‘Señor Rodriguez has better things to do than organise my airline tickets. I’ll organise them when I’m ready. Meanwhile, can I stay tonight?’

‘Of course, but Jenny, I don’t have time…’

‘I know you don’t,’ she said sympathetically. ‘Señor Rodriguez says these first days are crazy. It’ll get better, he says, but I’ll not add to your burdens tonight. I hope I never will.’

Then, before he could figure how to respond, a servant appeared to remind him he was late for his next briefing. He was forced to leave Jenny, who didn’t seem the least put out. She’d started chatting cheerfully to the maid who was clearing supper.

To his surprise, the maid was responding with friendliness and animation. Well, why wouldn’t she, he told himself as he immersed himself again into royal business. Jenny had no baggage of centuries of oppression. She wasn’t royal.

She never could be royal. He could never ask that of her, he thought grimly. But, as the interminable briefing wore on, he thought of Jenny-not being royal. He thought of her thinking of the palace as fun, and he almost told the suits he was talking to where to go.

But he didn’t. He was sensible. He had a country to run, and when he was finally free Jenny had long gone to bed.

And there was no way he was knocking on her door tonight.

He missed her at breakfast, maybe because he ate before six before commencing the first of three meetings scheduled before ten. He moved through each meeting with efficiency and speed, desperate to find time to see her, but the meetings went overtime. He had no time left. His ten o’clock diary entry was immovable.

This appointment he’d made three months ago. Four hours every Wednesday. Even Jenny would have to wait on this.

Swiftly he changed out of his formal wear into jeans, grabbed his swimmers and made his way to the palace garages. He strode round the rows of espaliered fruit trees marking the end of the palace gardens-and Jenny was sitting patiently on a garden bench.

She was wearing smart new jeans, a casual cord jacket in a pale washed apricot over a creamy lace camisole and creamy leather ballet flats. Her curls were brushed until they shone. She looked rested and refreshed and cheerful.

She looked beautiful.

She rose and stretched and smiled a welcome. Gianetta.

Jenny, he told himself fiercely. This was Jenny, his guest before she left for ever.

A very lovely Jenny. Smiling and smiling.

‘Do you like it?’ she demanded and spun so she could be admired from all angles. ‘This is the new smart me.’

‘Where on earth…?’

‘I went shopping,’ she said proudly. ‘Yesterday, when we finally escaped from that mob. Your security guys kindly escorted me to some great shops and then stood guard while I tried stuff on. Neat, yes?’

‘Neat,’ he said faintly and her face fell and he amended his statement fast. ‘Gorgeous.’

‘No, that won’t do either,’ she said reprovingly. ‘My borrowed ball-gown was gorgeous. But this feels good. I thought yesterday I haven’t had new clothes for years and the owner of the boutique gave me a huge discount.’

‘I’ll bet she did,’ he said faintly.

She grinned. ‘I know, it was cheeky, but I thought if I’m to be photographed by every cameraman in the known universe there has to be some way I can take advantage. She was practically begging me to take clothes.’

‘Gordon said you were upset.’

‘Gordon was upset.’

‘I should have been there.’

‘Then the cameramen would have been even more persistent,’ she said gently. ‘But I have clothes to face them now, and they’re not so scary. So…I pinned Señor Rodriguez down this morning and he says you’re going to see Philippe. So I was wondering…’ Her tone became more diffident. ‘Would it upset you if I came along? Would it upset Philippe?’

‘No, but I can’t ask you…’

‘You’re not asking,’ she said and came forward to slip her hands into his. ‘You’re looking trapped. I don’t want you to feel that way. Not by me.’

‘You’d never make me feel trapped,’ he said. ‘But Jenny, I can’t expect…’

‘Then don’t expect,’ she said. ‘Señor Rodriguez told me all about Philippe. No, don’t look like that. The poor man never had a chance; I practically sat on him to make him explain things in detail. Philippe’s your cousin’s son. Everyone thought he stood to inherit, only when his parents died it turned out they weren’t actually married. According to royal rules, he’s illegitimate. Now he has nothing.’

‘He’s well cared for. He has lovely foster parents.’

‘Sofía says you’ve been visiting him every week since you got here.’

‘It’s the least I can do when he’s lost his home as well as his parents.’

‘He can’t stay here?’

‘No,’ he said bleakly. ‘If he’s here he’ll be in the middle of servants who’ll either treat him like royalty-and this country hates royalty-or they’ll treat him as an illegitimate nothing.’

‘Yet you still think he should be here,’ Jenny said softly.

‘No.’

‘Because this is where you were when your father died?’

‘What the…?’

‘Sofía,’ she said simply. ‘I asked, she told me. Ramón, I’m so sorry. It must have been dreadful. But that was then. Now is now. Can I meet him?’

‘I can’t ask that of you,’ he said, feeling totally winded. ‘And he’s the same age your little boy would have been…’

‘Ramón, can we take this one step at a time?’ she asked. ‘Let’s just go visit this little boy-who’s not Matty. Let’s just leave it at that.’

So they went and for the first five miles or so they didn’t speak. Ramón didn’t know where to take this.

There were so many things in this country that needed his attention but over and over his thoughts kept turning to one little boy. Consuela and Ernesto were lovely but they were in their sixties. To expect them to take Philippe long-term…

He glanced across at Jenny and found she was watching him. He had the top down on his Boxster coupe. The warm breeze was blowing Jenny’s curls around her face. She looked young and beautiful and free. He remembered the trapped woman he’d met over three months ago and the change seemed extraordinary.

How could he trap her again? He couldn’t. Of course he couldn’t. He didn’t intend to.

Yet-she’d asked to come. Was she really opening herself up to be hurt again?

‘I can’t believe this country,’ she said, smiling, and he knew she was making an attempt to keep the conversation neutral. Steering away from undertones that were everywhere. ‘It’s like something on a calendar.’

‘There’s a deep description.’

‘It’s true. There’s a calendar in the bathroom of Seaport Coffee ’n’ Cakes and it has a fairy tale palace on it. All white turrets and battlements and moats, surrounded by little stone houses with ancient tiled roofs, and mountains in the background, and just a hint of snow.’

‘There’s no snow here,’ he said, forced to smile back. ‘We’re on the Mediterranean.’

‘Please,’ she said reprovingly. ‘You’re messing with my calendar. So, as I was saying…’

But then, as he turned the car onto a dirt track leading to a farmhouse, she stopped with the imagery and simply stared. ‘Where are we?’

‘This is where Philippe lives.’

‘But it’s lovely,’ she whispered, gazing out over grassy meadows where a flock of alpacas grazed placidly in the morning sun. ‘It’s the perfect place for a child to live.’

‘He’s not happy.’

‘I imagine that might well be because his parents are dead,’ she said, suddenly sharp. ‘It’ll take him for ever to adjust to their loss. If ever.’

‘I don’t think his parents were exactly hands-on,’ Ramón told her. ‘My uncle and my cousin liked to gamble, and so did Maria Therese. They spent three-quarters of their lives in Monaco and they never took Philippe. They were on their way there when their plane crashed.’

‘So who took care of Philippe?’

‘He’s had a series of nannies. The palace hasn’t exactly been a happy place to work. Neither my uncle nor my cousin thought paying servants was a priority, and I gather as a mother Maria Therese was…difficult. Nannies have come and gone.’

‘So Philippe’s only security has been the palace itself,’ Jenny ventured.

‘He’s getting used to these foster parents,’ Ramón said, but he wasn’t convincing himself. ‘They’re great.’

‘I’m looking forward to meeting them.’

‘I’ll be interested to hear your judgement.’ Then he paused.

‘Gianetta, are you sure you want to do this? Philippe’s distressed and there’s little I can do about it. It won’t help to make you distressed as well. Would you like to turn back?’

‘Well, that’d be stupid,’ Jenny said. ‘Philippe will already know you’re on your way. To turn back now would be cruel.’

‘But what about you?’

‘This isn’t about me,’ she said, gently but inexorably. ‘Let’s go meet Philippe.’

He was the quietest little boy Jenny had ever met. He looked just like Ramón.

The family resemblance was amazing, she thought. Same dark hair. Same amazing eyes. Same sense of trouble, kept under wraps.

His foster parents, Consuela and Ernesto, were voluble and friendly. They seemed honoured to have Ramón visit, but not so overawed that it kept them silent. That was just as well, as their happy small talk covered up the deathly silence emanating from Philippe.

They sat at the farmhouse table eating Consuela’s amazing strawberry cake. Consuela and Ernesto chatted, Ramón answered as best he could, and Jenny watched Philippe.

He was clutching a little ginger cat as if his life depended on it. He was too thin. His eyes were too big for his face.

He was watching his big cousin as if he was hungry.

I feel like that, she thought, and recognized what she’d thought and intensified her scrutiny. She had the time and the space to do it. Consuela and Ernesto were friendly but they were totally focused on Ramón. Philippe had greeted Jenny with courtesy but now he, too, was totally focused on Ramón.