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CHAPTER1
EMILE
Emile’s head was pounding as he walked along the corridor to the throne room. The absinthe had been a bad idea. It was always a bad idea, but did he ever learn?
The portraits of his ancestors lining the walls seemed to be judging him. They were probably right to do so, he thought glumly. He wasn’t usually so bad with a hangover, but today he felt as though he was walking to the gallows; he couldn’t tell whether his stomach was churning thanks to the copious amounts of alcohol he’d consumed last night or because of what he was facing up ahead.
It was a little bit ridiculous to be twenty-six years old and still afraid of your parents’ censure. He was embarrassed to admit it, even to himself. Most people’s parents weren’t the rulers of a European nation, though, with the power to reverse the law against beheading should they so wish. Not that Emile’s parents ever would. They were committed to justice and fairness. And propriety. Hence why they despaired so much of him. There was no way for him to live up to their standards, or the ‘example’ set by his older brothers. So, he’d stopped trying a long time ago.
The fact that they wanted to see him in the throne room was not a good sign. Usually, they’d just reprimand him in the family’s private rooms, so this must be about something serious. Although he could hardly complain about the accommodation, most people didn’t realize that the palace was actually not predominantly the home of the royal family. There were far more offices than there were bedrooms in the building. It had made it a very strange place to grow up; walking out of your kitchen and into a meeting about public relations or international treaties was a real trip and definitely didn’t help Emile’s sense that nothing he did mattered anyway. There was no way he could compete with the grand happenings that took place under this roof.
Emile paused when he got to the door of the throne room, taking a few deep breaths to quell his nerves. He didn’t think his parents would appreciate him vomiting all over the carpet in front of them. If only they’d waited a few more hours; a greasy breakfast and maybe a Bloody Mary would have sorted him out.
Finally, he pushed open the heavy, ornate door and stepped into the throne room. It had been a favorite hiding spot of his and his brothers when he was a child; there were suits of armor lining the walls, and a large window with the best view of the city below, in front of which sat two ostentatious thrones, gilded in gold and dwarfing their current occupants — his mother and father, who sat regally awaiting his arrival. Many other European nations had downgraded their thrones to fancy padded chairs, conscious that overt displays of wealth were maybe in poor taste, but the people of Charcieux were extremely traditional and expected their royals to keep up appearances.
As a result, his father wore his military uniform most days, decorated in medals and a colorful sash to denote his position. Again, most of the other royals in their acquaintance had traded their uniforms for designer suits, but not King Philippe. His mother dressed more demurely, in tasteful, tailored dresses and sensible heels, but she often wore large brooches and earrings which could only belong to a queen. They were both stone-faced as Emile approached the throne, ducking his head in an approximation of a bow, just like he’d been drilled to do as a child. These were his parents, but they were still the monarchs of this country and thus proper protocol must be followed. Another thing he hated.
As he looked up, he searched his mother’s face; although his father was always harsh with him, he could usually find sympathy from his mother, but today, any hint of softness was gone, and that only made his stomach churn harder.
“Emile.” His father’s commanding voice was enough to send ice through his veins. “We are very disappointed.”
There it was. He was the constant disappointment of his family. Not Henri, the perfect eldest child, dedicated to being the heir apparent. Not Jean-Luc, the second child currently serving gladly in the military, as was tradition. Him. Emile. The screw-up third brother.
He sometimes wondered why his parents had even bothered having a third child. They had their heir and a spare. What use was another one to them? He’d only ever been a nuisance. There was no set path for the third child, nothing for him to do except try to enjoy some of the perks of being a prince. And yet, when he did just that, they seemed to hate it all the more.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” Philippe continued.
Emile hesitated. He already knew that there was no way he could talk himself out of this. Usually, he was very good at talking himself out of — and into — trouble, but his father’s stern expression made it clear that there was nothing he could say that could turn this situation around.
“Well?” Philippe demanded, clearly not happy with Emile’s reluctance to explain himself. But what could he say?
“Father, if you could be more specific about your disappointment, I might be able to assuage your concerns.”
“Don’t get smart with me, boy,” his father all but roared, until his mother placed a calming hand on his arm.
If only Emile could remember exactly what he’d done last night. He remembered the absinthe. He remembered some pretty waitresses. He vaguely remembered playing cards. The rest of the details were fuzzy. He’d managed to wake up in his own bed — albeit fully clothed — so he’d certainly had worse evenings. His head throbbed as he tried to surface the memories.
“Darling, we’re just concerned,” his mother said, choosing her words carefully.
“Concerned that I’ll besmirch the family name?” Emile couldn’t help the bitter question from falling out of his mouth. His parents were obsessed with image and respectability. Their concern wasn’t for him, other than what he brought to the family. It never had been.
“Everything you have is because of our family name, you ungrateful little…”
“Philippe, please,” the queen begged. The king’s face was getting redder and redder the longer the conversation went on. Emile wondered if it were possible for him to go entirely purple. It would certainly match the decor.
His father grabbed a magazine from his lap, which Emile hadn’t seen before, and brandished at him. The headline was in bold red letters, a photo of his own inebriated face accompanying the words:
Party Prince Plays with Palace Purse
Prince Emile Ardouin Spotted at Illegal Gambling Hole
“Oh.” His stomach sank like a lead balloon. The pretty waitresses. The absinthe. The cards. That had been where he’d been last night.
“An illegal gambling den, Emile? Really?” The disappointment on his mother’s face hurt worse than the hangover. He felt three years old again, standing in front of a priceless broken vase that he’d knocked over during a raucous game of chase with his brothers.
“We cannot let this slide, Emile. We have turned a blind eye to the drinking, to the endless parade of women leaving the palace, to the partying…”
Emile wanted to point out that his father had never turned a blind eye to any one of his actions but he knew the comment would be unwelcome, so he let him continue on his tirade.
