“I’ll be outside.” Justin backed away from the door. “Night Miss Gemma.”
“Give my love to your parents.”
Imani turned to her. “One question. Do you love the prince?”
“He was my friend. He said I was his best friend.”
“But do you love him?”
“Imani, I—”
“Gemma, yes or no. Do you love him?”
She was about to answer honestly when a door slammed and Mama called out she was home. Then Daddy. Next the dog barking frenzy began, their yips and snarls filling the double-wide. Last but not least, Mama announced fried chicken for dinner.
“We should get out there before Daddy feeds all the dark meat to Barksy,” Gemma said.
“Tell me.” Imani gripped Gemma’s arm. “Please.”
“What was the question again?”
“Do you love Prince John?”
Imani’s question was so sweet, so sincere, Gemma could not stop the tears. “Yes, I believe I do.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
John
He traveled to Dalholm every weekend in September. Briley grew stronger and braver each week.
Wilford was a splendid groom but he took no credit for Briley’s health other than to say he’d attended the beast.
“It was that man, Emmanuel.”
Yet John was beginning to doubt Emmanuel. Why the mystery? Why come and go without a word? What was his scheme?
On this Saturday night, he joined Wilford—with faithful Gunner at a table by the door—at the Belly of the Beast for fish and chips, and a pint or two.
His Mondays through Fridays were stressful between the court case he sat on, filling the queen’s duties as well as his own, and dodging the continued fallout of the Reingard case.
The Solicitor General’s office of the Justice Ministry found there was enough evidence to indict Lord Cunningham. He would stand for trial.
His reaction was vicious, pledging to take down everyone with him, including the House of Blue. He found an immediate ally in MP Hamish Fickle.
The social media threads were explosive as well. No member of the House of Lords had been indicted since the eighteenth century.
If John was called to testify, he had one simple, truthful answer.“I knew nothing about it.”
Tonight, the Belly was lively. Every table full and popping with the native shorthand. It was the rhythm and music of the pub.
“On me.” Ernst, the proprietor of the oldest pub in Dalholm, maybe even Lauchtenland, set down a plate of battered, deep-fried fish. “Horse? Good?”
“Yes, Ernst, Briley is still good. He’s fantastic.” There was a concern Briley might develop laminitis, but Wilford cleared the him last week.
“Marvel, yer maj.” Yer maj was Ernst’s accepted nickname for the princes.
The large man moved to stir the fire then welcomed a man at the door. “In. Sit. Pint?”
