Royal Rogue Page 2

  I’d heard the story a hundred times. The Prince had hung Jimmy and his mother out to dry. They barely made ends meet, while Alexander had continued to live in palaces and travel on private jets. Conning rich folks like our friend Veronica was Jimmy’s way of getting revenge on the family who refused to acknowledge him.

  Not that it excused the life of crime he led. But having grown up fatherless myself, I understood his anger.

  “What’s the play?” I asked.

  “In a nutshell? Seduce Princess Jane. Get into her apartment at Primrose Palace. Steal the Warhol in her bedroom.”

  This time my heart did a full on lurch into my mouth. I swallowed it, clearing my throat.

  “How much is it worth?” I said. “The Warhol?”

  “I’ve already got a buyer lined up.” Jimmy knew all the shitbags in London. No surprise he knew someone who was in the market for ridiculously expensive stolen art. “He’s offered us five million pounds for it.”

  I swear to Christ I blacked out for a moment while the number ricocheted inside my head.

  Five million pounds. Even split so many ways—even after Jimmy took his cut—Owen and I would still be left with a fuck ton of money.

  I’d stolen countless times. Seduced heiresses and the bored daughters of shipping magnates, too. But there had never been this much money on the line before. Not even close. Five million pounds—hell, that was more than enough to pay off our debt.

  More than enough to buy our fucking freedom.

  Jimmy was grinning down at me, blue eyes a little squinty.

  “I see your wheels turning,” he said. “To answer your question—yes. Your cut would cover your outstanding loan. No more payments. No more cons.”

  I took a deep breath through my nose. A breath that shook, just a little.

  “No more cons,” I sputtered. “Do I have your word?”

  Jimmy held out his hand. “You have my word.”

  I took it, giving him a firm handshake. I wasn’t sure if I believed him. But what choice did I have? The guy had me by the balls.

  “How much time do we have to prep?” I asked.

  “Timeline’s tight. We’re looking at June—four weeks.” Jimmy stood, crossing his arms. “My sources tell me the Queen has invited some of the world’s most eligible bachelors to her box at The Royal Ascot. She intends to set Jane up with one of them. I imagine old Margaret wants her granddaughter to marry someone more suitable this time around.”

  Jane’s marriage to some city boy banker had imploded a couple years ago, providing the tabloids with endless fodder. I remembered seeing her face splashed across front pages everywhere. The headlines were always about her partying. The money she spent on trips to Vegas and Ibiza.

  “And you can get me into the box?” I asked.

  Jimmy nodded. “The arrangements have been made, yes.”

  “Four weeks.” I opened the folder and scanned its contents. “I can work with that.”

  There was an invitation to The Royal Enclosure at Ascot, Britain’s most famous horse racing ground. A card from a tailor on Savile Row. Maps of Primrose Palace, printouts of the Warhol—a neon blue and yellow portrait of Grace Kelly, how fitting—and dossiers on all the royals. Jane, her three brothers, her sisters-in-law.

  I didn’t ask Jimmy how he’d gotten all this stuff. It had to be classified information. Honestly, I didn’t want to know. Jimmy was a powerful guy. A shady guy. Asking too many questions would only get me in trouble.

  This would be my last fucking con anyway. The thought made me dizzy with relief. Five years and how many cons later, Owen and I had a way out.

  Finally. Jimmy would put down the gun he’d held to our heads for so long.

  At least that was the hope.

  “I play a pretty great douchebag billionaire,” I said, holding up the pass to The Royal Enclosure.

  Jimmy nodded. “If Jane’s ex-husband is any indication, she’s partial to wankers. So douchebag billionaire is just the ticket. Piece of cake for you, Romeo.”

  I closed the folder. “I’ll round up a crew and start preparations first thing tomorrow.”

  I didn’t know much about Jane. But she sounded like another Veronica. Another entitled trust fund kid who couldn’t tell her ass from her elbow.

  Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing I couldn’t handle.

  Not when freedom was on the line.

  Chapter Two

  Jane

  This was the second year in a row I’d attended The Royal Ascot alone.

  Single.

  Seated next to my younger brother Jack in the carriage. The two remaining Thorne siblings, relegated to the last landau in line. The more glamorous carriages up front were reserved for our grandmother the Queen, and then of course Kit and Emily (married last year) and Robert and Aly (married last month). All that was missing were my parents. It had been more than twenty years since they’d died, but I still felt their absence acutely. Every bloody day.

  This time last year, I’d been crushed to be in the back. It was just another reminder of how I’d cocked up. How I’d failed. As a wife. As a person. I’d just announced my separation from Michael, my now ex-husband, and the wounds from our fallout had still been raw.

  But now—now I felt okay with it all. Funny the difference a year could make. I was finally learning to stand on my own two feet again. There was a freedom in being single. Michael’s voice wasn’t in my ear anymore, constantly nagging me to act like a proper princess. Honor your heritage. Funny that, to him, honoring my heritage just meant spending gobs of my money and reminding people to bow or curtsey for him.

  As was tradition, my family and I did a lap around the racecourse in our carriages. It was a gorgeous day. Sunny and just warm enough. The crowds were more adoring than ever; two royal weddings in as many years had done wonders for our popularity.

  Jack flicked the foot-long feather in my hat. I punched him, discreetly of course, in the leg. His bark of laughter made a group of women nearby whistle in appreciation.

  He tipped his hat to them. “Ladies.” And then, to an admiring group of blokes: “Gentlemen.”

  Jack had come out a few months ago as gay. Considering he was the first member of the royal family to ever do so publicly, it’d been a big deal. The Queen had reacted positively, as had the country. I couldn’t have been prouder of him. Or more envious of the hotties who adoringly fell at his feet.

  When the procession was done, Jack helped me down from the carriage. We made our way up the elevator toward the royal box. It was always a bit of a relief, getting to this part of the day. The box was partially open to the outdoors, so people could still see us. But we weren’t really on display anymore. Our duty was done.

  Now we got to play.

  My heart did a little leap of excitement as I headed down the hall that led to the box. The Queen was a bit of a gambler, and every year Kit helped her put together a betting pool for the family. There’d be Ascot’s famous lobster rolls for lunch, and Pimm’s Cups to sip on while we lost money on the races.

  The best part? Our family got to spend the day together—minus baby Josie, Kit and Em’s 16-month old daughter. The Queen always invited a handful of guests to join us. But otherwise, it was just us, drinking and eating and placing losing bets on thoroughbred horses.

  Just as we were entering the box, Jack turned to me. His smile was gone. He looked a little worried.

  That was weird. Jack never worried about anything.

  “I’m sorry,” he blurted.

  I blinked. “For what?”

  “They made me keep quiet. I wanted to tell you, I did, but…” A sheen of perspiration had broken out on his top lip. “Our grandmother swore us all to secrecy. We knew if you found out you’d never come.”

  “Jack,” I said, lowering my voice in mock seriousness. “Are you having me assassinated?”

  “Worse.” He winced. “We’re having you set up. Well, really the Queen is. It was her idea.”

 
I stared at him. This had to be a joke, right? A really bad, really stupid joke. My grandmother—my entire family—knew I had absolutely no interest in love. I’d just spent the past two years putting myself back together. Two years. I was finally in a good place. A nice place I didn’t want to share with anybody else.

  “Shut up,” I said, landing my fist into the meat of his broad shoulder.

  I waited for Jack to crack a smile. Tell me he was messing with me.

  Instead he kept on wincing.

  “She asked us for our help. And you know the answer can’t be no when the Queen’s asking,” he said. “I like my allowance too much, Jane. It’s quite generous.”

  My heart was leaping again. But not from excitement this time.

  Jack wasn’t joking.

  Motherfucker.

  I glanced through the door into the box. I could see several people, all of them in top hats and tails—full morning dress, required by Royal Ascot’s strict dress code—milling about inside, cocktails in hand.

  All of them men.

  I turned back to Jack. “What the hell did you do?” I hissed.

  But before he could respond, I heard my grandmother’s voice at the door.

  “Ah, there she is! Jane, please do join us. I’ve invited some guests I’d like you to meet.”

  I stared at Jack. Pursed my lips.

  He looked like he wanted to die.

  Good. It was only what he deserved for helping coordinate this little surprise attack.

  I hate you, I mouthed at him.

  Then I stepped around Jack, the hem of my dress swishing around my legs as I pasted on a smile.

  There was no hesitation in the Queen’s blue eyes when they met mine. Clearly she didn’t have any qualms about setting me up with strangers. Why would she? She’d been on the throne for more than sixty years. She’d muscled her way through the Blitz and the Cold War and even a Nickelback concert. She’d strong-armed dictators and sweet talked eleven U.S. presidents.

  She could strong-arm me, too, no problem. Although strong-arm me into what, exactly? Dating? Love? Marriage?

  No, no, and hell no.

  “I would be pleased to meet your guests,” I said, trying very hard not to grit my teeth.

  The Queen motioned for me to enter the box. I moved inside carefully, like I was stepping through a field of landmines. Fully aware that one wrong move could blow me to bits. Or send me into the arms of one of the arseholes gathered here.

  The sounds of the crowd outside filtered through the box. But otherwise it was quiet. All eyes were on me. My scalp prickled with sweat. There had to be twenty—no, more than that, thirty—men here, the mother-of-pearl buttons on their pastel waistcoats winking at me.

  Some of the guys smiled at me. Awkward smiles. Shy smiles. Some of them looked me up and down, taking my measure the way you would one of the horses on the track.

  My face burned.

  I looked away.

  And met the bluest pair of eyes I’d ever seen. Blue that reached inside my chest and flipped my heart upside-down. It was clear and honest and just as surprised to be discovered as I was to discover it.

  The eyes belonged to a handsome man I’d never seen before. He had thick, neatly parted dark hair and a beard that, if it were a bit shorter, would qualify as scruff. Maybe it was the beard, but there was something that drew my attention. His lips were…

  I blinked. No more looking at his lips.

  He wasn’t so tall or broad as much as well-proportioned. In a Hollywood way—he was too perfect for real life. He belonged on a screen. Or a billboard. Thick chest and shoulders and arms. Handsome face. And those eyes.

  He was standing a bit off to the side. Alone. A full glass of champagne in one hand. His other hand was poised over his coat, like he couldn’t find the pocket he’d been looking for.

  Morning coats didn’t have pockets on the outside. Had he never worn one?

  “You look lovely,” the Queen murmured in my ear, breaking the spell.

  I blinked, looking away.

  Probably a good thing. I didn’t want to look at a man the way I’d been looking at that one. Chances were he wasn’t any different from blokes I’d met—and married—in the past anyway.

  Blokes who wanted the princess, not the person.

  “Why are you doing this?” I said under my breath as Her Majesty gently but firmly steered me toward one end of the loose semi-circle the men had formed.

  The Queen turned her head, just a little. Just enough so I could see the determined glint in her eye.

  “Meaning no offense, Jane, but I think it’s fair to say you don’t have the best taste in men,” she replied. “I didn’t, either. You and I—we’re alike in that we fall for the wrong ones.”

  My anger softened. The Queen was right on that account. It was a well-kept family secret that my late grandfather, Prince Alexander, had been unfaithful throughout the course of their marriage. Repeatedly. He’d even gotten one of his mistresses pregnant. I don’t know what happened to the baby. But I do know the incident had almost broken my grandmother, one of the most indomitable women on the planet.

  But it was no secret at all that Michael, my ex, was a tosser. He’d conned me into thinking he loved me for me. But the second the wedding band was on my finger—and the generous prenup signed—he’d shown his true colors. He’d wanted me to change into a completely different person than the one he’d married. A person I’d tried—and failed—to become.

  The Queen stopped. Looked me in the eye. “Jane, I want to save you from what I went through.”

  “You really think these peacocks are going to be any better than the wankers we’ve been with?”

  “I do. These peacocks are good men. Men who just might make you happy. I’ve had each of them thoroughly vetted. If you don’t like any of them, fine. But give them a chance.” She elbowed me. “You wouldn’t deny a dying woman her last wish, would you?”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’re not dying.”

  “I could be.” She shrugged. “I’m ninety-three years old.”

  “Stop playing coy. We all know you’re going to live to be a hundred and twenty.”

  Her lips twitched. “Humor me. Just for today.”

  “Just for today,” I repeated. “Promise?”

  “You have my word.”

  I looked at her. Sighed. This was the last thing I felt like doing. But the Queen had defended me—protected me—during my divorce. She’d called in favors. I owed her some favors in return.

  Besides. It wasn’t like I was going to actually bring any of these peacocks home. I just had to play nice. Say hello, shake some hands, pretend to be interested when they talked about their portfolios or name dropped their way through anecdotes about St. Bart’s. It wouldn’t be fun. But it would make my grandmother happy.

  Letting my shoulders fall back in resignation, I stepped up to meet the first peacock.

  All the while feeling the heat of those blue eyes on me from across the room.

  Chapter Three

  Jane

  It didn’t take long for my mood to sink. And when it did, it sank like a stone.

  I’d been with enough tossers—one in particular—to know one when I saw one. And these peacocks were all tossers.

  They talked about where they traveled on their private jets. Their eyes strayed one too many times to the plum-sized sapphire on the Queen’s lapel. They were too caught up in trying to impress, in being impressed by the box and the sapphire and the pomp, to be genuine in any way.

  I glanced longingly at the front of the box. Wondered if the people below would catch me if I made a run for it and flung myself off the edge.

  There was one literal bright spot in the seemingly endless procession of guys. I found myself battling a case of butterflies as I got closer to Hollywood Blue Eyes. His slight discomfort in his morning suit was the only honest thing in the room. I couldn’t help but move toward it. The way a ship moved toward a beacon, the only light in
an otherwise dark night.

  By the time I stood in front of him, the Queen at my elbow, I was breathless with anticipation. In my heels, I was almost eye to eye with him. Close enough to see the dark stubble on his neck. Smell the sweet scent of whiskey (where’d he get that?), mixed with an undercut of sultry aftershave, that wafted off him.

  I found myself hoping stupidly, recklessly, that he would be honest. Different.

  “Hello,” I said, holding out my hand. “I’m Jane. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  His eyes darted between mine. Once, twice. Like he was deciding something. Like he was nervous. Which was sort of endearing.

  But then, as if it’d never been there at all, his discomfort evaporated, replaced by a smirk. A coldness that dulled that thrilling blue in his eyes.

  “Charles Redford.” He took my hand. But instead of shaking it, he brought it to his lips. “And the pleasure is all mine, Your Royal Highness.”

  My heart had begun a free fall somewhere around the last syllable of Charles. It kept falling when he brushed his lips to my knuckles, like some errant Mr. Darcy in a bad knockoff of a Jane Austen novel.

  This didn’t square with the honesty I’d seen in his eyes earlier. The raw interest. He was playing at interest now. Playing a part. For some reason his betrayal felt personal.

  It hurt.

  I pulled my hand away.

  “And where are you joining us from, Mr. Redford?” the Queen asked.

  “I flew in from Zurich just this morning.” Puke. “Although I call San Francisco home. It’s where my company is based. Well. One of my companies. I own many of them.”

  I suddenly felt lightheaded. I didn’t want to be with this man. I didn’t want to be with any man, period. Why, then, this weird hurt? It sat like an elephant on my chest.

  Maybe it was just depressing to have had my assumptions about these peacocks confirmed. I hadn’t realized how much I’d wanted to be proven wrong. And be proven wrong by a man with lips like Hollywood’s.

  Would anyone ever see past my title to the human underneath? Kit had found someone who had. So had Rob. But I was starting to think I never would.