LITMIR.BIZ

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      His head throbbed. In a perfect world, he would have been able to marry Amelia with no strings attached, with no stain of doubt and suspicion attached to the union. But the world, he had learned long before he became the prince’s shadow, was far from perfect. And this present situation he found himself in was apparently the best that he could hope for. To take the crown if he hoped to take the princess.

      And what of the princess? Would she ever look at him without wondering if he’d had a hand in Reginald’s demise? More than anything, he wanted to wipe away the suspicion shimmering in her eyes that was in danger of becoming a wall between them.

      Somehow, he promised himself, he would find a way to turn everything else around and make Amelia believe that he had nothing to do with Reginald’s death.

      That he even had to entertain the thought hurt. She should have believed, without being told, without having it proven to her, that he was innocent.

      The way to prove his innocence, he knew, was to find out exactly what had happened down to the last-minute details. He needed to learn who was with the prince in those final days and hours. And most importantly, he needed to learn if any of those people had been instrumental in having the prince killed.

      His steps had brought him before the king’s suite of rooms. Given a choice, he would gladly have left the monarch to his grief, but time was of the essence and they needed to get things moving. He wasn’t sure if the ruler had processed what he had told him earlier about securing the operatives of the Lazlo Group. His grief and shock could have erased all memory of the suggestion.

      Russell raised his hand and knocked on the finely carved oak door. In a moment, Bostwick, the head of the king’s bodyguards, opened the door. The man was six feet three inches in both directions and bore a striking resemblance to a bulldog. He stood glaring at Russell, his body blocking access to the room.

      Russell couldn’t help thinking that it was a lucky thing he wasn’t easily intimidated. Otherwise, Bostwick’s scowl would have sent him running to his own room. “Bostwick, I’d like to have a word with King Weston, please.”

      The burly man remained unmoved. “The king is not seeing anyone,” the man replied in a voice that seemed to have made the journey from the bottom of his toes.

      But Russell was not about to be put off, not this time. “Bostwick—”

      “Is that Carrington?” The king’s voice: high, thin and reedy. He caught himself thinking that it sounded as if the monarch had aged ten years in the last hour.

      “Yes, Your Majesty, it’s me. Carrington.” Russell raised his voice in order to be heard. “I need to speak with you.”

      “Let him in, Bostwick.”

      When Russell walked in, the first thing he noticed was the king’s appearance. The strain in the man’s face was incredible. He looked as if he had been to hell and back, sacrificing his soul in the process. It was difficult to believe this was the same man who had calmly gone over some plans with him just last night, before this whole business had started.

      “Sit down.” He gestured toward a love seat. “What is it?”

      “I think we should have the prince’s death looked into as soon as possible.”

      “You said that earlier, at the estate,” the king reminded him. A sad smile played along his lips. “What? You think that I’m so grief-stricken that I’ve lost the use of my mind? I told you to proceed then, so by all means, proceed. Have this investigated. And when you find those who left my son in his hour of need, I want a complete accounting.” He ran his hand along his forehead, as if willing back the tears that continued to gather, threatening to unman him. “Do you have anyone in particular in mind?”

      He half expected the duke to mention himself. Instead, Carrington said, “I know the name of an international agency, Your Majesty. They are impartial and their track record for getting results is excellent. It’s called the Lazlo Group. Corbett Lazlo has a team of highly skilled operatives who—”

      Weston was vaguely familiar with the name. It was a covert group no government publicly admitted to knowing. To his knowledge, they took care of dirty laundry.

      He suddenly felt very weary. Ever since he had been told of Reginald’s death, he’d felt himself tottering on the brink of abysmal despair. “Whatever you say, Carrington. I leave it to you.”

      Russell inclined his head. “Yes, Your Majesty.” He paused for a moment, searching for a way to broach the subject delicately. There was none. He was forced to forge ahead. “Has the royal medical examiner been sent for yet, Your Majesty?”

      Weston looked at him, a lost look in his eyes. The next moment, it disappeared. “What?”

      “The medical examiner,” Russell repeated politely. “Have you sent for her?”

      The king wandered over to a window that overlooked the courtyard. In darkness, there was nothing to look at but shadows. Shadows as dark as the bottom of his soul. “No.”

      “I could do that for you—”

      Weston turned from the window and looked at the man he had always thought of as a second son. Even as the thought crossed his mind, he felt a pang of guilt. He had no son. Not anymore. “Why?”

      He and Bostwick exchanged glances. It was the first time he recalled ever seeing compassion in the latter’s eyes. The man had been with the king for several decades and although it was not obvious, he grieved for his ruler. “An autopsy will have to be conducted in order to determine the exact cause of death—” Russell began as tactfully as he could.

      Horror registered on Weston’s regal face. “You mean cut him open?”

      Russell felt as if each word were made of lead as he uttered it. “I’m afraid that’s the only way, Your Majesty.”

      “Hasn’t the prince suffered enough?” Weston demanded. His voice broke.

      “I promise you, sire, the prince won’t feel anything,” Russell told him.

      Weston sighed, coming away from the window. “But I will. I will feel every cut, every incision.” The king paused, trying to compose himself. “When the queen died two days after giving birth to Reginald, I thought I could never hurt as much as I did then, losing her. I thought that I could never feel as lost as I did at the moment when her last breath left her body.” He turned to look at the young man who was destined to take his son’s place. “I was wrong. I’m not sure how I am going to get through this, Russell. Not sure at all.”

      Russell drew closer to him, silently offering him his strength, grieving not for the prince, but for the father he had left behind. “You will get through it because you are the king. And a very strong man.”

      A bittersweet smile played along his lips. “Not so strong, Russell. Not so strong.” He looked down at the framed photograph he was holding. It was of the prince, taken on his tenth birthday. Tears gathered in the king’s eyes. “I should have stopped him. When he was getting out of control, I should have stopped him. Not indulged him. But I thought, hoped, that he would outgrow this reckless behavior.

      “I had a bit of a wild streak myself before I was made the king,” he confided. “The weight of the crown sobers you. Makes you humble and makes you realize that your own wishes need to take a back seat to those of your people.” His voice all but drifted away as he said, “I thought that would come to him, as well.”

      Obligation forced Russell to say words he didn’t truly believe for the king’s sake. “It might have.”

      “But now we’ll never know.”

      “No, sire, we won’t,” Russell agreed. “But we can know what happened to him. I know he would want you to find out the truth and if there is someone responsible for all this, the prince would have wanted you to bring them to justice.” He paused before adding, “Even if it means cutting him open.”

      Weston

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