and that they would be watching her carefully all evening long to make sure she was okay. But as she watched Harriet start to slice the sourdough bread she’d brought over from Borough Market, and Amber grate the cheese while Alexandra began to heat the milk, Emilia also knew that she’d survive. She had before, and this time, thanks to the Agency and the girls who ran it, she wasn’t on her own.
* * *
Emilia was doubly glad of the optimism and support of her friends when, two days later, she found herself suspended over the famous Armarian royal castle. The helicopter engine was so loud she could barely form a sentence, even in her head, but if she could she was sure that sentence would be Help. Human beings were not meant to travel in tiny metal cages held up in the air only by rotating rods.
The helicopter hovered over the castle for a brief moment, giving Emilia a bird’s-eye view of the ancient building, all delicate spires and battlements, looking more like a child’s dream of a castle than a real-life building, home to the royal family of Armaria, seat of the small country’s Parliament and famous tourist attraction. Thanks to Harriet’s detailed briefings and Simone’s even more detailed notes, she knew that the Archdukes of Armaria had lived right here, in this very spot, for generations beyond memory, the original keep long since enfolded into the growing castle, the whole remodelled in the eighteenth century by an Archduke whose tastes had run to the gothic. The sun shone overhead and to one side the sea sparkled a deep blue, to the other the mountains rose up to meet the sky, the very furthest still topped with white. Even through her fear Emilia noted that she had never seen anything more idyllic in her entire life.
She sucked in a deep breath as the helicopter began to descend. She was here; there was no changing her mind now. And she didn’t know what was more terrifying: putting together an event for hundreds of people, an event that would be reported on by every gossip magazine and blog in the western world, in just three weeks—or facing her father and his family.
With a final sickening lurch the helicopter juddered to a stop and Emilia gingerly undid her seat belt and alighted, head bent as far down as she could get it even though the blades were far above her. Glad she had elected to wear sensible flats and trousers to travel, she pulled her light linen jacket down and smoothed her hair back, checking it was still in its smooth ponytail. She was here to work and she needed to make the right impression straight off. This she could do. She’d been working since she was sixteen years old and that was the way she liked it. She’d soon learned that the busier she was, the less time she had to think. Or to feel.
A tall, angular woman was waiting at the far end of the helipad and, after seeing that her bags were being collected by a young, uniformed man, Emilia made her way over to her. ‘Hi,’ she said, holding out her hand in greeting. ‘I’m Emilia, the event planner.’ It was only as she spoke that she realised she had omitted her surname. Clayton was common enough a name but it might be easier not to be associated with the guest of honour or asked any difficult questions. Emilia only it would be then, unless anyone asked outright.
Her hand was ignored in favour of a condescending nod. ‘Come with me. I’ll show you to your office. You do not have much time so I hope you are ready to start straight away.’
‘That’s okay. I once organised a takeover announcement and launch of a whole new brand in just forty-eight hours. I thrive on pressure.’ Uncomfortably aware she was beginning to sound over eager and might break out into the crazy metaphors of a reality show contestant any second, Emilia hurriedly changed the subject. ‘It’s very beautiful here; what an amazing setting. I usually like to start off by walking around a venue, getting to know it properly. Will there be any issue here if I do the same? I’m aware that the building has several functions and that the royal family actually live here and the castle is home to Parliament as well.’
‘Your security clearance has been arranged.’ As the older lady spoke they arrived at a small side door, guarded by a perspiring man in an antiquated-looking uniform, all braid and gilt. ‘This is the door you will use to enter and exit the palace at all times. You need to show your pass here and then sign in once inside. No pass, no admittance, no exception.’
‘Understood.’ Emilia smiled at the guard, who stared woodenly back before she followed her guide into the long entrance hallway. It took a few moments for her details to be registered, her passport scrutinised and the all-important pass to be issued and she was then led down the corridor, rooms pointed out as they went.
‘That’s the main aides’ office, the housekeeper’s room and the garde de campe’s suite. You’ll find the kitchens along there, turn right and down the stairs; the staff dining room is next to it. Breakfast is available between six and eight, lunch between noon and two and dinner from eight. If you require anything in the meantime, ask a page and she or he will get it for you. You do not help yourself. Most people are fluent in English; the official language is French, but day-to-day we speak an Armarian dialect which is a mixture of Italian and French.’
‘I have passable Italian and my mother was French so I should be fine,’ Emilia reassured her and the confidence elicited a begrudging smile. This lady was a difficult audience, but she’d had worse.
‘Your pass gives you access to everywhere you should need to go. If it’s locked then it’s a private area, accessible only to the royal family and their immediate staff. You are not to trespass. This side of the castle is the administrative and housekeeping wing and so the royal family are very unlikely to be seen back here, nor should you encounter any Members of Parliament; their offices and debating chambers are on the other side of the castle. If you should see the Archduke or his mother you curtsey and do not speak until spoken to. If you need to check anything with them, you ask me and I will arrange it.’
‘Great. And you are?’
The thin lips pursed even tighter. ‘Contessa Sophy D’Arbe. The Archduchess’s secretary.’
‘Got it.’ Emilia looked around her with interest. Although the windows were narrow and glazed with ancient-looking glass, the curved ceilings high and the stone underfoot uneven, grey and very old, the corridors were still impersonal and corporate, with nondescript watercolours on the walls and the painted, closed doors were numbered like in any work space.
‘Your office is on the floor below; it’s small and a little dark, but it was the only space we had available. It should have everything you need, including lists of all the palace suppliers. Your bedroom is in the attic. The key to your room and directions to all areas of the castle are on your desk and your belongings have already been taken to your room.’ The Contessa came to a stop by a narrow staircase and nodded to it. ‘Your security pass will unlock your office door. Down those stairs, turn right, room twelve. If you need any refreshments, ask a page. I’ll arrange a meeting with you tomorrow to see how you’ve got on. Oh, and welcome to Armaria.’ And with that the Contessa nodded one more time before sweeping away without a backward glance.
Emilia stood at the top of the stairs, torn between an urge to laugh and an urge to turn around and scamper back to the safety of her Chelsea home as fast as she could. ‘The Contessa and Simone seem destined to become BFFs,’ she muttered. ‘I must introduce them.’ Right. She took a deep breath. Time to find and check out the adequate office. Time to locate a page and order some much-needed coffee. Time to write out her first of what would be many to-do lists. And then time to familiarise herself with the castle and the grounds. She had all this wonderful, old, picturesque space to play with. The more she had to do, the less time she had to worry about actually seeing her father. It was time to get busy.
* * *
‘Ah, Your Highness...’
‘His Royal Highness will know the answer...’
Eyes forward, head up, Laurent silently repeated as he swept down the grand corridor, determinedly not looking left, right or up onto the gallery, where at least three people were trying to grab his attention. He slid his gaze slightly to the right to ensure his Armarian Spaniel, Pomme, was following him, then snapped them straight ahead, allowing one hand to briefly rest on the dog’s head as he marched on.
It came