Everyone sat, and the Prince turned to Theo. ‘It is good to meet you at last, Theo Mylonakos. Do you find your accommodations comfortable?’ he quietly inquired.
‘Exceedingly so, Prince Rafael, I thank you for extending me your hospitality.’
‘What else could I do?’ he said, his arms raised either side, ‘But welcome the man who has brought my errant sister home. You have done our principality a great service.’
Then he turned to the room. ‘It is a beautiful day,’ he said, his voice booming in the vast banqueting room. ‘I have called this banquet in honour of my sister and our Princess Isabella being returned to us and our family reunited. It is a day for celebration. It is a day for celebrating family.
‘And I have to thank my firm friend, Theo Mylonakos, for making it possible. This man, above all odds, found our adventure-seeking princess and brought her home.’
Applause met his words, the guests universal in their nods and smiles and the enthusiasm of their applause.
Applause that didn’t sit well with him when Theo was in more doubt that he’d done the wrong thing, and he deserved censure rather than applause.
‘But right now, there is a feast to be enjoyed. Please,’ the Prince said, benevolently spreading his arms out wide. ‘Enjoy.’
A bevy of waiters delivered platters of food to the table. Fluffy flatbreads and dips, salads and other offerings. There was spit-roasted lamb, lemon-roasted chicken and potatoes along with baked fish and eggplants roasted in a garlic yoghurt sauce. Along with of course, the paella for which the coast was famous.
Theo sampled it all. To the left there sat the Prince, to his right there sat the head of the security services who made polite conversation about Theo’s work.
Music interludes smoothed the spaces between the conversation, but all the while he was watching what he said while keeping an eye on what Isabella was doing.
She barely made a move towards the food. Despite her make-up, she looked pale, her eyes wary. The man next to her—the Count—seemed to dominate her, directing her choices to what he permitted her to eat. He was middle-aged, Theo guessed. Probably in his fifties. And Theo’s gut churned.
Minute by minute as the meal progressed, the sick feeling—the fear—inside Theo grew. Theo tried to engage with the Princess a few times, but the Count soon shut down the conversation. Theo wanted to shut him down. But he couldn’t do that. But still his senses crawled. And Theo hated it.
The dinner was winding to an end, the Prince calling for a toast.
Theo imagined that it would be a toast to him, for bringing his sister home. But no. It was a toast to his sister’s upcoming marriage, to the Count Lorenzo di Stasio, a wedding that would take place tomorrow.
And after he’d dropped that thunderclap, he turned to Theo, and said, ‘Of course, you must be here for the wedding. I insist. The union that you’ve made possible.’
The Count smiled and bowed while the Princess shrank in her seat, looking more afraid than he’d ever seen her.
The Princess hadn’t been lying.
Why that should have smacked into his head with the force it did made no sense. Hadn’t he been suspicious of the Prince’s flimsy story? Hadn’t he been partial to believing hers, of her brother’s bullying, of his cruelty? At least until they’d made love and he’d discovered that she’d omitted to tell him that she was still a virgin and he’d wanted to punish her.
‘Congratulations,’ Theo said through clenched teeth, recovering enough to raise a glass. ‘Of course, I’ll be here to witness the happy event. To the happy couple.’
Everyone joined in with the toast. Everyone he noticed, apart from Isabella, who skewered him with daggers from her hazel eyes.
And he knew he deserved every one of them. He’d failed to believe her. He’d let her down. And so much of her marriage tomorrow was of his doing. He’d delivered her up to this. Because he was angry with her. Because she’d been a virgin and she’d led him to believe otherwise. Any sympathy for the Princess had evaporated on the spot. He was taking her home. Instead, he’d brought her to the gates of hell of a forced marriage.
Her head was turned towards the table, but her eyes were upturned to his and he saw them glaring at him. Hating him.
And he knew he deserved it.
But what did she expect him to say? How could he object? How could he protest? He was in Rubanestein. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t simply snatch up the Princess and run. They would be caught before they reached the airport, his jet already impounded.
No, he needed another way. His mind scrabbled to find one. He could not leave the Princess to marry this wiry, aged Count, who did not deserve to sit next to her, let alone share her bed.
It came to him as the banquet wound down, desserts served and consumed. It was clear that Prince Rafael was a man motivated by money. It was also clear during the banquet that he was a man fond of his wine.
The banquet at an end, the Prince invited Theo, the Count and the Princess to repair to the salon for port and cigars. The men sprawled in armchairs, while Isabella sat apart, her posture stiffly erect, looking more and more downcast.
Theo accepted the cigar, also accepting a glass of port while the other men employed cigar cutters to remove the cap before lightly toasting the end.
The Prince watched on, as if in no hurry to light his own cigar. ‘I have to hand it to you, Theo, we thought your business had failed in your quest to find the Princess. The agents I sent out to follow you admitted that they were no match.’
