She suddenly made a break for the doors and was scooped up by the biggest of the guards. He tucked her under his arm like a football and calmly walked past them and out of sight. Flailing arms and legs and a stream of profanity exited with him.
Pet ran her fingers through her hair, mussing the sleekly straightened bob. “That was a bit . . .”
Disquieting. Sylvie totally agreed. She suspected any premises with a celebrity connection, royal or otherwise, copped their share of unhealthy attention, but there had been something about the look in that woman’s eyes.
Dominic’s words came back to her—I don’t know if you’ve ever looked at someone and seen pure, undiluted hatred seeping out.
His hand touched her back. “Hazard of being in the public eye, especially in this day and age, when tech creates an illusion—or delusion—of intimacy. I think the source of the Don Juan rumors might have just revealed herself at some volume.”
“You don’t think that’s really John Marchmont’s ex?” Pet shot a disbelieving glance back. “It would be like a rabbit shagging a wolverine.”
“Thank you for that image.” Dominic pulled out his credentials to give to the waiting guard. “And no, I imagine that was a woman who’s never met Marchmont in her life, and probably needs a bit of help and compassion.”
Pet bit her lip.
Sylvie also produced her ID and checked in, and a guard escorted them inside. The foyer was expectedly plush, with a marble floor and a crystal chandelier. A gold-printed board stood next to a glass elevator, but there were no names, simply suite numbers.
She checked her notes. “Suite 4B?”
“That’s what I have.” Dominic reached out and hit the button, and the doors slid open.
When the lift reached the fourth floor, Edward Lancier was waiting for them. “Ms. Fairchild. Mr. De Vere. And I received a very last-minute request to approve a third party.” He’d couldn’t have sounded more put-upon if they’d asked him to personally escort Pet to the meeting, having first fetched her from the peaks of Everest.
“My sister, Petunia De Vere. She’s part of my team,” Dominic said briefly, and some of the pensiveness in Pet’s face was replaced with shy pleasure.
Edward turned smartly, knocked on a door, and held it open.
Dominic stood back and nodded Sylvie and Pet forward. She stepped into the room.
She’d been expecting a short and impersonal progress meeting with staff.
She had not been expecting to find the royal couple themselves, lounging about with takeaway cups from the Starlight Circus and an open bag of crisps.
“Good afternoon,” Rosie said, rising to her feet. “Thank you for coming, team. Teams.”
Johnny, who was wearing jeans and a Bastille tee, also stood and looked expectantly at Pet.
Rosie politely thanked and unceremoniously booted Edward from the room, and Dominic introduced his sister. Pet had gone uncharacteristically quiet.
“I like Bastille” was all she said before turning bright red.
Johnny immediately beamed at her. Sylvie could almost see the cartoon thought bubble above his head: A friend!
Rosie was dressed more formally than her fiancé, in a high-necked black lace dress. A leather blazer was slung over a nearby chair. Her sharp navy eyes performed a rapid assessment of Pet before switching to Sylvie and Dominic. “You were expecting to meet with Edward today.”
“Yes, we were.” Dominic’s response was equally blunt. The princess nodded for them to sit down. “I wouldn’t have thought your schedule would allow time for further meetings in person until we’re actually contracted and ready to move forward with the final cake.”
“Sadly misguided with the ‘we’re’ there, De Vere,” Sylvie murmured. “But otherwise—ditto.”
“There are some further last-minute elements we’d like included in the cake tenders . . .” Rosie correctly interpreted Sylvie’s expression and cracked a small grin. “Nothing complicated, I assure you. But I’d like to be sure that our requests are relayed . . . correctly.”
That pronouncement echoed into a short, expressive pause, broken by Johnny’s interjection.
“Lancier knows the ropes at the palace,” he said flatly. “But his appointment as her right-hand man was not Rosie’s choice. He used to work for a different branch of the household, and his loyalties remain firmly in that camp. She can’t sneeze in the night without Lancier sending a report up the family tree. Her relatives like to passive-aggressively meddle. They don’t like the increased spotlight on us since the announcement of the engagement, and that we draw m-more than our allotted share of attention. Somehow any ideas we shoot down the pipeline emerge looking very different to what we intended.”
The silence extended.
Rosie’s gaze slid sideways, and Johnny looked fondly back at her.
She cleared her throat. Patted his arm. “First order of business. On Sunday, a ball will be held at St. Giles to celebrate my twenty-fifth birthday.”
“Happy birthday!” Pet blurted, and Rosie’s smile became more genuine.
“Thank you. My actual birthday was last month, but . . .” She shrugged. “Networking.”
That visible unbending was enough to unplug Pet’s nervous chattiness. “I hope you celebrated privately, too.”
Sylvie had been watching Johnny. Whenever his face fell into lines of repose, she thought there was a certain strain there, a tension far weightier than his nerves and awkward shuffling at their first meeting. But at Pet’s words, a twinkle appeared. “There may have been an all-night gaming tournament. And a very p-poor showing by the birthday girl.”
“It was four to three. In my favor,” Rosie retorted, and her fiancé reached out and took her hand, bringing it to his lips in a natural, affectionate gesture.
“I threw the last round as a gift. Gentleman’s code.”
“Nice try, babe.”
Pet looked absolutely fascinated.
Rosie cast a final laughing glance at Johnny—but Sylvie thought there was still underlying tension in her own demeanor, as well. “The final cake tenders are due on Sunday. I’d like to invite you both . . .” She looked at Pet, and her expression settled into something gentler. Kind. “I’d like to invite you all to attend the ball as our guests after you submit, including your business partner, Sylvie. Regardless of the outcome, your hard work is enormously appreciated.”
Sylvie was completely taken aback, and surprised that Pet wasn’t shooting about the room like an out-of-control firecracker. She was almost vibrating in her seat.
Dominic was clearly not as enamored as his sister by the prospect of a black-tie ball in a royal palace, but when he saw her excitement, the habitually hard edges of his expression softened.
Sylvie could very easily imagine what Pet had been like as a little girl, and suddenly she saw them in her mind’s eye—an emotionally battered, stoic small boy, clutching the baby girl who loved him, clambering onto that train.
She blinked away the burning in her eyes when Dominic looked at her with a small frown.
“Attendance obviously isn’t mandatory,” Rosie added. “A ball is not everyone’s idea of a delightful Sunday evening.”