Royally Knocked Up by Pamela DuMond

Chapter 8

“But I thought Duke Knottingwood was in Baden-Baden.” Lady Joan Brady tucked her passport in her periwinkle blue Gareth Trent designer tote as she cleared customs at Tito Minniti Airport in Reggio Calabria, Italy.

“He was in Baden-Baden, but he’s on the move,” Esmeralda said, straining to lift her large, poppy red aluminum suitcase onto a luggage cart.

“Allow me,” Captain Sam said. He removed the large bag from her grasp and placed it on the wagon.

“You’re not here to be our resident Sherpa,” she said.

“Neither are you. I’ll see you out front with the van.” He walked toward the exit doors and spoke into his phone.

“He’s so handsome, Esmeralda,” Joan said, wedging her large carry on next to the other bags. “Are you two an item?”

She shook her head, pulling on the cart. “Most definitely not. I am not one to be tied down to just one man. That’s not my style.”

“But you two have chemistry.” Lady Zola Montebaliard paused and twisted her long, multicolored braids, knotting them on top of her head. She grabbed the handle of her wheeled bag and resumed walking.

I’d met Lady Zola on our trip to Venice not that long ago, during our quest to track down the priest impersonator. She was an art historian, smart, and very pretty. I also suspected that Cristoph had a thing for her, but my suspicions had yet to be confirmed. Right now I hoped that the heir to the throne, my handsome brother-in-law, I mean my husband, oh hell, I couldn’t keep up. I just hoped Cristoph was back in Fredonia, had gotten a decent night’s sleep, and was hard at work securing Nick’s release from house arrest. “Zola’s right. Captain Sam’s eyes light up every time he looks at you, Esmeralda.”

“If I had a euro for every time a man’s eyes lit up around me I could buy my own castle,” she said.

“But you don’t have to,” Joan said. “Your great aunt bequeathed you hers.”

“And aren’t we glad she did?” Esmeralda said. “I refuse to stay at another Room to Spare B & B. The last two were dodgy. We’ll be sleeping cushy tonight at Zia Valentina Aloisa Castile von Hapsburgh’s humble castle in Messina.”

“Humble, my round ass,” Joan said. “There are at least twenty bedrooms in that place.”

“Some are under renovation. Besides, the castle’s in a changing neighborhood,” Esmeralda said. “I instructed the steward to turn the alarm back on. Lucy, help me with this thing. The wheels are sticky.”

“Of course.” I grabbed hold of the unwieldy wagon, and pushed it out the thick glass doors, past uniformed, armed guards. A blast of chilly air slapped my face, and my nose crinkled from the smell of petrol emanating from cars and taxis lined up by the curb.

“How dicey is the neighborhood?” Zola asked.

“I put a chair in front of the entrance door, triple bolt it, and keep a can of Mace on the nightstand,” Esmeralda said.

Captain Sam drove up next to a parked silver van about twenty yards away and waved at us. The sun glinted off his reflective aviators, his tanned cheekbones looking sharp.

“I’m from Chicago. I’m used to dicey neighborhoods.” I pushed the unwieldy cart, its wheels wobbling, toward the shiny vehicle. “That said, I thought this venture was on Fredonia’s dime.”

“It’s on the Royal House of Timmel’s pence,” Joan said, breaking a sweat as she caught up with us. “Money’s been stretched thin in Fredonia for nearly a decade. I studied accounting as well as finance, and have been tasked with being the bookkeeper on the inaugural L.S.A. mission.”

A small, middle-aged man dressed in a shiny, gray, suit hopped out of the van’s passenger side, doffed his dark brown fedora, and bowed to Esmeralda. “Sincerest of fleetings, Lady Esmeralda Ilona Castile Haspburgh. I am sloppy to be of the servitude.”

“Lovely to see you, Raul. Thanks for helping at such short notice.”

He saluted her. “A whole lot of everything for you. Because you are suggestive, I am studying the English on my spare dime.” He held up his phone and pointed to the app on the screen.

“That’s fabulous, Raul. Speaking multiple languages will make you more sought after in the royal assistant job market.”

“Yes, Lady.” He made his way to the rear of the van, popped the trunk open, and heaved the suitcases inside.

“Why are we even in traveling to Messina?” I asked.

“Because…” Esmeralda stopped short, gazing up at Captain Sam.

He stood next to the passenger door, wearing a poker face, his hair cropped short, looking ruggedly handsome in that take no prisoners military kind of way.

“Is that a new suit? Did you get a new suit for this mission? I told you not to go to extra measures. We’re on a budget. The L.S.A. can’t reimburse you—”

“The suit’s old.”

“No it’s not. I’ve never seen you in a blue suit.”

“It’s old. And technically it’s charcoal.”

“The undertones are blue.” She reached out and patted his lapel, fingering the edges. “The color brings out your eyes—I mean—never mind…” She blinked, shook her head as if coming out of a reverie, turned her back on him, and snapped her fingers at me. “You’re lagging behind, Lucy. Hurry up. Time wasted is money spent.” She entered the car with Joan and Zola following on her heels.

“I’m not lagging.” I climbed in and claimed a seat in the rear. The spider-web cracked red leather bench groaned as I plopped down on it, and a sympathy pain welled in my lower back. Perhaps the seat was as tired as I was. Perhaps if I closed my eyes we could cuddle up and take a nap together. Raul slid the door closed, the cacophonous hustle and bustle of the outside world fading behind the tinted security windows.

“Intelligence picked up chatter that Knottingwood’s rendezvousing with a high level black market dealer during the Three Kings Festa tomorrow. We’re meeting with my inside source tonight to formulate a plan of attack,” Esmeralda said.

The van pulled out of the terminal onto a highway, the overhead signs indicating Messina in 30 Kilometers.

“Not to be the squeaky wheel, but with the exception of a quick nap on the plane, I haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours. Do we have time for some shut-eye?” I asked.

“I can’t justify issuing you a paycheck if you sleep on the job,” Joan said.

“What’s the problem with a nap? I’m practically hallucinating. When can I sleep?”

“When you’re dead, Lucy,” Esmeralda said. “You can sleep when you’re dead.”

* * *

Zia Valentina’s castle squatted in Messina’s Old Town neighborhood like an aging theatre actress: impressive, a little saggy around the façade, but determined to keep up appearances. Raul spirited our luggage inside the foyer. Esmeralda followed him, the ladies and I on her heels.

“Gorgeous old place,” Joan said. She shrugged off her coat and hung it in the hall closet. “I haven’t been here in years. Coats, ladies?”

“Thanks.” I handed her my wrap, and then plopped down on a purple velvet settee and glanced around the hallway. Heavy, antique hand-carved furniture rested on worn, rich, tapestry rugs on dark-hewn plank floors. Oil paintings of exotic Italian nobility, with dark hair, flashing eyes, and dramatic necklines, hung on the yellowed-glazed, patina-ed walls.

The largest picture was a portrait of a Sophia Lauren-esque beauty with thick, long locks, ample cleavage, pouty red lips, and a prominent unibrow. “That has to be Zia Valentina, right? She looks just like you.”

“I’ve been fighting the hirsute family curse my entire life.” Esmeralda slid open a narrow drawer from an antique, Mediterranean-carved wooden credenza, and lifted a small box-shaped item covered in embroidered vintage silk. She unwrapped the textiles revealing a deck of jewel-toned playing cards.

“What’s that?” Joan shut the closet door and joined us in the foyer.

“The tarot. A pinch of gypsy blood runs through my veins.” Esmeralda shuffled them on the credenza a few times and cut the deck. She turned, fanning the cards toward us. They took on an eerie glow in the dimly-lit foyer. “One of the stipulations for inheriting the castle was that I’d carry on Zia Valentina’s favorite traditions.”

Joan sneezed. “I hope her tradition included closet cleaning. There’s ten years of dust in there.”

“Each time I visited Zia here she made me pick a card. ‘Esmeralda,’ she’d say, and pinch both of my cheeks really hard, at times bruising them. ‘I know you say that you visit Messina for the international spelling bee, or the regional grape stomping competition. But the gypsy blood that runs deep in my veins knows that each trip also has a secret, magical reason, la verità for your viaggio.’”

“A secret reason! That is so cool,” Zola said. “What did you tell her?”

“‘Zia Valentina’, I said, ‘I have no idea how you found out about my crush on Giacomo LaFlores—but I beg you please don’t tell anyone, especially not my mother— she’ll kill me.’”

“Wait a minute. You got with Giacomo LaFlores the famous poet and painter?” Joan asked, and sneezed again. “You never told me.”

Esmeralda shrugged. “You never asked. I was eighteen, super cute, and someone had to pluck my Spanish flower. Who better than a hot Latin artiste? On a more practical note, the tarot card also chooses which room you stay in. Joan. You’re a curious girl. You go first.”

She plucked a card from the deck. Her eyes widened, and she crossed herself. “Three of Pentagrams.”

“Pentacles, not pentagrams, we’re not Satanists,” Esmeralda said, “A card that signifies you are joining forces with friends that have a new business venture. It also means you get the gold room. Second floor, lovely view, king-sized bed, private bath. You are, after all, the keeper of the coins. Only the best for you.” She re-shuffled the deck, fanned the cards, and extended them toward Zola. “Pick.”

She closed her eyes, tugged on one of her braids, and pulled a card. “Ace of Cups.”

“Interesting,” Esmeralda handed her a key. “Second floor. Third bedroom on the left. Green door. Queen-size bed and white bookcases stacked with Zia Valentina’s favorite romance novels.”

“The accommodations sound lovely. But what’s my verità reason for being here?”

“Beginning of a new relationship.”

“Yes, I love hanging out with you ladies. You are wonderful friends.”

“Different kind of relationship.” Esmeralda shuffled, cut, and fanned the cards. “Pick, Lucy.”

I drew a card. Screaming people were fleeing an ominous, medieval tower. “What’s La Torre?”

“It’s the Tower card.” She blanched, plucked it from me, a sour look on her face like I’d handed her a paper towel balled around dog upchuck. She slid it back in the deck. “I’m sure everything will work out just peachy for you and Nicholas.”

“You just used your fake voice. The voice you use when you lie,” I said.

“You were thinking of Nicholas when I mentioned your la verità for this trip. Right?”

“Well of course I was thinking of Nicholas.”

“La Torre signifies disruption. An ending of life as you know it. All comes crumbling down and life begins anew.”

“Fuck La Torre. I’d like to pick another card, please. You interrupted my reunion with Nicholas, dragged me out of a hot bath, more importantly a hot bed, whisked me off to a different country on a secret mission, and you won’t let me sleep. I think a re-do is in order.”

“Zia Valentina wasn’t big on re-dos, Besides, things could be worse. La Torre’s unsettling, but you could have chosen Il Diavolo card.”

“Fire and lightning shot out of the bars on La Torre’s tiny prison-like windows. I’ve never been to Messina before.” I wrung my hands. “Never stepped foot into your Zia’s beautiful home. This is my first time. Maybe I chose the wrong card because my nerves are all over the place, or I’m sleep deprived, or Mercury’s in retrograde. Give me another chance. Please! I’m doubling down. I’ll concentrate harder this time.”

“Everyone, especially our Lucille, deserves a second chance,” Joan said. “I certainly wouldn’t want to pick the La Torre card. Yikes.”

“Zia Valentina bequeathed you her gorgeous, magical castle and at the end of the day I’m sure she’d have wanted you to mix things up a bit,” Zola said. “Put your mark on this place, Esmeralda, and make it your own.”

“You’re right.” Esmeralda sighed, and relented. She shuffled the deck again on the credenza, cut it, fanning the cards in my direction.

I closed my eyes for a moment and concentrated on my beautiful Nicholas. I longed to trace the cleft in his chin with one finger, run my hand down the black hair on his stomach where it narrowed to a sexy v as it headed south. I pictured our charmed life together, his lips on mine, his warm breath tickling my ear when he told me, then showed me, how much loved me. How smart and kind he was, how he always made me laugh. I placed my hand on the outstretched deck, and silently invited the one card that I just knew would be mine. I concentrated and drew it from the pack. “I predict sunshine and happiness!”

Esmeralda stared at it and blinked. “Then you shouldn’t have picked Il Diavolo card.”

“What does that mean?” I wrung my hands.

She sighed, wrapped the cards in the silks, and slipped them back in the antique credenza. “It means we will help you deal with the fallout, whatever comes down the pike. And it means you get the room in the attic.”