A Royal Marriage of Convenience. Marion Lennox

baby, but you need to hurry. There’s enough sperm for you to have more than one, and you’re almost thirty. If you don’t have a boy first, then we…’ She caught herself. ‘You’ll want another. Rose, we’ve made an appointment for you with the specialist in Newcastle tomorrow, and Bob’s arranged for a locum so you can go.’

      ‘That’s good,’ Rose said faintly, but she didn’t take the sherry. Gladys smiled her approval.

      ‘Good girl. I told Bob no alcohol. Not if you’re pregnant.’

      ‘I’m not pregnant yet.’

      ‘But you will be.’

      ‘No,’ Rose said faintly, and then more forcibly. ‘No. If you’ll excuse me…’ She took a deep breath. ‘It’s good that you’ve organised a locum. I need to go to London for a couple of days. I’ve received a letter.’

      ‘A letter?’

      ‘It came registered post to the surgery,’ she said, knowing full well that any post out of the ordinary that came via the private letter-box was likely to be steamed open. ‘You remember my family has royal connections?’

      ‘Yes,’ Gladys said, stiffening in disapproval.

      ‘It seems someone came here to see me a week ago,’ she said. ‘Someone from Alp de Montez. You told him I was away?’

      ‘I…’ Gladys looked at Bob and then she looked at the carpet. ‘He said he had a proposal for you,’ she muttered, defensive. ‘What would you be wanting with a proposal?’

      Rose nodded. Two proposals in two weeks. The one facing her here made the other one seem mild in comparison.

      But what Gladys had just said firmed things for her. If she agreed to have a child, a daughter would never be enough. If she finally had Max’s son, then the child would be a living memorial to Max. What crazy reason was that to bring a child into the world?

      ‘It seems I’m needed,’ she said, thinking it through as she spoke. ‘I mean…needed by someone other than you. By someone other than my dead husband’s family and his community. When I first read the letter I thought it was crazy, but it seems as if it’s not crazy after all. Or no more crazy than this. Either way, I’m going to find out. I’m going to London to see if I’ve inherited a crown.’

      CHAPTER TWO

      THE restaurant Nick had organised as a rendezvous was a good one. It was old-fashioned, full of oak wainscotting, linen table-cloths, and individual booths where people could talk without struggling to hear or worrying about being heard.

      He walked in and Walter, the head waiter, met him with the familiarity of an old acquaintance. ‘Good evening, Mr de Montez.’ He looked at Nick’s casual Chinos and cord jacket and he smiled. ‘Well, well. Holiday mode tonight, then, sir?’

      Holiday. Yeah, maybe this was his holiday. Nick hardly did holidays at all, so he might as well term this one. Oh, every now and then he’d fly back to Australia to see his foster mother, Ruby, with whom he kept in touch and phoned every Sunday without fail. He skied now and then with a few important clients, but mostly Nick lived to work. He was on holiday tonight because he’d donned casual clothes. That’d do him for while.

      He was led over to the booth he generally used. Erhard was there already, and Nick appraised him more thoroughly as he rose to greet him. The old man looked thin, wiry and frail, with a shock of white hair and white bushy eyebrows. He was dressed in a deeply formal black suit.

      ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived,’ Nick said, and he looked ruefully down at his clothes, regretting he hadn’t opted for formal. ‘And I’m sorry for these.’

      ‘You think Rose-Anitra might be uncomfortable with formality?’ Erhard asked, smiling.

      ‘I did,’ he confessed. Some time in the last few days, as Erhard had talked him through the situation, he’d handed over a photograph of Rose, taken a month ago by a private investigator. Rose had been working—the shot had her leaning against a battered four-wheel-drive vehicle, talking to someone out of frame. She was wearing dirty brown dungarees, Wellingtons and a liberal spray of mud. She was pale faced, with the odd freckle or six, and the only colour about her was the deep, glossy auburn of the braid hanging down her back.

      She was a good-looking woman in a ‘country hick’ sort of way, Nick had conceded. The women in his world were usually sophisticated chic. There was no way this woman could be described in those terms, but she’d looked sort of…cute. So when dressing tonight he’d decided formal gear might make her uneasy.

      ‘You may be underestimating her,’ Erhard said.

      ‘She’s a country vet.’

      ‘Yes. A trained veterinarian.’ Still the hint of reproof. ‘My sources say she’s a woman of considerable intelligence.’ And then he paused, for Walter was escorting someone to their table.

      Rose-Anitra? The woman in the dungarees?

      Nick could see the similarities, but only just. She was wearing a crimson, halter-necked dress, buttoned at the front from the below-knee hemline to a low-cut cleavage. The dress was cinched at the waist in a classic Marilyn Monroe style, showing her hourglass figure to perfection. Her hair was twisted into a casual knot, caught up with soft white ribands, and tiny tendrils were escaping every which way. She was wearing not much make-up—just enough to dust the freckles. Her lips were a soft rose, which should have clashed with her dress but didn’t.

      She was wearing stilettos. Gorgeous red stilettos that made her legs look as if they went on for ever.

      ‘I believe I had it right,’ Erhard said softly to him, and chuckled and moved forward to greet their guest. ‘Mrs. McCray.’

      ‘Rose,’ she said and smiled, and her smile lit up the room. Her pert nose wrinkled a little. ‘I think I remember you. Monsieur Fritz—you were assistant to my uncle?’

      ‘I was,’ Erhard said, pleased. ‘Please, call me Erhard.’

      ‘Thank you,’ she said gravely. ‘It’s been almost fifteen years, but I do remember.’ She turned to Nick. ‘And you must be Nikolai? Monsieur de Montez.’

      ‘Nick.’

      ‘I don’t think I’ve met you.’

      ‘No.’

      Walter was holding out her seat and Rose was sitting, which hid her legs. Which was almost a national tragedy, Nick decided. What was she about, disguising those legs in dungarees? He surveyed her with unabashed pleasure as Walter fussed about them, taking orders, offering champagne. ‘Yes, please,’ Rose said, and beamed. When the champagne arrived she put her nose right into the bubbles and closed her eyes, as if it was her first drink for a very long time.

      ‘You like champagne, then?’ Nick said, fascinated, and she sighed a blissful smile.

      ‘You have no idea. And it’s not even sherry.’ She had a couple more sips, then laid her glass back on the table with obvious reluctance.

      ‘We’re very pleased you were able to come,’ Erhard said gently, and looked at Nick. ‘Aren’t we, Nick?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Nick, feeling winded.

      ‘I’m sorry it took a while to contact me,’ Rose told them, glancing round the restaurant with real appreciation. ‘My family has an odd notion that I need protection.’

      ‘You don’t?’ Nick asked.

      ‘No,’ she said, and took another almost defiant sip of champagne. ‘Absolutely not. This is lovely.’

      It was, Nick thought. She was.

      ‘Maybe it’d be best if I outline the situation,’ Erhard said, smiling faintly at Nick as if guessing his degree of confoundment. ‘Rose, I’m not sure how much you know.’

      ‘Not