“Gus, stop moving.” She grabbed his wrist. “You’ll make it worse. Get up. Let me look.”
“Wait.” He pulled free. “Listen. Where is the sound coming from?” He raised up a few inches, walked the chair forward, and then sat back down. Daffy almost fainted. Again, not really. But what was he doing to her?
The chair moaned and squeaked as he jiggled in his seat. “Feels like the right side.”
“Gus… Your Royal Highness…as a representative of the Royal Trust I mustinsistyou get out of that chair. Now.” Her deep voice was weak with anxiety. If he broke theTitus, it’d be her job. Sacked without a plea.
He leaned over the arm to see under the seat, still moving and listening. “As a member of the Royal Family, I insist I find the weakness in my ancestor’s throne.”
“As a member of the Royal Trust, I remind you that all artifacts are under our jurisdiction, not the House of Blue’s.”
“As a member of the royal family—House of Blue, as you say—I remindyouthat all royal departments and staff are subject to Her Majesty, the Queen, and thus so funded.”
Daffy clung to her tablet, eyes closed, inhaling, exhaling. Good grief. How was she caught up in such an absurd argument?
“As a member of the Royal Trust, I remind you the House of Blue, and thus the Royal Trust, are also funded by Parliament and the people of Lauchtenland. Now get out of that chair!”
Gus held up one hand. “Simmer down, lass. Give me a moment. I’ve fixed chairs before.” Again, he scooted the chair forward. But not with any care or concern. No, his senses were dulled by seven, eight pints. “There. Do you hear it?”
Rising up, Gus dropped down on the seat with force, then rocked against the chair’s back. Not once but twice. Three times.
The cracking was unmistakable. Like ice breaking during the first spring thaw. Just one fault on the surface and the whole blooming block shattered across the water.
“Gus—” But Daffy was too late. The right side legs splintered under his weight. The back broke away, pulling the rare purple fabric from the seat andkaboom! Prince Augustus Carwyn George Blue, along with the chair, landed in a heap on the hard, polished pinewood.
Chapter Ten
Gus
Next time he went to theBelly of the Beast—how fitting the name come morning time—he’d insist Ernst serve him no more than one pint.One.Not one glass filled many times over, thank you. Nevertheless, Ernst was an all-too-gracious host.
He’d avoided drink during the “great humiliations,” choosing to stifle his pain with ice cream, puffs, and pizza. Yet Ernst meant no harm. To him it was a crime for any man to sit long in his pub, catching up with his mates, and not raise a pint.
In the bathroom, Gus splashed his face with cold water and remembered he had a meeting with the wedding ball planners this morning.
But something nagged at him…something more than the dull ache over his left eye from too much ale. Something in his belly. Like a twisting regret.
Wandering into his living lounge where the blazing sun rudely splashed through the high windows, he collapsed on the couch with a sigh. What happened last night that…
He sat up. TheTitus.Daffy. The crack. Carrying the splintered chair up the Grand Stairs.Oh no. Oh no.The twisting regret became a clear reality. He’d broken the chair.
“Your Highness?” He turned at the knock on his door. Hemstead. “Gym. Ten minutes.”
Gus toppled over and landed face first on a brocade cushion. Why did he ask his protection officer to act as his trainer?
Even worse, he’d have to face Hemstead and deal with the consequences of leaving him behind. Then face Daffy and the problem—no, disaster—of the chair.
“Sir?”
“On my way.” Gus paused at the snack station on his kitchen island. Better not. It’d only come up after the first set of Hemstead’s mountain climbers.
As expected, the former special forces officer put the prince through a brutal workout, as if penalizing him for disappearing last night. It took all Gus had to remain upright. When Hem released him, he stumbled back to his apartment, showered, and blended a protein shake.
He felt surprisingly renewed and focused enough for the planning meeting. But first, he had to find Daffy. Down the back stairs to the servants’ hall, he inquired of Cranston.
“Have you seen Miss Caron?”
“I imagine she’s in the Grand Gallery. With the dresses.”
