The Bridesmaid's Royal Bodyguard Read online

  Despite the difficulties it raised, he had admired him for that.

  “Is that what you’d choose?” he asked Ally. A small frown puckered the space between her eyes. “If the choice was between a great cathedral with half the crowned heads of Europe in attendance or the village church.”

  She laughed and the sound rippled around him. “Not a decision I’m ever going to have to make.”

  “It happened to Hope.”

  “Hope is special,” she said. “And lightning doesn’t strike in the same place twice.”

  “Actually, that’s not true.”

  “Isn’t it?” She shook her head, lifted her shoulders a centimetre or two. “Who knew.”

  “So?”

  “I’ve never thought about it.”

  “Not even in your wildest dreams?” he persisted, not sure why he was pressing the issue when he hadn’t the slightest interest in the answer.

  “Oh ...” she said. “If we’re talking wildest dreams that would be Hope and I taking it in turns to wear the Cinderella dress at infant school. Apparently she was wearing the tiara when the clock struck midnight.”

  “Do you envy her?”

  “No.” She hadn’t hesitated. “Marriage is tough enough without having everything you do put under the microscope of public opinion.”

  “That’s something that you would know all about.”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “I’ve seen what it can do.”

  There was no attempt to excuse what she did and he knew that most of the people featured in magazines like Celebrity actively courted the publicity because without it they were nothing. Others were paid handsomely to allow exclusive access to their lives, whether they were celebrating the high points or going through some horrendous drama.

  “Of course it’s easy to be wise before the event,” she said, her smile a little self-mocking now. “Ask me again when I’ve met my prince.”

  There did not appear to be any candidates. Her invitation to San Michele would have included a plus-one for the formal dinner and the ball that would follow the official announcement of the engagement. Princess Anna liked a tidy table and didn’t want any spare women messing with her plans for Prince Nico, but he hadn’t been given a name to check.

  “Hope does realize that, once the royal party are seated, there won’t be room in the church for the entire village?” he asked, moving the conversation away from the uncomfortably personal.

  “Of course. We might have to set up a giant screen on the green although ...” They had arrived at her home and she stopped, took a breath. “Brace yourself,” she said, as she opened the door of her parents’ cottage and walked straight in off the lane into a cosy sitting room, warmed by a log fire.

  “Mum?” she called. “I’m home and I’ve brought Fredrik with me. Can you make him a cup of coffee while I grab a shower?”

  Her flustered mother appeared from the rear of the cottage but, before she could respond, Ally had opened a door and disappeared up the stairs.

  Ally flew up two flights of narrow stairs to her room beneath the eaves, shut the door behind her and, leaning against it, put her hand to her heart as if she could slow its pounding.

  Telling herself that it was excitement at the great idea she’d just had that was making her breathless, that it had nothing whatever to do with the arrival of the chiselled-jawed Count Fredrik Jensson, she grabbed some clothes and headed for the bathroom.

  Ten minutes later, after the fastest shower in history – she didn’t dare leave Fredrik alone with her mother for too long – she was back in the living room. He was sitting, perfectly relaxed, in the armchair beside the fire and it was obvious from her mother’s frustrated expression that she’d got nowhere.

  “Ally ... I was just asking Fredrik how he was enjoying his stay in Combe St Philip.”

  “He’ll be able to tell you more about that when he’s actually seen the village, Mum.” She turned to him. “I help out at the Old Forge café and I’m on the lunch shift today so we should get going.”

  She’d abandoned all thought of the smart suit and high heels for a soft check shirt, narrow black corduroy trousers – which she’d tucked into laced-ankle boots – and a brightly coloured hand-knit sweater that had been made by a designer she’d interviewed for a feature in Celebrity. She’d fallen in love with it but it had been ridiculously expensive despite a generous discount and she’d been planning to sell it on eBay until Hope had asked her to be involved with the wedding. With luck by the summer her career would be back on track and wearing it today was drawing a line in the sand. The past was behind her and she was totally focused on the future.

  “He was asking about the church,” her mother said, a hopeful lift to her voice.

  “First stop on our itinerary,” Ally assured her.

  “Thank you for the excellent coffee, Mrs Parker.”

  Her mother blushed with pleasure at the compliment. “Debbie, please,” she said, as Ally slipped on her jacket, hooked a tote over her arm and opened the front door so that he could escape. “I hope we’ll see you again soon.”

  “Without a doubt,” he replied.

  “I’m not sure when I’ll be back, Mum,” Ally said, shutting the door behind her, relieved to have got away so easily. “Did she grill you? I’m afraid that she’ll already be on the phone spreading the news about a mysterious stranger staying at the Hall.” His ‘without a doubt’ would almost certainly have given her ideas.

  “In that case we’d better get going before we gather a crowd of sightseers.”

  She glanced at him. Was that a suggestion of humour? There was nothing in his face to suggest amusement but she was beginning to suspect there was more to Fredrik Jensson than his straight face might suggest.

  Not a good thing. She had a weakness for men with a wry sense of humour but until this wedding was over she would not, could not, allow herself to be distracted.

  Chapter Three

  “Where are all the cars?” Fredrik asked as they walked down through the village.

  She followed his gaze along the curve of cottages that stood right against the narrow road leading through the village.

  “It’s a historic village,” she said. “The houses are hundreds of years old and listed as ancient monuments. It’s regularly used as a location for film and TV.” She reeled off a list of historic films in which Combe St Philip had been used as a location. “So, no satellite dishes, no PVC replacement windows and definitely no parking.”

  “How do the people who live here manage?”

  “There are three designated parking areas tucked away out of sight of the visitors. You need a swipe card to access them. Visitors have to use the car park at the top of the hill and walk down.”

  “Wedding guests can’t be expected to do that,” he pointed out.

  “They’ll be able to park in the grounds of the Hall.” She patted her tote. “In the notes I’ve made for you, I’ve suggested you ask the Chief Constable to organize a checkpoint at the top of the hill so that invitations can be checked against a guest list.” They had reached the church and not waiting for a response she led the way through the lychgate to the ancient west door of St Philip and All Angels.

  Fredrik took a long, slow look around, taking in the frosted grass, steps that led down to an area filled with ancient gravestones and the equally ancient trees that surrounded the churchyard. She had known it all her life but she looked at it now as he must see it: a location full of hiding places.

  He turned without a word, pushed open the heavy door and they were immediately enveloped in the hush and scent of seven hundred years of history: old hymn books, incense, nearly a thousand years of people standing, sitting, kneeling to worship that had seeped into the walls.

  Dust motes, disturbed by their arrival, danced in the light slanting in through the stained-glass windows and throwing patches of colour onto the white walls. And flanking the arch leading to the choir, the familiar rows of kneeling angels, painted on
the wall by someone long forgotten.

  “St Philip and All Angels was originally founded in the thirteenth century,” Ally began. “The nave was added in the fourteenth century and the tower was completed two hundred years later.” Was he listening? She pressed on. “The stained-glass window featuring the arms of the de la Hase family –” she pointed to an impressive window on the left-hand side of the church “– was endowed by Sir Ralph Kennard. A newly made baronet, he married Elizabeth de la Hase, the daughter and only surviving heir of Sir James de la Hase in 1632.”

  “How did Sir Ralph get his title?” Fredrik asked. Perhaps such things were important to fellow aristocrats. With his Scandinavian name she might well ask him the same question. If she was interested. Wiser not to go there.

  “He made a fortune in the wool industry and helped out the king when he was short of cash,” she added. “His reward was the title and the hand of Lady Elizabeth.”

  “She didn’t have a say in the matter?”

  “A woman with land and a fortune had no say in who she married. She was property to be disposed of at the whim of her father, her brother or, in the absence of either, the king.” Aware that he had turned to look at her, she added, “There was a bit of unpleasantness during the Commonwealth but Sir Ralph managed to keep his head and things returned to normal after the Restoration.”

  “The new king also being short of money.”

  “He owed a lot of people a lot of favours and those fancy wigs he wore cost a fortune.”

  She might have got him with that one but just then, from the organ loft, the soft notes of Bach’s ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’ whispered across the church and he looked up, listened for a moment.

  “Who is that playing?”

  “Laura Chase. The vicar’s wife. She plays for an hour every morning. She won’t disturb us.”

  “She’s very good.”

  He liked music? “She trained at the Royal Academy. She was set for a career as a concert pianist, but then she met the Rev and gave it all up for love.”

  Fredrik was staring at her. “I imagine Hope will ask her to play at the wedding.”

  “Combe St Philip has every talent on tap it would seem.”

  Choosing not to rise to his unexpected irritation, Ally continued with the guided tour. “Beneath the window is the tomb of Sir William de la Hase –”

  “All very interesting no doubt,” Fredrik cut in, before she could enthuse on the beauty of the carved stone or point out the fact that the vaulted ceiling was very like the one in Bath Abbey. “If I need a potted history of the church, I’ll buy a guidebook.”

  Ally, who had been determined to boost Hope’s ancestry, her fitness to be a princess in the face of the disapproval of the royal family, had no choice but to leave it there.

  “There’s one in the folder I’ve prepared for you,” she said.

  “Then let’s not waste any more time on tombstones,” he said, not waiting for her to produce it from her bag, but heading up the aisle. “What I need is a detailed layout of the church.” He took a small notebook and pen from his jacket pocket. “How many doors are there?”

  She’d blown up the layout of the church from the guidebook for him but suspected telling him that would simply irritate him further.

  “Three. Apart from the great west door, there’s a door in the tower, which is used by the bell ringers and there’s an entrance to the vestry at the rear, which is used by the vicar and the choir.”

  Without waiting to be asked she led the way to the tower.

  Fredrik examined the heavy oak door, testing the ancient lock. “They built to last in the fourteenth century,” he said, grudgingly, proving that he had been listening to her history lesson. “This will have to be kept locked.”

  Ally cleared her throat.

  Fredrik turned to look at her. “Is there a problem?”

  “The bell ringers will need access,” she pointed out.

  “They can come in through the church.”

  “They can,” she agreed, “but unless you expect them to stay in here throughout the entire wedding service, they will be tramping out again just as the bride is arriving and back in again at the end of the service.”

  Fredrik gave her the kind of look that suggested bell ringers were his least favourite people in the entire world.

  Or maybe it was her.

  He was responsible for the safety of the royal family and faced with a situation that he could not control and unable to deploy a regiment of San Michele armed soldiers to guard them, she was the inevitable focus of his frustration.

  Despite the unfairness of this, she felt an unexpected stab of sympathy. This must be his worst nightmare.

  “Would you like to see the vestry?” she asked gently.

  He glanced at her. “Don’t tell me,” he said. “It’s going to be the same story there.”

  “The door has to be kept unlocked when there’s a service.” She gave an apologetic little shrug. “Fire regulations.” Wanting to help she added, “The Chief Constable will be able to organize diplomatic protection for the royal family.”

  “Armed?” he demanded.

  “No!” Then, because of course DP officers were armed, “Well, yes, but Hope won’t want guns at her wedding.”

  “Then she should marry a country squire like her forebears,” he snapped.

  “You think this is easy for her?” she snapped right back, well aware how Hope had struggled when she discovered that Jonas came with a ton of royal baggage. “No one in their right mind would willingly put themselves through this.”

  “So why is she?”

  “Why did Laura Chase give up a career in music and marry the vicar? It’s a mystery,” she said, answering her own question, “but love falls where it will.”

  “There is no obligation to pick it up,” he replied, his face like stone.

  “You think she should have walked away? Is that what you would have done?”

  “I can see why you wouldn’t encourage her to do that,” he said, ignoring her question.

  “Love that endures when everything is against it is a rare beast,” she said, choosing to ignore his dig at her. “Something to be celebrated in Hope’s wedding diary.”

  A muscle was ticking in his jaw. What had she said?

  “The diary that will make your fortune.”

  Oh, that. “Thank you for your confidence, sir,” she replied, injecting a fair bit of stone into her own voice, “but every penny above the costs of printing and distribution of Becoming a Princess will go to Hope’s charity.”

  “Are you saying that you’ll get nothing out of it?”

  She hesitated.

  It was going to be a heck of a lot of work but she would have done it for no other reason than Hope was her friend, for the sheer fun of being involved in a royal wedding. She couldn’t deny, however, that she hoped to resurrect her career on the back of the diary.

  “No,” she said. “I’m not saying that.”

  Maybe her frankness had finally silenced him, because there was no comeback.

  “Shall we get on?” she suggested.

  An hour later, having explored the crypt, climbed the tower, filled his notebook with sketches and measurements, and taken hundreds of photographs of the church and the ancient graveyard that surrounded it, they stood once more at the lychgate.

  Fredrik looked up at the arch. “This is going to be a problem.”

  “Not at all,” Ally said. “It will be covered with flowers and it will look fabulous.”

  “I’m not talking about the aesthetics of the thing,” Fredrik said irritably. “I’m concerned about security. I’d hoped to drive the royal party right up to the church door.” He bent to examine the footings more closely. “I wonder how deep –?”

  “If you were about to suggest that it be removed, forget it,” Ally said quickly. “Like the rest of the village it’s Listed. With a capital L. That’s a great big Do Not Touch notice, in case you were wonder
ing. Besides, everyone will want to see the royal party arriving. What they’re wearing. The villagers will line the way to watch Hope walk from the Hall on her brother’s arm just as Kennard brides have done for centuries.”

  “Walk?” He muttered an expletive. She raised her eyebrows and he apologized. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’ve heard worse and believe me, I do understand how difficult this must be for you.”

  “I doubt it.”

  Her phone rang at that moment and when Ally checked she saw that it was Flora Deare, the third in their all-for-one, one-for-all trio of friends. A supremely talented chef, she was in charge of catering the wedding and had moved into the Hall for the duration. She was also a fellow bridesmaid.

  “I have to take this,” she said, but Fredrik was focused on the gate.

  “Ally, where are you?” Flora asked.

  “Outside the church.”

  “What on earth are you doing there at this time of the morning?” she asked, momentarily diverted. “Oh, never mind. I need you!”

  “Now? I’m a bit busy today.”

  Flora, not in the mood to accept any excuses, said, “Today isn’t the problem. It’s tonight. You’ve got to help me, Ally! We’ve got this Count from San Michele staying here.”

  “So? You were expecting him weren’t you?”

  “How did you know? Sorry. I keep forgetting you’re doing PR for Hope,” she said answering her own question. “You know much more about what’s going on than I do. Anyway, Hope asked if Max would put Fredrik up and as we’re supposedly a couple, I’m staying there and playing hostess and ...” Ally snorted. “Stop laughing! It’s really awkward!”

  “I can imagine,” she replied, doing her best to keep a straight face. Flora had confessed the pretend relationship over a glass or three of something chilled. None of it made sense to her, but presumably Flora knew what she was doing. “Okay, Floradear,” she said, watching Fredrik as he paced the churchyard wall. “What’s the man done to get you in such a state?”