My Best Friend's Royal Wedding Read online

  Then I turn and walk out, my hands shaking so hard the glass wobbles dangerously on the tray.

  Chapter 1

  Adam

  One year later …

  As we crown the rise that separates the estate from the outside world, I see an ominous black car pull up beside the stable block and groan aloud. The sleek stretch limo with its dark-tinted windows can’t mean anything good. My horse, sensing home and her nosebag of hay, picks up her pace, but I’m less keen. Whoever is being driven in that vehicle, it’s certainly not anyone I want to see. Has my father sent someone from the office to check why I’m skiving off work again? I wonder if I should turn around and keep riding until the unwelcome visitor is gone. Riding is my one escape, my only chance to be alone, away from the stifling confines of family and work and expectations, and I resent this intrusion.

  But Bonney is growing tired and needs a rub down and a rest. Unwillingly, I keep her on course. I slow her to a walk, though, reluctant to find out what this visitor wants from me. Because there is no doubt that it’s me that he – or she – wants, and I am so tired of everyone wanting things from me that I can’t give.

  By the time I reach the red-brick stables, a relic of the Victorian era, a groom has already come running to take the reins. I dismount, just as the uniformed chauffeur leaning up against the vehicle moves to open the limo door. The visitor who steps out is tall and slim, grey-haired and wearing rimless glasses. I don’t recognise him, so maybe he hasn’t been sent to drag me back to the city for some mindlessly boring meeting I forgot.

  “Adam Hatton?” the man asks.

  I nod, otherwise ignoring him as I give Bonney the apple slices out my pocket and a pat, before relinquishing her to the hovering groom.

  “My name is János Alsóvári.”

  The name doesn’t ring any bells, but it’s enough to tell me where the visitor is from. Or rather who. “My uncle sent you?” I ask, stripping off my riding gloves and finally turning to face him. And that can only mean one thing: my cousin Nick has got himself into some kind of trouble again. His escapades are growing tiresome. He’s over thirty, for heaven’s sake, and well past the age when all-night parties at Mahiki, losing a small fortune gambling, or getting photographed with drunk and/or naked women should have lost its appeal. When is he ever going to grow up?

  “What has Nick done now?” I ask, unable to hold back a sigh.

  The visitor clears his throat. “It is my unfortunate duty to inform you that Prince Nicholas died this morning.”

  I freeze in the process of removing my second glove. Maybe I heard him wrong?

  But the man’s face tells me I didn’t misunderstand his words. He looks the way I feel. Tired.

  “What happened?” I manage at last.

  “He wrapped his roadster around a tree in the early hours.”

  “He was drunk?”

  “Of course.” The man’s expression remains neutral, but his lips press together, betraying his disapproval.

  “Was anyone else injured?”

  János shakes his head and I breathe out a sigh of relief. At least Nick didn’t take anyone with him. Where were his bodyguards? I rub a hand across my face, trying to process the news. I shouldn’t be surprised. The way Nick lived, hard, fast and completely without regard for anyone or anything, an early death was almost inevitable. Still, it feels as if a sledgehammer has slammed into my chest.

  Nick. I saw him at the polo club just last weekend. And we’re supposed to play a match on Sunday. I know I shouldn’t be thinking of something like that right now, but I can’t help but wonder who we’ll get to replace him at such short notice. Rik’s halfway around the world in the Caribbean with his new bride, and these days Max is too busy being a prince. Everyone else I know who’s any good is already in a team.

  “Your uncle requests a meeting with you. He is at the townhouse in London.”

  I’d almost forgotten the visitor was still here. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  János’ lips press together again. “Now.”

  “I’m hardly dressed for a meeting.” I glance down at my jeans and muddied riding boots.

  “His Royal Highness requests your presence. Your attire is of no consequence.”

  I shrug, and allow the man to bundle me into the limo. The chauffeur takes his seat up front. The dark glass is up between the front and back, leaving János and me alone in the back. The car pulls away, following the curve of the drive through a copse of trees and past the neo-classical mansion that’s been the Hatton family country seat for just two generations. My mobile phone and wallet are upstairs, still in the jacket of the three-piece suit I wore to work this morning, but I suppose I’ll hardly need them where we’re going.

  “What does my uncle want with me?” I ask János. Though in my head the question is phrased a little less politely. After all, there’s nothing more I can do for Nick now. Unless Uncle Lajos is already planning the funeral, and wants me to get involved. But my uncle has never done anything in haste, which is why this whole mad rush seems bizarre.

  Or does he hold me responsible for Nick’s death? He hasn’t held me responsible for Nick’s behaviour before, even though I’ve felt responsible.

  János doesn’t answer. I want to ask how he found me. I lied and told my secretary I was meeting a client when I left the office early this morning. The groom is the only one who even knew I’d come home to my parents’ house. Lucky guess, or does my uncle have some sort of scary intelligence network at his disposal? Since I know I wouldn’t get an answer to that question, I don’t bother asking.

  I lean my head back against the plush leather seat, and close my eyes. János makes a call, speaking in the dialect of my mother’s homeland, a language I’ve never really got the hang of, but even I can tell it sounds like damage control. My thoughts drift, not really settling on any one thing. I think of how proud Nick was of that damned car, and how he always drove too fast. Has my mother heard the news yet? She wasn’t home when I arrived earlier. And my sister Jemmy? She’s away on a business trip in New York, so most likely not. I hope they don’t hear of Nick’s death through the media. Though it’s unlikely they’ll grieve much. Nick burned a lot of bridges with the family these last few years.

  János’ voice drones on in the background as he makes phone call after phone call. Since I barely understand half of what he’s saying, I don’t bother to listen in.

  The drive from Hertfordshire into the heart of Belgravia takes over an hour, but I only open my eyes again when the car slows for the congestion of London’s narrow streets. Beyond the air-conditioned bubble of the car, the city seems to shimmer with the summer heat. I left London just a few hours ago to escape its humidity and the press of tourists. I really didn’t plan to be back so soon. I rub a hand over my eyes. The weariness that is my constant companion these days weighs even heavier on my shoulders than usual. Perhaps because now it’s more than just weariness. There’s guilt mixed in there too. I roll out the tension in my neck, but it doesn’t help.

  The limo pulls to a stop outside the elegant Georgian townhouse that has been the embassy and London bolthole of the Erdély royal family since 1938, when my great-grandfather brought the family here to escape the Austrian Anschluss. Apparently it was considered an act of cowardice, and his people never forgave him, but I personally am rather grateful. My grandfather, just in his early twenties when the war started, was an outspoken critic of the Nazis and he would almost certainly have been killed if he’d stayed, and then I wouldn’t have been born. Suffocating as my life has become lately, I’m rather attached to it.

  Uniformed guards swing open the gates and the car rolls forward, up the short drive to the imposing front entrance. There are no photographers at the gate so clearly the news hasn’t broken yet. It won’t take long, I’m sure. When a young playboy prince dies, it’s headline news, even if he was hereditary prince of a country most people have never even heard of. That, at least, is a small silver lining
to Nick’s death – by tomorrow, there’ll be quite a few people Googling Erdély to see where the hell it is. The tiny principality sandwiched at the junction of Austria, Hungary and Slovenia is about to get famous for all the wrong reasons.

  Another uniformed guard opens the limo door, and yet another holds open the front door for us. János stands back, waiting for me to enter first, so I step over the threshold into the cool, marble-floored entrance hall. I find the hall just as intimidating now as I did as a kid when we visited my grandfather here.

  “His Royal Highness is in the library,” the footman at the door says over my shoulder to János. His use of English is no doubt for my benefit.

  The library is a double-volumed room at the back of the house, overlooking the neat lawn where Nick and I used to play cricket. We hit a cricket ball through one of its high, stained-glass windows a lifetime ago. There’s no sign of the damage now.

  My uncle, looking considerably greyer than the last time we met, stands before the window, staring out at the garden as if he isn’t really seeing it. He cradles a whiskey tumbler in his hands, though it isn’t yet noon and he’s never been a big drinker. Unlike his son.

  I step further into the room and János shuts the door behind me, leaving us alone. I can’t remember when last I met my uncle alone, if ever.

  “I am so sorry,” I say. The words feel inadequate, but what else does one say to a man who has just lost his only child? “How is my aunt?”

  Uncle Lajos turns slowly to face me. His eyes, so similar to mine I’ve been told, are grave. “She is sleeping. We had to make her take a strong sedative.”

  I nod. Aunt Sonja adored her son, blindly.

  Lajos sets down the tumbler. “We spoiled him. We let him do as he pleased.”

  Since a response clearly isn’t expected of me, I wait for him to get to the point.

  “Nicholas was my heir,” the older man says needlessly. “Erdély will need a new crown prince.”

  It seems callous to be thinking of who is next in line, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that thought hadn’t already crossed my mind during the long drive here. “Mátyás is next in line,” I answer promptly. Though my other cousin is five years younger than me, his mother was the elder sister.

  “Your cousin Mátyás is cut from the same cloth as my own son. Too indulged and too self-absorbed. Erdély cannot afford any more public embarrassment.”

  He looks at me intently, as if trying to look deep inside me. I choke on an intake of breath as realisation dawns. “You called me here to make me your heir? But Mátyás …”

  Lajos shakes his head. “Our laws state that the Fürst of Erdély may choose his own successor, as long as his choice is a blood relative.”

  I feel like a fish trying to breathe out of water. “I don’t even understand the language!” And I most certainly don’t want this! I don’t even want the job I already have. I have no idea what I want.

  “You’ll learn it soon enough.” Lajos’ voice is calm but brittle.

  Under any other circumstances, I would have thought my uncle was having me on. After all, grief makes people do crazy things, doesn’t it?

  I’m just as indulged, just as selfish, as my cousins. Okay, so I dialled down the partying a little this last year, but I’m still not exactly princely material. I haven’t achieved anything of value with my life, and I’m hardly likely to start now. I’m not sure I even have the energy to try.

  Lajos stands taller, looking very much what he is – the ruler of a nation. “You have a job in your father’s firm, and I hear that you are even good at it. You achieved a first in your MBA so you clearly have brains. You’re one of the few people Nicholas ever listened to, and you’re the least likely of my nephews to drink himself into an early grave.”

  For a moment, grief etches lines into his face before he regains control of his expression. I take just a little longer to recover from the sudden slash of pain in the vicinity of my heart. Nick’s isn’t the first violent death I’ve known. It’s not the first I feel part-way responsible for either. But I can’t think of that now. “If you can choose your successor, then my sister would be a far better choice,” I manage at last.

  “Jemima is an admirable young woman, and undoubtedly would make a far better ruler than either you or Mátyás, but the law is clear: only a male may inherit.”

  “That’s positively archaic.”

  “If you feel strongly about it, then when you are Fürst you may attempt to change the laws. I have had other battles to fight.”

  I’m well aware what those battles have been. There have been calls for Erdély to scrap its royal family since my great-grandfather’s day, and Lajos has had a hell of a job convincing the people his title is still worth something. It’s only been since his accession a couple of decades back that women have been granted the right to vote, and gay marriage was only legalised mere years ago. Lajos was instrumental in passing both pieces of legislation. The tiny principality hasn’t been in any hurry to join the twenty-first century. Yet another reason I want nothing to do with the place. I like my twenty-first century comforts.

  “I haven’t been to Erdély in years! I don’t even remember the place,” I protest, aware I’m scrabbling for excuses.

  “Again, that is something that is easily rectified.” My uncle reaches for the whiskey tumbler and takes a long sip. His hand shakes, betraying unexpected emotion. “I will not force you to accept this role. Mátyás will no doubt be delighted to accept, should you decline.” His lips purse together, just as János’ did earlier. Is that an Erdélian thing? “But I will ask that you at least consider my request. By law, when Nicholas’ funeral is over, I must announce my successor. We can delay the funeral by one month, but no longer. You have until then to let me know your choice.”

  One month to decide my entire future? If it were that easy, sometime over this last year I would have figured out what the hell I want to do with my life. And my uncle isn’t offering me a job I can walk away from if it doesn’t work out. There’ll be no trial period if I accept.

  I’m pretty sure I know already what my answer will be, and it’s a very easy decision. No, thank you. I may be bored with my current life, but I’m still rather attached to doing what I want, when I want to seriously consider one day carrying the burden of an entire country on my shoulders, for ever and ever until death us do part.

  But I can’t tell him that now, not here or like this, and certainly not until I’ve figured out how to politely decline his offer.

  So I shrug. “Sure. I’ll think about it.”

  ***

  The drive back to Hertfordshire seems to take even longer. Perhaps because it’s now Friday afternoon and the mad commuter rush out to the suburbs has begun. At least I have the back of the car to myself, and the chauffeur still has the dark glass up. I need time alone to process everything. Nick being dead. That other, long ago death that sometimes still knocks the wind out of me when I remember. And my uncle’s offer.

  I’ve spent a lot of time this past year trying to picture my future, and not one of those scenarios featured me being a prince. And certainly not a future ruler. Not that it bothered Nick much. He hardly ever visited Erdély because he said it was boring (by which I presume he meant there wasn’t any good gambling), and he’d never shown the least interest in being responsible for anything, but if I say yes to Lajos’ crazy offer there’s no way I’ll be treated with the same leniency. I’ll need to step up, and that’s the one thing I am really not good at doing.

  But if I say no, what will I do with the next fifty plus years of my life? I went to work in the family business after uni because I’m good with numbers and have a natural flair for talking clients into trusting me with their money, but it’s pretty obvious to anyone who really knows me that my heart isn’t in it. If I’m still there in another five years, I think I’ll need a straitjacket.

  If I were a better person, I guess I’d do something useful with my life, like build hou
ses for the homeless in South America, or bring clean drinking water to villages in Africa. But I like the comforts of home far too much. I even briefly toyed with the idea of doing what my best friend Rik does these days: sail the Caribbean. But I gave him my yacht as a wedding gift, and couldn’t be bothered going shopping for another one.

  And yes, I am fully aware how self-indulgent and entitled that sounds. Poor little rich boy. Has enough money to do anything he wants, but nothing appeals. Maybe being a crown prince would be a lark … But I don’t even know what the job entails. I’m an investment broker, for heaven’s sake. I could ask Max, Rik’s brother. He’s archduke of another of those tiny European principalities no one has ever heard of. But at least Westerwald has vineyards. And a city.

  And thinking of Max I groan out loud. I was really looking forward to his bachelor party next week – but how will it look now if I go partying with the Archduke of Westerwald when I’m supposed to be in mourning for Nick? Though Nick would be the first person to tell me that life is for the living and to go to the damn party.

  ***

  Even though I have my own loft apartment in the city, Hartham Manor still feels like home. It’s more than four times the size of the Belgravia townhouse I just visited, but with its mellow red brick façade and wildflower-filled gardens it feels far more welcoming. While my maternal great-grandfather ran away from his country in its time of need, my paternal great-grandfather was an East End nobody who, with nothing more than his own gumption, made himself into a somebody. He bought this stately home in his quest to move up the ranks of England’s strictly hierarchical society. Even with his big dreams of joining the aristocracy, I don’t think he imagined for even a moment that his grandson – my father – would be a respected member of the old boy network, or that he’d marry a princess. I stifle a laugh, wondering if his great-grandson will one day inherit a nation. That would have made the old man proud.

  The title of Fürst of Erdély might be obscure, but for those who care about these sorts of things it’s a very ancient and noble title. Back in the Middle Ages, the title of Fürst – Imperial Prince – was given to princes who had the power to elect the next Holy Roman Emperor. Once upon a time, my mother’s ancestors literally had the power to influence European history. I may not have been to that backwater country since I was a kid, but my mother drummed Erdélian history into both me and Jemima before we were barely old enough to walk. Other kids got Jack and Jill and Humpty Dumpty, and we got medieval politics.