Prince Charming by Gaelen Foley Page B

but instead of heading for his pleasure palace, he was bound for the Palazzo Reale.
    He cantered his white stallion into the wide cobbled central square of the city. Here the cathedral and the royal palace faced each other like stately partners in a minuet. Between them stood the famous bronze fountain dedicated to past generations of Fiore kings. Pigeons roosted for the night amid the glorious sculpture work.
    Rafe swung down from the saddle and was quickly ushered by the Royal Guards through the gates. Glancing at his pocket watch, he hurried up the wide, shallow steps.
    In the imposing entrance hall, he was greeted by Falconi, the ancient palace steward whom he had tormented as a merry youth in these halls. He clapped the frail, formidably dignified servant on the back, nearly toppling him, then quickly caught him.
    “Where’s my old man, Falconi?”
    “Council chambers, sir. I’m afraid the meeting is almost over.”
    “Meeting?” he exclaimed, already in motion. “What meeting? Devil take it. Nobody said anything about some bloody meeting!”
    “Er, good luck, sir.”
    Rafe waved his thanks and strode quickly down the marble hall to the administrative block of the palace, his heart pounding. Hell, he’d done it again. When he arrived before the closed door of the king’s privy council chamber, he paused, bracing himself. Then he threw open the door, making an entrance with an air of supreme bonhomie.
    “Gentlemen!” he greeted them, sauntering in with breezy nonchalance. “Good Lord, a full cabinet! Are we at war?” he asked with a grin, shoving the door closed.
    “Your Highness,” the starchy old men grumbled.
    “Hey-ho, Father.”
    Reading a document at the head of the long wide table, King Lazar glanced at Rafe over the edge of the square-rimmed spectacles perched on his stubborn Roman nose.
    King Lazar di Fiore was a large-framed, striking man, square-jawed and hard-featured, with salt-and-pepper hair shorn close and weathered brown skin. He frowned at Rafe, his piercing, dark-eyed gaze boring into him with his characteristic intensity.
    Rafe took in that stare, wondering just how badly he had blundered this time.
    From boyhood, he had studied his father’s every nuance of expression, not only for the benefit of learning to manage men, which his father did expertly, but also because his own young world had revolved, painfully, around trying to live up to the great man’s impossible expectations. Finally, he had accepted philosophically that he was never going to be enough in his father’s eyes. He would never quite live down The Debacle.
    “We’re honored you decided to join us, Your Highness,” King Lazar remarked, inspecting the document in his hand again. “And no, we are not at war. Sorry to deprive you of that entertainment.”
    “It’s just as well,” Rafe said as he dropped idly into his chair at the foot of the table, hooking his arm in lazy pose over the chair’s back. “I’m a lover, not a fighter.”
    The ruddy-cheeked admiral of the navy cleared his throat, swallowing a chuckle. He was perhaps the only man in the room who understood and appreciated Rafe at all, or at least was not offended by him.
    The same could not be said for the formidable pair on the other side of the table, Bishop Justinian Vasari and Prime Minister Arturo di Sansevero.
    The two were a study in contrasts: the bishop big and bombastic, stocky as a bulldog draped in flowing, brocaded robes; all bark, no bite. He had a round, rubicund face and wild white wisps of hair that stuck out in all directions from underneath his velvet beanie. He was as sure of his God’s opinions on all matters as he was gratified by the constant pampering of his gardens at his rich palazzo. Mostly he was known to preach with a rolling, thunderous eloquence, and when he preached against vice and licentiousness, everyone knew to whom he was referring.
    In short, the bishop saw the crown prince as the profligate prodigal son of a