeezed her shoulders, and the soft gesture reassured her more than she had a right to feel. “By all accounts, he’d made several sacrifices of his own power and influence to create reforms for Monrovia.”

“He did,” she whispered, struck even now by a faint ripple of pride in her father. “Our people loved him. They still do.”

Finally, she turned toward him. Thank God it wasn’t hatred she saw on his face but concern, and the comforting feel of his hands on her shoulders reassured her.

“I don’t know why he embezzled those funds, but he was going to take responsibility for what he’d done and face punishment by the Crown Council, beg Monrovia’s forgiveness, and try to find a way to preserve the principality.” She had clung fiercely to that knowledge since Ernest had told her what her father had done. It was a small proof of the honor her father had possessed until the end. “He was going to abdicate, ask the Crown Council to appoint another sovereign prince in his place…”

“But he died before he could.”

She nodded stiffly. “When Uncle Ernest came to the throne, he wanted to protect Monrovia and my family’s reputation by hiding all the evidence of the crimes. He covered up all he could, but…”

“But the soldiers and sailors knew,” he guessed grimly, “and rumors of what happened began to spread.”

Her eyes lowered to the floor. “Uncle Ernest hoped that any suspicions would end with the wars.”

“That’s why you kept this secret.” His jaw clenched, and he dropped his hands to his sides. “You’d hoped it would simply go away.”

Shame squeezed her chest. “Please understand. If evidence of what my father did ever sees the light of day, the Monrovian monarchy will end.”

“Maybe that’s exactly what should happen,” he muttered coldly.