Standing in the salon, Richard stared at the frenzy outside the palace gate. Morning had arrived. So had the paparazzi. At least fifty of them—cameras, video recorders, and microphones in hand—clamored for a front-row spot. A helicopter circled noisily overhead.
So much for keeping the ring and Christina a secret.
Tension knotted his gut.
Not even the sweet fragrance of his mother’s rose garden drifting inside through the open window eased his frustration.
What had Uncle Phillippe been thinking when he told not only the world but also Richard’s mother about the ring being stuck on the American’s finger? The man had used his acting skills to clear the palace. He was supposed to be on Richard’s side, not choose the legend over his dearest and only nephew.
If ever the palace needed a tow
