Palace of Deception: A Romantic Suspense Novella Read online

  Palace of Deception

  A novella

  by

  Helena Fairfax

  Copyright © 2015 Helena Fairfax

  All rights reserved

  Editor: B.J. Fogarty (M.A.)

  Cover Art © 2015 by Charlotte Volnek

  First eBook Edition July 2015

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, or events, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  ISBN 13: 978-0-9933615-4-8

  Helena Fairfax was born in Uganda and came to England as a child. She's grown used to the cold now, and these days she lives in an old Victorian mill town on the edge of the Yorkshire moors. When not writing, Helena loves walking the moors with her dog, enjoying the changing seasons and dreaming up her heroes and her happy endings.

  Other books by Helena Fairfax:

  The Silk Romance

  The Antique Love

  A Way from Heart to Heart

  You can find Helena on her blog at www.helenafairfax.com, or on Twitter @helenafairfax, or on Facebook.

  To Joe

  Wish you were here

  Chapter One

  The tiny country of Montverrier is a secret jewel, hidden away in southern Europe, between the mountains and the Mediterranean. It has no airport, and so Mr Ross had provided me with first-class tickets to travel by train; a winding journey along the coast road, past fields of sunflowers on one side, and the glittering Mediterranean on the other. As the high speed train glided further south, the unease that had dogged me since leaving Edinburgh began to melt away, warmed by the sun and the vibrant colours. I pressed my face to the window and gazed out at the horizon, where the burnt orange of the sunflowers merged with a brilliant blue sky. All was as still as an oil painting. How could anything sinister ever happen in such a glorious place?

  By the time I stepped onto the gleaming concourse at Montverrier station, my misgivings had almost entirely lifted. The sun’s rays filtered through the great glass roof and onto the tiled floor. Through the open doors I could see the distinctive trunks of palm trees and, best of all, the sea, with the light dancing on its waves in blue and silver. A wonderful heat seeped into my damp Scottish bones, and for a moment I stood there, revelling in the warmth of it. I would have loved nothing better than to set off exploring, but, mindful of my instructions to keep myself out of the public gaze, I pulled my baseball cap down and made my way straight to the VIP travellers’ lounge, where I was to meet my escort to the Palace.

  Unlike my fellow passengers in first-class, I was scruffily dressed in faded jeans and cotton shirt. On my back was the battered rucksack that had seen me through many festivals with my actor friends. I had no idea how my escort would recognise me. I looked nothing like a Princess, and very much like the person I was: a struggling actress trying to make a living.

  I pushed open the door to the lounge and glanced round at the occupants. The handful of passengers in the room looked up as I entered and quickly dismissed me as someone of no interest. Almost as one, they returned their attention to their tablets and smart-phones. I’d expected my escort to be just like one of these men, dressed in a dark suit, clean-shaven, and with close-cropped hair. Instead, a slim guy wearing biker leathers rose from his seat in the corner and came towards me. A pair of dark eyes met mine, in a grave, rather intense face.

  ‘Elizabeth Smith?’ His voice was low, so as not to be overheard in the quiet of the room, and that prickle of unease rose inside me again.

  I’m used to observing people; it’s something I’ve learned to do as an actress. Now I took in the stranger’s features, tanned a deep brown, the straight shoulders and the attentive manner as he bent towards me. Despite his rather solemn gaze, there was something direct about him, and a frankness I found instantly attractive. I’d been sent alone to a foreign country, where all was not what it seemed. I decided then, rightly or wrongly, that here at least was someone I could trust.

  I held out my hand with a smile. ‘My friends call me Lizzie,’ I told him, keeping my voice equally low.

  He took my hand in his. ‘I’m Léon. I’ll be your bodyguard.’

  Another jolt of nerves. A bodyguard? This wasn’t something I’d expected. The director of my drama school had insisted that although what I was about to do was risky, at least I would be in no physical danger.

  Léon took in my startled expression and, taking my arm gently, began to guide me out of the lounge. ‘We’ll talk at the Palace,’ he said. ‘Let’s not dawdle here.’ And then, as we approached the station exit, he asked, ‘Have you ever ridden pillion on a motorbike?’

  I flashed him another bewildered glance. It seemed a strange way to arrive at the Palace. Then I gave a mental shrug. Considering the circumstances, it was as odd as everything else.

  ‘Well, yes,’ I told him. ‘I have my own motorbike, back in Edinburgh.’

  He glanced down at me. Did I detect surprise? I remembered how reactionary the people of Montverrier were. This small Mediterranean principality was hundreds of years old, and, cut off as it was from the outside world, had yet to arrive in the twenty-first century. Despite lip service to the contrary, women here were still regarded as second-class citizens. As we approached Montverrier, I’d been the only female passenger on the train without a male escort. I’d heard it was unusual for women in Montverrier even to drive their own cars.

  ‘You must wonder why I’m collecting you by bike,’ Léon said, echoing my earlier thoughts. ‘We need to keep your arrival at the Palace low key. And a biker’s helmet is perfect. No one will be able to see your face.’

  The glare of the sun hit me as soon as we stepped out of the station. My jitters subsided again, and I stood stock still, entranced by the blue of the sea, the sight of the palm fronds gently waving on the wide promenade, and the smartly-dressed men and women walking to and fro. I would have remained there gawping if Léon hadn’t calmly but firmly steered me in the direction of his bike. I noticed as we walked that he was careful to keep our backs to any passers-by, and so, despite my curiosity, I dropped my head and kept my eyes on the ground, so that my face was further hidden. In addition, I adopted a slouching walk far removed from the Princess’s upright posture. Anyone at the station that morning would be most unlikely to connect the arrival of a rather scruffy tourist from Scotland with the official appearance of Her Royal Highness later in the summer.

  Léon’s eyes gleamed as he handed me a helmet, and he gave a brief nod of approval. ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘I’m beginning to see why they chose you.’

  Then he was astride his powerful bike, with the engine running. It was a much larger machine than I was used to, and with my rucksack weighing me down I was forced to put my hand on Léon’s shoulder to steady myself as I mounted behind him. His back was hard and steady as a rock. As I seated myself, he turned his head, brows raised in enquiry. ‘OK?’

  I was very far from OK. I was alone, slightly terrified, and in the hands of someone I’d only just met, but I ignored the butterflies doing their warning dance in my stomach. I lifted my thumb, and next minute we were roaring out of the station and along the coast road.

  Chapter Two

  I took hold of Léon’s waist and, with no other option, gave myself up to the exhilarating freedom of the journey. Our road wound to the left, hugging the coastline, and the breeze caused by our speed tugged at my shirt, cooling my skin. As the tarmac disappeared in a blinding blur beneath my feet, I thought how incredible it was to be here, now, riding pillion behind a bodyguard, so far from my quiet flat in Edinburgh.

  Back home,
it was the start of the summer holidays. The weather when I left Scotland had hardly been seasonal. On the last day of the school term, I’d returned to my flat soaked through with a cold, misty drizzle that had been falling for days. It was in a gloomy mood that I pushed open the front door. I should have been celebrating the end of a successful year, but instead I’d just been informed that, due to cutbacks, funding for my travelling drama school was to be drastically reduced. If I couldn’t find another source of investment, I faced having to cancel my appointments in September and disappointing all the schools that were expecting our return. Not only that, I would have to tell the actors who worked for me that they were out of a job.

  There was a pile of letters on the doormat. I swept them up and put them on the table in the hall, intending to ignore the bills until I could face them, but one of the envelopes dropped to the floor. A hand-written address on stiff white paper read: Ms Elizabeth Smith.

  I left the other letters where they were and slid the envelope open. Inside was the extraordinary note that led me to Montverrier.

  Dear Elizabeth,

  I have been asked to find an actor to take on a role in southern Europe this summer, and I believe you would be perfect for the part. As the contract is for the summer months only, this should not disturb your work at your drama school too much should you accept. The role is well-remunerated, with board and first-class accommodation included.

  I look forward to seeing you in my office on Monday at nine to discuss.

  Yours,

  Charles Ross

  I turned the letter over in my hands. I hadn’t heard from the director of my old drama college since I’d left five years before. Although it was a long time since we’d met, he’d been an inspirational teacher, and I’d never forgotten him. True to form, Mr Ross never forgot a pupil, either, and he’d evidently been taking an interest in my career since I’d left college.

  The rain continued to pour down outside my window as I pondered Mr Ross’s sudden communication. The invitation was sketchy in the details. Still, a summons from Mr Ross wasn’t one you could ignore. Besides, the thought of paid work and first class accommodation in sunny southern Europe was tremendously appealing. I made up my mind to be in the director’s office on Monday, bright and early. After all, what had I got to lose?

  And so a couple of days later I found myself in the same corridor where I’d once waited anxiously to perform my first ever audition as a student. I felt the same sense of nervous anticipation as I knocked on Mr Ross’s door.

  ‘Ah, come in, Elizabeth,’ he said, as though I’d only been gone a couple of weeks, rather than years. He indicated the chair in front of his mahogany desk, and I took a seat.

  ‘I daresay you’re wondering what all this is about.’ He fixed his intelligent gaze on me. ‘What I’m about to tell you is top secret. It involves an extremely important family in Europe, and it’s imperative that nothing of this is ever leaked to the press. You may not discuss it with your friends or even your close family. No one, do you understand?’

  I widened my eyes. I’d been expecting some sort of role in a European film – some minor part that required my brand of Celtic looks. Nothing as mysterious as this. Perhaps this was the time when I should have got up to leave, but Mr Ross has a penetrating way of looking at you that’s hard to resist. Like the fool that I am, I merely nodded.

  He placed a sheet of paper in front of me and took the lid off his fountain pen.

  ‘This is a legal document binding you to secrecy. Whether or not you take up the role offered, you must never reveal anything I’m about to tell you. I want you to read the document carefully, and only sign if you feel comfortable.’

  Well, I didn’t feel particularly comfortable. I don’t like secrecy, and I was beginning to feel ill at ease. I stared at the paperwork for a moment or two in silence, thinking things over. I trusted Mr Ross’s judgment. He would never involve a pupil in anything underhand. Besides, to be honest, my curiosity was piqued despite my doubts. I read the paper over, signed it, and passed it back to him.

  ‘Good.’ The director reached back into his desk, this time drawing out a manila envelope, from which he withdrew a large glossy photograph. He placed the photo in front of me without speaking. The tanned, beautiful young woman in the picture was instantly recognisable. Princess Charlotte of Montverrier. The country itself is tiny, but its glamorous royal family is known throughout the world.

  I looked up, my curiosity deepening.

  ‘You recognise Princess Charlotte, of course.’ Mr Ross pressed the tips of his fingers together. ‘Let me fill you in on some details about Montverrier. It’s one of the oldest principalities in Europe, and one of the most conservative. Women only gained the vote in the 1950s. Even today, there are no women in government, and there has never been a female sovereign. Princess Charlotte is an only child, as you know, and her mother died ten years ago. With no brothers, when King Albert dies, the Princess will become the first woman ever to reign over Montverrier. For the past three weeks King Albert has been seriously ill in hospital with pneumonia. He could die at any moment.’

  I knew all this. There had been several articles in the press discussing the King’s ill health and how most of the population embraced Princess Charlotte as future monarch. There were still some diehard conservatives, though, who thought it a crime against morality for a woman to be Queen, and that the next-in-line should be a male cousin.

  I waited for Mr Ross to continue.

  ‘The Investiture ceremony for the next-in-line traditionally takes place on the heir’s twenty-fifth birthday,’ he said. ‘Given the level of discontent from some quarters about a female heir, it’s vital that the Investiture goes ahead this summer as planned. If the Princess is not able to take part, it will only fan the flames of those militants who say that women aren’t fit to reign. Everything has been meticulously organised.’

  Mr Ross was always one for a dramatic pause, and he stopped then, his sharp gaze on mine. I was transfixed. What did a small European principality have to do with me?

  ‘So what’s the problem?’ I said. ‘The Princess is well, isn’t she?’

  ‘Two weeks ago, Princess Charlotte vanished.’

  For a couple of seconds there was deadly quiet in the room. Now I realised why I’d been asked to sign myself to secrecy. If information about the Princess’s disappearance got out – especially with the level of hostility towards a female leader from certain fundamentalists in Montverrier – it would make news around the world.

  The disquiet I’d been feeling prickled and grew stronger.

  ‘Where’s she gone?’ I asked. ‘Has she been kidnapped?’

  Mr Ross shook his head. ‘Let me reassure you the Palace doesn’t believe it’s anything sinister. The Princess is highly-strung, and they maintain she has merely run away somewhere where she can escape the pressures. There are whole teams searching for her, but so far without success. In the meantime, the date of the Investiture draws ever nearer, and the ceremony must go ahead.’ Another dramatic pause, whilst he bent his searching grey eyes on mine. ‘With or without the Princess.’

  I stared at him. Surely he couldn’t be suggesting what I thought he might be suggesting?

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said, although I was beginning to work out where this incredible conversation was going. ‘How can they expect to hold the ceremony without the Princess? She has to be there, surely?’

  ‘Ah.’ Mr Ross eyed me again with his penetrating gaze. ‘Well, Elizabeth, this is where you come in.’

  Another dramatic pause, while he waited for me to draw my own conclusion.

  My mouth dropped open, and I was filled with the same feeling of anticipation and high anxiety I normally experience before the start of a theatrical performance. ‘Are you seriously asking me to impersonate the Princess of Montverrier for her ceremony?’

  ‘Of course I’m serious. Why should I not be? I’ll let you into a secret, Elizabeth. It wouldn’t b
e the first time I’ve arranged such a deception. A President taking a military salute, a First Minister at a state funeral, a minor Royal at a wedding. You’d be surprised how often such a stand-in is necessary.’

  I gave a wild laugh. ‘You mean you have a pool of look-alikes for state appearances?’

  ‘Not look-alikes.’ Mr Ross wrinkled his nose in disdain. ‘I work with actors.’

  The director was deadly earnest. He was examining me as though he were the puppet-master in some sort of travelling show. And I was the puppet.

  I picked up the photo of Princess Charlotte and pointed to her gleaming white smile. ‘This is ridiculous. I don’t look anything like the Princess. Look at her. She’s blonde, tanned and groomed. I’m red-headed, pale, and – and perfectly nondescript.’

  The director nodded. ‘You have that useful thing for an actor, which is an unremarkable face.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. My voice was heavy with irony, but he appeared not to notice.

  ‘And your figure is perfect,’ he went on. ‘We have artists who’ll make you look so like the Princess, no one will know the difference.’

  ‘But a stand-in! Surely the risks are too great?’

  Mr Ross steepled his fingers. ‘As far as risk goes, most of the ceremony will be perfectly straightforward. The journey to the Cathedral is in a closed carriage, and there are no cameras allowed during the Investiture. Your words will be relayed by speakers to the crowds, of course, but I know from your time here as a student you’ll have no problem copying the Princess’s voice. After the ceremony you’ll be driven back to the Palace in an open carriage. That short ride is the only part of the occasion that may present us with some difficulties, as you’ll be exposed to the full public gaze.’ He waved his hand dismissively. ‘The ride in an open carriage is where the greatest danger lies,’ he repeated. ‘But we’re used to smoke and mirrors in our trade. We can take care of it.’