Page 8 of American Royalty

It wasn’t an unlikely possibility. The queen had forced his parents to wed thirty-two years ago, when her youngest son, the eighteen-year-old Prince Richard, had gotten the seventeen-year-old Lady Calanthe pregnant.

And look at howthathad turned out.

Acid churned in his stomach. Over a decade and a half later and the world was still fascinated by the death of Prince Richard and his reality TV star mistress, Gena Phillips, en route to a romantic getaway in the Swiss Alps. The scandal had rocked the monarchy for years. Not only because of the infidelity, but because of Richard’s total abdication of his duties in the months since they’d begun cavorting in such a public and spectacular fashion.

After Richard’s passing, Jameson should’ve taken his father’s place and begun carrying out engagements on behalf of the queen. As her grandson, he was duty and destiny bound to live his life in the public’s eye. But his mother had intervened, requesting he be allowed to hold off on his royal duties so he could devote himself to his studies. Maybe it was the timing or the bad press, or the fact that it was unlikely he’d ascend to the throne or become a working royal, but the queen had acquiesced. He’d always be grateful tohis mother for the unprecedented act. And to the queen, for recognizing he was better suited for life in a lecture hall and not St. George’s Hall. That concession, and his mother’s sensibility, meant he’d been able to have a normal life.

If constantly being hounded by the press and tabloid media documenting his every move counted as normal.

The queen answered his questions with her next words. “We’re going to host a celebratory concert!”

“Pardon?” He swallowed incorrectly, the action bringing on a coughing fit. She couldn’t have surprised him more if she’d stood and started dancing in front of him.

“We’re going to host a celebratory concert,” she repeated.

“A concert?” How did that help bolster the family’s image? “That’s the idea you came up with?”

“With help from Louisa.”

“Louisa?”

Now he sounded like a bloody parrot.

“Yes. Louisa Collins, our events coordinator. You don’t know her? Her husband is the stable master at Primrose Park.”

Jameson couldn’t recall the name of his stable master, let alone know the man’s wife. Primrose Park, the country seat where Jameson resided, consisted of over seven hundred acres managed by a staff of close to one hundred. He left the handling of them to his trusted estate manager.

“We hired Louisa last year,” Marina said, “to manage a broad range of official, ceremonial events.”

She pressed a button on the table next to her. Seconds later, the door opened, and a footman strode in followed by a pretty young woman. Jameson stood, the movement automatic.

The woman executed a small curtsy. “Your Majesty.”

Louisa Collins was tall with sleek auburn hair twisted into aknot at the nape of her neck. In a knee-length navy sheath dress and sensible but stylish matching heels, she was dressed as the queen preferred for all of the palace’s senior aides: tailored, pared back, professional.

Marina smiled. “Louisa, my grandson Prince Jameson.”

Louisa curtsied again, this time in his direction, the sunlight gleaming off her pearl earrings. “Your Royal Highness.”

The formality threw Jameson, as it wasn’t something he dealt with on a daily basis. Inside the bubble of academia, at the University of Birmingham, his most ceremonial title was “Professor.”

In the beginning, the faculty and students had been fascinated by the idea of having a member of the royal family on campus. But it didn’t take them long to realize he actually planned to lecture onphilosophy, not sit around in a smoking jacket,philosophizing, drinking single-malt whisky, and spilling secrets about his relatives and the famous people he knew. Being on campus afforded him some sense of normalcy. That was why he hated leaving.

Marina toyed with her diamond wedding band before wringing her hands in her lap. “John would’ve been seventy-nine in June if he had lived.”

Louisa nodded. “The queen and I were discussing ways to honor His Royal Highness.”

Marina’s lips curved softly. “He really believed in his environmental philanthropy.”

Jameson knew that all too well, considering it was one of the interests he and his grandfather had bonded over. They’d always been close, but after Jameson’s father had died, the prince had gone out of his way to connect with him. John had suggested weekly lunches, framing the get-togethers as being for the prince’s benefit, as a way for him to remember his son and to stay abreast of the current generation’s thinking. It wasn’t until after John’s death thatJameson realized their time together had been more for him. John had sensed Jameson’s loss, his directionless anger, and had stepped into the emotional chasm.

He’d learned so much from his grandfather. There were times when he’d seemed to have more in common with him than he’d ever had with his own father. In fact, it had been his conversations with John that had developed Jameson’s interest in the ethics of environmentalism and the study of man’s relationship with and responsibility to the environment.

“I mentioned the Americans and their tribute concerts,” Louisa said. “They’re always having them to bring attention to one cause or another.”

Marina nodded. “A concert for John could bring attention to the issues he believed in.”

“Prince John still polls extremely well, and we now accept as fact many of the tenets he endorsed when he was alive,” Louisa said.