‘Where are we going?’ she enquired as they walked along increasingly tourist-thronged pavements towards the city centre.
Marcus gestured around. ‘What do you see?’
‘A shopping mecca for those who love fashion.’
Designer names abounded—clothes most people could only dream of called out to those with money to burn or credit cards to burden.
His dark blue eyes scanned her outfit, swept her body from top to toe, and to her own irritation she blushed. Then his gaze returned to hers and a funny little thrill shot through her veins at the expression in his eyes—a smoulder that she knew she hadn’t imagined.
‘It sounds like you aren’t one of their number.’
Sounds or looks? For an instant a stupid part of her bridled at his judgement, even though it was spot-on.
‘No. I’m not.’
Once she had been intent on always looking good, because Dean had insisted on it. He’d wanted his wife to be ‘a credit’ to him—wanted every man in the room to envy him.
Standing there in the heat of the Lycandrian sun April froze...could almost hear Dean’s rich Southern drawl. At the time she had taken his words as a sign of his pride in her, too smitten to see the truth—that to Dean she’d been a trophy, a prize and nothing more. So she’d made sure her clothes were the latest fashion, the most expensive and exclusive brands, had spent hours in the hairdressers, at the gym, putting on make-up. But now...
‘I try to be professional, but that’s as far as it goes. As part of my job I do keep up with the latest trends. Readers like details on what people are wearing.’ She waved a hand around. ‘Whilst I’m not a shopper, I appreciate the appeal to the rich.’
‘And a big part of Lycander’s economy relies on attracting the rich and the glamorous to our shores. We want designer names—we want the tourists and the parties. But we can’t only cater for the celebrity crowd. We need to look after our own people. So now I want to show you a different side of Lycander.’
A sleek black chauffeured car pulled up to the kerb and April climbed in first, forcing herself not to scrunch up as close to the window as possible to lessen their proximity. Daft. This had to stop—right now she needed to concentrate, to determine whether or not this was some complicated political manoeuvre to persuade her to abandon her pursuit of the truth.
The truth—that was what was important. Ever since the tragedy in which she’d lost Edward, after she’d clawed her way out of the pit of despair, she’d vowed never to sidestep the truth.
She watched the Lycander landscape flash by, saw the busy, prosperous streets recede and slowly morph into roads on a sliding scale of prosperity that eventually spiralled downwards, until a sense of squalor gradually pervaded. Buildings became less well maintained, shops became smaller and dingier, walls were scratched with the bright slash of graffiti. And as the miles were swallowed up soon the designer-laden city centre seemed like a bubble, an impossible dream.
Aware of his watchful gaze, she turned her head and saw the intensity of his expression. His face was suddenly harder, shadowed with grimness, his blue eyes dark with purpose.
‘When you think of Lycander, what images come to mind?’ he asked. ‘Other than that of a designer paradise, with yachts and jet-setters.’
‘Exports. Olives, wine and lemons. Beaches. Casinos. Wealth.’
‘Yes. All that exists. And under Prince Alphonse the casinos and rich celebrity hordes thrived. But he took the money they generated and instead of spending it on the country spent it on himself. He taxed the olives, the lemons, the vineyards, and he squandered the money on his lavish lifestyle. He squandered his people’s future.’
‘But...but surely someone could have stopped him?’
‘No. In Lycander, the ruler’s word is law.’
‘Then Brian Sewell has a point. The monarchy sucks.’
‘It depends on the ruler. Obviously Lycander’s fortunes are linked to the ruler’s morality and capabilities. History shows that overall the good times have outweighed the bad—most rulers have truly cared and ruled with justice.’
‘But Alphonse didn’t?’
‘No. But Axel would have, and Frederick does. Or at least he is trying to.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps one day democracy will be the right way forward—perhaps Frederick himself will decide to make those changes. But now is not the time. Lycander is not ready.’
‘What gives you the right to decide that?’
‘Nothing. It is not my decision—it is my belief. And I will fight for that belief.’
‘Then maybe you should let Brian Sewell fight for his.’
‘Through inciting violence and riots? Through a campaign of rumour and mire?’
‘OK. Not Brian Sewell. But those who believe that a ruler should be elected...shouldn’t be given such immense power simply through birth and blood.’
‘Lycander has had a monarchy for centuries, and on the whole it has worked. Right now it is working. But there is an enormous amount of work to do, and Frederick is the man to do it.’
‘Frederick—or you?’ The words came unbidden, ignited by the sheer determination in his voice.
‘Frederick is the Prince and he has a vision that I share. It is my honour to be of help to him.’
‘And if you and he disagree on policy? What happens then?’
Marcus shook his head. ‘This isn’t an interview, April.’
‘I know that. This is off the record.’
Marcus snorted. ‘But if you quote that “a leading figure in Frederick’s council” privately said blah-blah-blah, I’m sure people will join the dots.’
‘I won’t quote anything you don’t want to be quoted.’
‘That’s what you say now, but if our relationship goes downhill you may change your mind. For the record, I don’t want to be quoted. Period. What I do want is for you to drop the story.’
‘You still haven’t shown me why.’
‘This is why.’
He gestured out of the window and April turned her head.
Now they were in a different place all together. The streets were grubby, poverty was pervasive. Shops were shuttered, broken windows and rusted corrugated iron denoted a desolation that was a world away from lemons, olives and wine.
‘This is the result of Alphonse’s rule, and this is what Frederick wants to turn around. But to do that we need time—time that can’t be taken by a democratic, political fund-sucking fight.’
He leant forward and murmured to the driver, and two minutes later the car pulled to a stop.
‘I want to show you what we’re trying to do.’
MARCUS ALIGHTED FROM the car and April scooted across the seat after him, emerged and looked around.
This area was different again—not like the plush wealth of the city, nor the high glitz of Lycander’s high life, but it had an air of hope, shown by the green of a park, the few small cafés and shops that weren’t boarded up. One large building had a fresh coat of paint and boxes of flowers on the windowsills. The sound of music came from inside and the front doors were wide open. Groups of youths chatted outside, clustered in the sunshine.
‘This is a newly founded