The protest, uttered in disgust, came from Nikolas Donovan. He was sitting on his small balcony that overlooked the sea, having breakfast alone. Only seagulls heard his words as he threw down the newspaper. A breeze ruffled the pages that came to rest on the round glass-top table. He hardly noticed.
The article that had stirred his ire dealt with the prince’s resent death. It was the fifth in as many days. His death filled all the papers. Articles examining his life, his foibles and addictions, his lineage, abounded everywhere. Ad nauseum. Even if he’d liked the man, which he vehemently didn’t, he would have been sick of him by now.
The article that had gotten to him dealt with speculation as to whether or not the cause of the prince’s final curtain call from life was the result of an accident, or intentional. And if it was the latter, whose intention had been followed? The prince’s or someone else’s? Had the prince, the article demanded self-righteously, been the victim of some kind of plot?
If it was the latter, the article went on to say, then perhaps attention might be well drawn to the Union for Democracy.
Slate gray eyes had grown dangerously dark as Nikolas struggled with his temper. Rising, he shoved his hands into his pants and stared out at the sea.
Nikolas Donovan was the head of the Union for Democracy, an anti-monarchy organization that had been in existence only a short amount of time, about five years. But in that time, he was proud of the fact that no one had resorted to any kind of actual violence.
Unlike the monarchy, he thought darkly.
It was because Silvershire was not a democratic state that his own parents had been killed when he was a baby. Killed by the man who now sat on the throne, he’d been told by his uncle. Uncle Silas, his father’s brother, had raised him from the time he was a baby. It had been Silas who had drummed into his head, for as long as he could remember, that power belonged to the people, not to one person solely because of the accident of birth. Silas advocated a complete overthrow of the monarchy.
For his part, Nikolas was working to have a gradual change come about. If nothing else, his group wanted to get a stronger voice in the government. So that self-absorbed narcissists like the late Prince Reginald did not pose a threat to the common man.
His handsome features became almost dark as Nikolas’s thoughts turned to the late prince. He’d known Reginald personally. They were the same age and had, Reginald by privilege and he by the sweat of his brow, attended the same schools together. Their paths at Eton and Oxford had crossed on occasion. But for the most part, he was absorbed in his studies and Reginald had been too busy bedding anything that moved.
Even back then, he had been a man with a mission. That mission had been, and still was, to bring a better form of government to his country.
However, that mission hadn’t included killing the present-day crown prince, no matter how much he personally loathed and despised the man.
That the prince was dead evoked no sense of sorrow from him. Nikolas was certain that, had Reginald ascended to the throne, he would have abused his power, just as he had abused it as a young man at Oxford. There was no question in his mind that the country was definitely better off without him.
Russell, Duke of Carrington, the man who stood next in line, whose marriage to the Princess Amelia of Gastonia earlier this week had all but solidified the man’s position in the scheme of things, was a better choice from what he knew of him, but still not the ideal one. The ideal choice would have been no king at all, because Silvershire deserved to be a democracy. A democracy where the people had a say in the government that ruled them.
He would go to his grave believing that.
In the last year, he had pulled out all the stops, urging anyone who would listen to join the movement, to make it bigger, stronger. A voice to be reckoned with. Presently, it was mostly comprised of people his own age and younger. The generation that had come before, ironically, his parents generation had they lived, believed in tradition, in maintaining the status quo. But they did not have as much at stake, as much to lose, as the younger generation did.
As he did, Nikolas thought. His generation was not complacent, would not go gentle into that good night like obedient sheep. Moreover, it was his dearest, heartfelt, fervent desire to avenge the death of his parents and make King Weston step down.
And have no man of royal blood step up to take his place.
He and his organization had stirred things up when they could, making people aware that they should demand a voice, a choice. The Union for Democracy had caused disruptions whenever they could to wake people up. But killing was another matter. He would have thought that had been made abundantly clear to anyone who knew of the group.
That the rumors even hinted that he and his followers were behind the prince’s death was ridiculous. But he knew how these things spread. Knew, too, that it didn’t take much to set people off against one another.
Though he didn’t like the idea, he knew that he and his followers were going to have to be prepared for the worst.
Nikolas left the rest of his breakfast untouched as he went inside to see about getting together with his key people and making sure that the word went out that the Union for Democracy had nothing to do with the prince’s death. Though he always advocated the mind over the sword, there was no place for martyrs in his plans. They had to be ready to fight if it came down to that.
In another town, the man whose neighbors knew him as Silas Donovan smiled to himself as he read the same article. It had begun. The unrest, the discord he’d hoped for, had plotted for and nurtured, was beginning.
He’d waited a very long time for this. Forever, it seemed. But revenge was finally taking form. Revenge against the man who had ruined his life. Who had taken his birthright. And the instrument he would use to bring it all about was a very personal one. When all was revealed, the significance would not be lost on Weston.
He could hardly wait.
Weston was grieving now. The so-called monarch would grieve even more very soon.
Silas Donovan began to laugh to himself. Anyone who would have heard him would have shivered from the malevolent sound.
King Weston looked at the young man before him for a long moment before finally responding. Grieving, still saying goodbye and unable to make himself give the order that would allow the autopsy to take place, the monarch was having trouble processing the information he had just been given.
It meant that he didn’t have to say goodbye to his son. Not completely.
“A child, you say?”
Russell had begun to think that perhaps the monarch hadn’t heard him. Since Reginald’s death, Weston had withdrawn into himself to the point that there were times when he seemed to shut out the rest of the world entirely. He was a changed man, changed completely from the genial ruler he had been.
“Yes.”
Weston took a breath, as if he’d been holding it, waiting for the right answer. “And it’s Reginald’s?”
Russell wanted to be completely honest with the king. That meant not giving the man any undue false hopes. “We’re not sure of that yet. Ms. Cordez has managed to find only a handful of e-mails from the woman. It’s going to take some time to put all the pieces of the puzzle together. And then, of course, there’ll have to be DNA testing to substantiate her claim.”
“Of course.” Weston nodded. But the look in his eyes had become eager. It gave him a shred of hope, of something to hang on to. “Does anyone know who and where this woman is?”
“We know who, or at least the name she was using.” The king looked at him, waiting. “Sydney Connor,” he told the monarch. “But as to her whereabouts, again, we’re not sure.”
“Find her,” Weston ordered.
The directive “immediately” was understood. Russell began