A Royal Indiscretion, chapter two (Patreon)

Yves walked out of the library to find his father’s private secretary standing in the hall, his military posture clear even though he’d left the service to work for the duke twenty years earlier. “Sir,” he addressed Yves formally, even though the man had been more of a father to Yves than the duke ever had been.

“Hagan, I thought you would be off seeing to the details of the wedding.” The second the words were out of Yves’s mouth, Hagan cringed. Yves figured the man had been pulled to reinforce Peter’s message. Some staff had eavesdropped and reported back to the duke that Peter had failed to properly intimidated the prodigal son. There were truly no secrets in the family, even if certain members liked to feign ignorance when it came to inconvenient truths.

“Sir, let’s talk in the sun room,” Hagan said softly. The voices Yves had heard earlier were now silent, and Peter hadn’t yet come back out of the library. So this is a coordinated attack. At least Mary’s fiancé was getting to see the royal manipulation before the wedding. He was close enough to the levers of power that if he took a mistress, he’d be equally managed.

“Of course.” Yves might have given Peter a hard time, but that social climbing troll deserved it. Hagan didn’t. After twenty years, he deserved a retirement in the countryside, but Yves figured the man would worry himself to death if he wasn’t around to keep the royals from imploding under the weight of their own stupidity. Yves blamed his own failures on an abundance of inbreeding.

Yves headed down the hall to the sunroom. At one point his older brother had lived in these apartments, and Yves remembered coming down here and sneaking a beer as he and Albert complained about the general stupidity of their father and the whole ridiculous establishment. And then Albert had gone all proper. He’d married Catherine, produced and heir and a spare, and taken over the family charity. Tosser.

Back in those days, the sunroom had been a hodgepodge of musical instruments and speakers and the general detritus of adolescence. Yves always figured that his brother would have been happiest wasting his life in a garage band, but apparently trying to combat poverty by showing up to formal events in a tuxedo or ceremonial uniform was more his speed now.

Today, the sunroom was decorated in cheerful yellows with chairs all set to take in the view of the rocky seashore. Waves crashed against the stones, and Yves could imagine the same shore existed a thousand years ago—the same cold sea, the same stones, the same steel-gray sky. The castle had only stood for six hundred years, and in six hundred more years, the hewn stone walls would still be standing, although time would wash away the redecorating job rather more quickly.

Yves turned his back to the ocean view and leaned against the window sill in a shameless display of poor posture. “Hagan, you look exactly the same.”

“And you, sir, are a liar,” Hagan said with a small smile. “In truth, I’m getting old and my bones creak when it rains.”

Yves eyed the gray sky. Rain and snow were the two default conditions in this part of the world. “That doesn’t bode well for your bones.”

“No, sir.” He took a step closer. “Your sister could not come, but she wanted you to know that she is proud of you.”

Yves had braced himself for a politely worded threat from his father, so when Hagan spoke, the friendly tone left Yves completely off balance. As much as Hagan had always provided a sympathetic ear, he was the duke’s secretary. He was obligated to carry his father’s message accurately, and more than once those had been aimed at Yves. “Proud? Why?” Yves finally asked, still uneasy with the surprising turn the conversation had taken.

Hagan stood at parade rest. “Maintaining sobriety isn’t easy. She understands that, as do I.”

“For all you know, I took pills before I set foot in this place,” Yves said in a jocular voice.

“No offense, sir, but you have never managed to be subtle about your substance abuse.”

“I haven’t?” Yves had definitely lost his ability to predict what people were likely to say.

“No, sir.”

Yves blew out a long breath. “So, my father was clueless, but all the staff knew,” he summarized. Yves had thought he’d been more discreet than that. “Lovely. So, what gave me away?”

“When you drink you are…” Hagan got a chagrined expression.

Now Yves really wanted to hear it. “Go on.”

“Silly, sir,” Hagan said.

Yves cringed. Of all the adjectives that could have come out of his mouth, that hurt more than almost anything else. It was marginally better than being called libidinous, but not by much. “I act like an idiot, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

Yves ran his hand through his hair. “That will probably help my sobriety more than any therapy in the world. I hate looking like an idiot.”

After a brief pause, Hagan said, “It was preferable to when you switched to abusing prescriptions.”

“Oh dear. I don’t think I want to know.”

“You were, again forgive me for saying this, but you were smarmy.”

“Smarmy?” Yves should not have come. There were some truths that a man should not have to face.

“Oily. Oleaginous,” Hagan clarified, as if horror had not been clear the first time around.

“So, I turn into my father,” Yves said. He had just added a good year to his therapy. Maybe two.

Hagan’s disappointment gnawed at Yves in a way no one else’s could have. Eventually Hagan said, “You showed more of your father with Lord Peter. That was rather cold.”

“He is an ass.”

“And you will, no doubt, feel that way about many of the individuals you are about to encounter for the first time in, what? Two years?”

Two years. Yves had never expected to live in self-exile so long. If he were honest, some days he hadn’t expected to survive as long, but Hagan had the timeline correct. Truth be told, he could probably cite the number of days since Yves’s grand, public meltdown. When Yves didn’t say anything, Hagan continued.

“Lady Mary wished you to know that she does not want you to jeopardize your sobriety for her sake. If you need to leave the wedding, she understands, and no matter what others might insinuate, she will never hold it against you.” Hagan took a single step forward. “Never,” he repeated. “She wants you to take care of yourself, and she will suffer endless guilt if you allow yourself to be dragged back to a dark place at her wedding.”

Yves’s reputation for avoiding anything approaching a serious conversation was taking a serious beating, but Hagan and Mary were clearly worried. Yves didn’t intend to discuss his life or his therapy with certain members of the family, but they deserved to know that Yves was working on himself. Maybe that would reassure them that he was doing what he could to minimize the odds that he would repeat his mistakes. “According to my therapist, I need to face my family or I will always be in danger of slipping off the back of the wagon.”

“I would have thought a therapist would have advocated for more distance.”

“Can I really get away from this family, Hagan? Am I Joe Average who can simply move to a new city and start again?” Yves asked wearily. “Or will I be endlessly dogged by the press?”

“You’ve gotten quite good at avoiding them.”

Yves stood. “I hide, Hagan. And as long as I have to put that much effort into avoiding the family, I’m still defined by it, aren’t I?”

Hagan looked worried. “Sir, you are a good man.”

“I’m a fucked up one.”

“Language, Lord Yves,” Hagan rebuked him. Yves had grown up hearing those three words in exactly that tone. 

“I apologize, Hagan. My court manners have grown rusty.”

“There is one other issue your sister wanted me to bring up.”

“A suggestion that I avoid stealing the family jewels, no pun intended?”

“No, sir. Not at all.” Hagan’s voice had a steely tone that made it clear that he disliked even joking about the subject. Yves suspected Peter was about to find out what happened when you landed on the wrong side of Hagan Jarvinen. The man might not have lands or titles, but he knew every secret on the damn continent. If he didn’t have the name, address, and Instragram handle of Peter’s mistress, Yves would eat his favorite hat. “Lady Mary was informed that the duke refused to allow Nick Hanover on the guest list. She has spoken to the king and he is to be permitted into the chapel, the reception, and the castle.”

Yves stared at Hagan. “Are you going to ask if Nick is my lover or assume it, like my father did?” When Yves had put Nick’s name down as his one and only guest, he hadn’t expected it to rate so much as a glance. Albert’s wedding had been a true state affair, especially since it looked like King Alphonse might never get around to fathering an heir. It made Albert and Catherine the potential future king and queen.

But with Albert’s two children safely in the line of succession, Mary’s wedding had a less traditional guest list. As far as Yves could tell, anyone with an abiding fascination for royalty and a large checkbook could finagle an invitation to the reception. Royals, government members, guests—they had all requested invitations for various friends or acquaintances. Yves didn’t know whether it was Alphonse or his father or Mary who had wanted to use the wedding to reach out into the wider community, but someone had made the decision to turn it into the perfect public relations event. The damn reception was going to be a circus with four thousand clowns in attendance, but let Yves add one name, and he incurred his father’s wrath.

“It’s a little late now.” Yves didn’t try to hide his bitterness. “It’s not like he can drive down in an hour.”

‘She called him first thing this morning,” Hagan said softly. “As I understand it, he is driving down and will take a room at Stoddard house so that you may call him in if you need support.”

That explained why Nick wasn’t answering his cell phone; he was driving. “She did that?” Yves asked softly.

Hagan sighed. “She loves you.”

She might, but she had no way of knowing Yves and the duke had already gotten in their first fight since Yves had returned. Very few would have known that, and fewer would have heard what they fought about. “And you are the one who tattled on my father,” Yves said.

Hagan shrugged. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”

“I’m sure you don’t.” Yves chuckled. “So, is Mary the only one to send a message?”

“Your father might have studied eight or nine carefully considered words he would have me speak to you.” 

Carefully considered. That was telling. Unless Yves was misremembering his Shakespeare, the quote originally involved eight or nine wise words and Benedict had not wanted to share them in front of fools. So Hagan was editing the Bard. “Oh?”

“He fears you will provide fodder for the tabloids.”

Yves snorted. “I’ve seen the guest list. You have enough drama at the reception that I’m not even going to be a blip on the press’s radar. And unless the wedding ceremony has changed radically since Albert married, the wedding is going to be stiff and formal enough that no one will have a chance to disrupt anything.”

Hagan frowned. “I’m afraid you are underestimating the public’s fascination with you. While you might have escaped the spotlight, coming back is going to set tongues wagging. You’re going to have a lot of attention on you. Sir, I am personally concerned that some… acquaintances… might take this opportunity to renew… prior… relationships.”

Yves laughed. “I can hear the profanity you’re choosing not to say.”

“No doubt you can, sir. I have some strong feelings about this topic. And please do remember I was a weapons master in the army, so I also have some skills to go with my strong feelings.”

“Did you just threaten to shoot my druggie ex-friends if they show up?”

“I implied a threat against someone, sir.” Hagan gave Yves a hard look that suggested he might just shoot Yves. 

“I’m sorry,” Yves said.

“Sir?”

“You must have hated having to stand back and watch me self-destruct,” Yves said. “I owe you an apology, and if it looks like I am tempted by any of those morons, I am giving you the right to call Nick and the two of you can kick my ass.”

“Language, Lord Yves.” Hagan said the words, but they were softer than usual and his eyes shone. “And I hope to meet your friend while he is in town. In the meantime, do take your father’s warning to heart. The press is still obsessed with you. Many of the people coming to the reception hope to see the wild child of the royal family. You may have been smarmy when you were on drugs, but you had a certain style and flair at the same time. There was never a shortage of men or women throwing themselves at you because you had a bad boy charm. And you are equally attractive now. If anything, you are growing into your own, sir. Your father’s concern that the press may push you too hard has some merit.”

“I’ll handle it,” Yves said firmly, but Hagan’s warning worried him. Yves was already hanging onto sobriety by a thread.

“I know you can, sir. I simply want you to have a chance to prepare yourself.

Yves nodded. “I should head back to the others. If I make the groom’s party late, Mary will have my hide.”

“They’ve left for the chapel, sir. There’s another car waiting for you. I assume you have no objection to picking up Bishop Harmen and Sir Karlsson on your way to the chapel.”

Yves nodded. Right. Hagan had delayed him. It meant the press would be distracted by the arrival of the main party and Yves’s car could drop him off in the general crowd of attendees. It would be far more difficult to identify him. And as a bonus, he was riding with a bishop, which would make misbehavior rather more difficult. Yves had been masterfully managed by one of the best in the business.

“No problem at all,” Yves said. God. No wonder he’d taken up drinking at sixteen. Even now he couldn't tell who in this cursed place was on his side and how far that affection counted for when put up against more important goals, like avoiding drama at an important event.

Hagan bowed his head for a moment before he retreated, leaving Yves alone with the sound of waves slamming themselves into the rocky shore.