CHAPTER ONE
A SILENCE fell over the packed room. Lizzie looked up quickly, eager to see the man sheâd come to find.
His Majesty King Daniel, hereditary ruler of Voltavia, twenty-fifth of his line, thirty-five years old, monarch of his country for the last six months.
Since heâd arrived for his state visit London had been full of official pictures, so sheâd thought she knew what he looked like. But while photographs had shown the proud carriage of his head and the stern authority of his lean face, there was no way they could convey the vividness of his features. Lizzie noticed his eyes in particular. They were dark, but with a brilliance that sheâd seen only once before, in a picture of his grandfather.
He was tall but carried himself stiffly, and she guessed that a press conference, such as this, came hard to him. In Voltavia he was a monarch, with a good deal of power. He wouldnât take kindly to answering questions from journalists, and Lizzie knew heâd been persuaded to give this conference only for the sake of âgood international relationsâ.
Before his entrance they had all been warnedâno personal questions, no reference to his late wife. No questions about his three children, none of whom had accompanied him to London.
Now he was here and every line of his body showed how ill at ease he felt. He took his seat behind a table on a platform, facing the crowd with a practised air of polite interest.
The questions flowed. They were largely routine and his answers were the same, giving nothing awayâthe friendship of their two countriesâmutual interests, etc, etc. Somebody mentioned his grandfather, the late King Alphonse, whose death, six months earlier, had brought Daniel to the throne. Daniel made a short, restrained speech in praise of his grandfather, whose lasting legacy etc, etc.
In fact, as everyone knew, for the last ten years of his life Alphonse had lived in a twilight world, struck down by a massive stroke. At twenty-five Daniel had become regent, and king in all but name. But Alphonse was still associated with the great days of monarchy. His long reign had begun when kings had had real power, and his personal prestige had ensured that some of it clung to the throne, even as he lay dying.
As Daniel mouthed polite nothings Lizzie mentally compared his features with those of Alphonse, whose personally signed photograph hung on her wall at home. There was a close family resemblance, not only in the dominant nose and firm chin, but in the expression of the face: proud, closed, unyielding.
Theyâd said of Alphonse that he was the handsomest man of his generation, and had still been saying it when he was in his eighties. But theyâd said, too, that he was the most puritanical. He could have had any number of liaisons, but heâd been a faithful husband for twenty years. After his wife had died, if heâd indulged himself heâd been so discreet that the world had never been quite sure.
Only one woman had aroused him to a public display of admiration, and that was the great musical comedy star, Lizzie Boothe. Sheâd visited Voltavia with her own company, and the King had attended her performances. Perhaps sheâd also given performances in private. Nobody knew for certain, and the Kingâs reputation for rigid respectability remained untouched.
Daniel was the image of his splendid grandfather in looks, and also in the pattern of his life. Married young to a suitable princess, he had been a devoted husband and father, and had led a discreet life since his wifeâs death, three years earlier.
At last the questions were over and everybody stood in line so that the King could meet them individually. Down the line he came, stopping for a few moments with each person, shaking hands, asking banal questions about things he couldnât possibly care about, and receiving banal answers with the appearance of polite interest. He must be bored out of his skull, Lizzie thought, but he kept going resolutely.
At last he reached her and stood, professional smile in place, while his aide announced, âMiss Elizabeth Boothe.â
His pause was only a fraction of a second, his smile never wavered. But she was close enough to see his eyes and the slight shock in them. So the name was still remembered in Voltavia. That pleased her.
As he shook her hand the King glanced at the identity tag on her shoulder, bearing only her name. âThe others list also their publications,â he observed. âI think you are not a journalist.â