Two
FRIEDRICH
Anticipation sizzlesas Miles and I ride the elevator from the basement garage to the top floor of the tallest building in the financial district. A special key card is required to access the thirtieth floor—an invitation-only club frequented by members of the aristocracy, government, visiting dignitaries, and a handful of investment bankers and real estate moguls.
The elevator opens into a small foyer. Everything is black, the floors, the walls, the suit of the bulky, retired military man standing at the heavy black door; even the tasteful Christmas garlands that faintly sparkle in the dim triangles of yellow light from art deco wall sconces.
The bouncer checks our IDs, protocol even though I’m perhaps the most recognizable face in the country, and Miles is a regular, invited for his involvement with me. The only member list exists in a binder with ournames and pictures that’s kept under lock and key by The Club’s owner. The bouncers have to memorize them all; a written or computerized list would be too easy to fall into the wrong hands.
He opens the door for us, allowing a peek of dim blue light into the hallway. The door had completely blocked the hum of music, and something sad is playing as we enter. A wall stands in front of the door, so the interior of the club can’t be seen from the outside. We turn the corner and leave our coats—phones were left at security on the bottom floor—with the check girl wearing the requisite black dress of a server. The only rule is black; the rest is up to each worker’s interpretation. Her spaghetti strap deep-v number might have drawn the attention of many of the patrons, men and women alike; there are no rules against such, but I’m not one for petite blondes.
The bar is mostly empty when we arrive; there were many members at the party Miles and I had just left. Business will pick up when that ends. The number one rule of The Club: you don’t recognize members on the outside.
Several well-dressed men and women are sitting on the sofas and chairs scattered about in conversational groupings. More servers saunter about in their black uniforms, delivering drinks and chatting flirtatiously. Miles and I order at the bar and are about to take our usual place at a plush sectional in the corner when someone calls my name.
My cousin, Princess Beatrix, waves us over to a group in the middle of the room.
“I didn’t expect you until later,” she trills, making a little finger wave to Miles. I give my cousin a quick air kiss, cheek to cheek.
“I see you made a hasty getaway of your own.”
Trixie shrugs as a redhead slides into her lap, a drink in each hand. Trixie takes one of the offered beverages, some sort of overly sweet concoction served in a martini glass with a sugared rim, and wraps her other arm around the redhead’s slender waist.
There are a few other women draped across the couches, and for the first time tonight, no one curtsies or greets me with anything more than a nod and a hello. It’s part of why I love this place. I drop into an open chair and watch a couple of men pass through a side door. The music bumps a little louder through there, bright blue and flashing lights shining through. I sip my drink, hardly paying attention to the conversation around me; I am still a little on edge from my chance meeting earlier tonight. My cock has come to heel, and my mind is clearer, but still wanders to the cascade of auburn waves framing the soft angles of her face.
Aurelia.
The conversation gets quiet, and I notice everyone looking at me. “Shit, sorry, what was that?” I fumble.
“Forgive him,” Miles interjects. “His brain is still in his dick.”
“She must be really something to have you sodistracted, Fritz,” Trixie says from somewhere under a mass of red curls.
“Who says it’s a she?” I fire back over the rim of my glass.
“You’re not known to pine over men.”
Miles shifts stiffly beside me.
“I’m not pining,” I grumble.
Trixie doesn’t respond to my objections, though. She’s gone back to trailing kisses along the neck of her lap-bunny, the red-haired woman’s eyes closing in enjoyment.
Miles puts his arm around my shoulders. “This is good, Fritz. You haven’t looked at anyone in that way in a long time. Not since?—”
“I don’t see how that’s good,” I cut him off before he can bring up my last serious girlfriend. “Considering what’s coming up.”
“Yes, so back to the original question,” one of the other women on the couch chimes in. Lady Rosamund McCall, wife to the Viscount McCall. Rumor has it he’s never been able to get it up, and so the children are actually his valet’s. And hence the reason his wife frequents this particular Club.
I feel a little sheepish. “Yeah, I didn’t catch the original question.”
Miles and Trixie shoot each other a knowing glance. My best friend and my closest cousin can read me like a book. I would sayonlycousin, but her father, the abdicated and exiled former king, has a handful ofgremlins running around somewhere in South America.
“What are your thoughts on this courtship scheme parliament has cooked up?” Rosamund reiterates.
I glance over at my cousin, who is pointedly not looking at me as she sips her drink.So much for secrecy.The news will break to the whole country tomorrow, but I see the gossip mill is already churning.
I sigh. “Honestly? At this point, I’d rather the king and parliament just pick someone for me and be done with it.”
