Princess Dottie Read online

  Princess Dottie

  Lucy Gordon

  Another excellent harlequin romance novel.

  Lucy Gordon

  Princess Dottie

  © 2002

  *

  Prologue

  The hands of the clock crawled toward nine o'clock. Another long shift over, Dottie thought thankfully. Fifteen more minutes and she'd be out of the café. Until tomorrow, when it would be time to start again.

  Her face brightened as the door opened and a beefy young man with an amiable expression, came in, waved to her and slid into a corner seat. She mouthed, “With you in a minute.”

  A plump, dark-haired young woman appeared from the kitchen and made a beeline for the lad, Dottie noted wryly. She knew Brenda fancied Mike, and wasn't ashamed to make a play for him right under Dottie's nose, although she knew they were engaged.

  Despite its name, The Grand Hotel was a down-at-heel boardinghouse with a café to match, in the shabbiest part of London. Dottie ran the café, and Jack, the elderly owner, had bestowed on her the title of manageress to cover the fact that she was a maid-of-all-work, who slaved long, tiring hours for a small wage.

  Yet Dottie was happy. She had a fiancé she loved and a future to look forward to. Mike might not be glamorous, but he was kind, hardworking and devoted to her. True, his brain lacked the quicksilver alertness of her own. Unkind persons had been known to describe him as thick. Dottie would have been up in arms at that slander, but when her own mind went dancing away she sometimes wished he could follow her, instead of just saying admiringly, “You sound grand when you talk like that, Dot.”

  Mike was proud of his fiancée: proud of her petite figure and fluffy blond prettiness, proud of her quick tongue, her shrewdness and her ability to laugh at herself. But he never pretended he could keep up with her.

  As Dottie cleared away, Jack appeared and began to cash up. “Has it been a good evening, Dorothea?” he asked kindly.

  Dottie made a face. “I wish you wouldn't call me Dorothea.”

  The old man grinned. “Perhaps I should call you Ms. Hebden, then?”

  “You do and you're dead,” she told him amiably. “Dottie's good enough for me.”

  “There's a few hamburgers left over,” Jack said. “If you fancy them.”

  She scooped them up eagerly. This was a valuable perk for people who were living on nothing so that Mike could save up for his own garage. She bid Jack good-night and headed for the corner table, tapping Brenda firmly on the shoulder.

  “Hands off! He's mine!” But she said it with a good-natured smile.

  Brenda grinned back. “Bet he's not. Bet I could have him off you.”

  “Bet you couldn't!”

  “Bet I could!”

  “Oi!” Mike objected mildly. “D'you two mind not talking about me like I wasn't here?”

  He allowed his fiancée to shepherd him to the door, only pausing to call back, “Better check your food for arsenic tomorrow, Bren.”

  “Well if I do poison her it'll be your fault,” Dottie said when they were outside. “Serve her right for putting her head so close to yours.”

  “It was just gossip,” Mike protested. “She's been reading that magazine again. Royal Secrets.”

  “Her and her royal scandals! That's all she thinks of. What is it this time?”

  “The king of Elluria can't be the king 'cos his parents weren't properly wed.”

  Dottie yawned. “Well, they'll find another one. Come on, I've got some free hamburgers.”

  “Good for you! I'm starving.”

  Chapter One

  The avenue of lime trees stretched into the distance, the tips faintly touched by the crimson of the setting sun. Randolph regarded with indifference a scene he'd watched a thousand times before. It was as useful as listening to the conversation going on behind him, which he'd also been through a thousand times before-or at least it felt like it. And while he kept his back to the room nobody could study his face.

  He was wearily used to that study. Ever since he'd been barred from the throne of Elluria barely hours before assuming it, the world was curious about his feelings. Sometimes he felt like a caged animal, staring back at faces pressed against the bars, all watching him for some sign of weakness. And he would die before he revealed such a sign.

  These days his expression was habitually grim. He was a serious man who normally found little in life to make him laugh, although he secretly envied those who could. Recently heaviness had overcome him completely. Those who might have been his subjects had known what to expect from him, gravity and devotion to duty, tempered with a quiet, stern kindliness. Now they were almost afraid of him.

  The prime minister, Jacob Durmand, approached him nervously. “Your Royal…Your Highness…oh dear!” He lapsed into confusion at having used the term “royal” to one who could no longer be described that way.

  Randolph turned, forcing a brief, reassuring smile. It wasn't Durmand's fault. “It's a trial to all of us,” he said. “Don't worry about it.”

  “Thank you. Oh dear, this is all very difficult. If only-”

  “If only my dear, scatterbrained father hadn't fallen in love with an actress when he was young,” Randolph said wryly, “and been persuaded to go through a marriage ceremony when he was too drunk to know better. If only he hadn't believed those who said it wasn't binding. And if only he'd made sure of his situation before marrying my mother. But you knew my father, Durmand. He was the kindest man in the world, but he had this fatal habit of hoping for the best.”

  “And if only Prince Harold hadn't discovered that your parents' marriage was bigamous,” the prime minister sighed. “Once he knew, he was bound to pounce, hoping to take the throne himself.”

  “And get his hands on Elluria's mineral reserves,” Randolph said angrily. “How long would it take him to strip the country of everything? He's got to be stopped. Dammit, this family must have some offshoots left somewhere in the world.”

  He was interrupted by an elderly man scurrying into the room, his arms full of papers, his face full of excitement. He was Sigmund, the royal archivist.

  “I've found something,” he said.

  They all crowded around the table while he spread the papers out. undervoice

  “It goes back to Duke Egbert, who married an English lady in 1890,” he explained. “She was an heiress, and he had heavy gambling debts. They went to live in England.”

  “Are you saying there are descendants there?” Durmand asked.

  “One, as far as I can gather. And I'm afraid the family has come down in the world-gambling again. The duke had one daughter who married a man called Augustus Hebden. It's his great-great-great-granddaughter who concerns us. It's been carefully checked. The line is unbroken.”

  “Did Egbert really leave no other descendants?” Randolph asked.

  “The family was almost wiped out in two wars,” Sigmund explained. “In the end there was only Jack Hebden left, plus his sister, who never married. Jack had one child, Frank, who fathered the lady with whom we are concerned. Ms. Dorothea Hebden is next in line to the throne of Elluria.”

  “Do we know anything else?” Durmand inquired nervously. “Has she encumbered herself with a husband and a brood of children?”

  “Fortunately no,” Sigmund said, too deep in papers to notice that Randolph had stiffened. “Exhaustive inquiries have failed to turn up a marriage certificate. She is only twenty-three, but has already risen to the position of manageress of an establishment called The Grand Hotel.”

  “This looks encouraging,” Durmand said. “This young woman must be talented, hardworking and educated with an orderly mind.”

  “That doesn't mean she'll want to come to Elluria,” Randolph pointed out.


  “To have risen so high, so young she must also be ambitious,” Durmand said hastily. “She will welcome the chance to broaden her horizons.”

  “My dear Prime Minister, you're creating a fantasy figure to suit yourself,” Randolph said sharply. “You have only to add that a hotel manageress's training is the ideal basis to become queen of Elluria.”

  “In so far as it requires elegance and authority, that may be true,” Durmand defended himself.

  Randolph sighed. “Perhaps I can't blame you. We're all hoping for the best. Let us hope that she is the paragon of your imagination.”

  “There's only one way to find out,” Durmand said. “She must be sought out and brought here without delay.”

  When he left the room Randolph headed for the elegant apartment that was reserved for Countess Sophie Bekendorf when she was visiting the palace. She'd been there often recently, preparing for the wedding that would make her Randolph's princess, and eventually his queen. Her life too had been overturned, he reminded himself. She was five years his junior, and their marriage had been planned in her cradle. He admired her and knew how perfectly she would have adorned a throne.

  She smiled and rose when he entered, crossing the floor quickly, looking into his face. Her tall slim figure had been tautened by hours of riding. Her face was beautiful, though marred by a slight hardness in her eyes. Her manners were elegant and commanding. She knew who was worthy of her smiles, and who not.

  She was all anxiety, taking Randolph's hand. “Was it very bad, my poor dear?” she asked gently.

  “Worse than I can say. The heir turns out to be a hotel manageress in England. Her name is Dorothea Hebden.”

  “It's impossible!” she said violently. “A servant.”

  “Not quite. She seems to have achieved some authority-”

  “Tradesman's authority. A servant.”

  “I suppose we mustn't judge without seeing her. We might be able to make something of her.”

  “You don't mean you're considering this monstrous idea for one moment?”

  He led her back to the window and looked out over the great park. This way it was easier to voice his thoughts.

  “It's not a matter of what I will agree to. My authority ended the moment we discovered that I was illegitimate. Now I'm not even royal. Dorothea Hebden is the rightful heir to the throne of Elluria.”

  “Have you thought she might be married?”

  “Sigmund seems sure that she isn't.”

  “I see,” Sophie said quietly.

  Something in her tone made him put his arms around her. “I left soon after that because I could see the way Durmand's mind was working, and I didn't like it. My dear, how can I forget that when I offered to release you from our engagement, you refused, and stood by me so steadfastly?”

  “You thought I'd turn my back on you because you had no crown to offer?”

  “If I did, I was wrong,” he said tenderly. “No man could ask for more courage and loyalty that you've shown me-”

  “But you may have to marry this other woman,” she interrupted him. “Perhaps it will be you who breaks our engagement, for duty. I understand, and you are free. But if it doesn't come to that-” she broke off, her voice husky.

  Randolph was confused and embarrassed. From the country's point of view the ideal solution was for him to marry Princess Dorothea, “this interloper” as he thought of her. Then, under the guise of being her consort, he would rule Elluria as he had been raised to do, and nobody would care about his feelings for Sophie, or hers for him.

  He'd never pretended to be in love with her, but they were friends, and he was furious at being required to behave badly toward her. It offended his sense of himself, and there was much haughty pride in it. But there was also much generosity. The situation was very bitter to him, and not merely on his own account.

  He wasn't a conceited man, but now it seemed to him that Sophie had more true feeling for him than he'd suspected, and that touched his conscience. Perhaps she knew this, and was pleased. She was a very clever woman.

  Sophie's brother Dagbert sauntered in. He was in his early twenties, strikingly like his sister, except that too much self-indulgence was already beginning to show in his face.

  “So what are you going to do?” he demanded when Randolph had outlined the situation. “Pity it's not a century ago. We could have had her assassinated.”

  “That wouldn't make me legitimate,” Randolph pointed out. “I intend to bring her here, and see how we can make the best of it.”

  “You mean you'll marry her and carry on as before,” Dagbert said sharply.

  “He means that we shall all do our duty,” Sophie said. “Whatever it may be.”

  Randolph pressed her hand in gratitude, and made his escape. He found Dagbert's callow vulgarity oppressive.

  When brother and sister were alone the young man regarded her through narrowed eyes. “What deep game are you playing, Soph?”

  “I don't know what you mean.”

  “Yes you do. Why cling to the engagement? You ought to be hunting bigger game.”

  “What makes you think I'm not?”

  Dagbert gave a crack of laughter. “I see. Keep him on the string just in case.”

  “What have I got to lose? This English servant won't come to anything. Randolph is still the biggest 'game' in Europe.”

  “Except for Harold.”

  “Harold's marrying that woman with the millionaire father.”

  “That's been put on hold,” Dagbert murmured. “Harold thinks his prospects are improving every day. But you're right. Keep your options open-just in case.”

  Randolph's trip to England was made incognito. His secretary made a reservation at The Grand Hotel in the name of Edmond Holsson, and a special passport in that name was hurriedly produced by the Ellurian Ministry of the Interior. Thus armed, Randolph flew to London, and took a taxi straight to the hotel.

  He had often visited friends in England, but they lived in the great country houses that were like palaces, or in Mayfair, the most expensive part of London. He'd never ventured to the shabbier parts of the city, and didn't even know where they were. So the hotel's address, in an area of London called Wenford, set off no alarm bells in his head. But as the cab took him farther away from the city center and his surroundings grew poorer and more dreary the alarm bells began ringing with a vengeance. When the driver sang out, “Here it is!” he stepped out and regarded the place with horror.

  The Grand Hotel was a narrow, three-floor building of peeling paintwork and red brick that needed repair. It was evening and the pink neon sign was on. Some of the letters were missing, so that the sign actually read The Gran Hot.

  Inside was a poorly lit hall and a reception desk, but no receptionist. Randolph rang the bell and an elderly man in shirtsleeves emerged from some inner region.

  “Good evening,” Randolph said politely. “I have a reservation. Edmond Holsson.”

  “Right,” Jack said, eyeing the stranger's expensive clothes and air of breeding. “If you'll just sign here, sir, you're in Number 7. It's all ready-that is-” a thought seemed to strike him and he added quickly, “would you be wanting something to eat? The hotel restaurant closes in half an hour. It's an excellent place. My manageress takes personal charge of it.”

  “Would that be Ms. Dorothea Hebden?” Randolph asked cautiously.

  “It would indeed, sir. Have you heard of her?”

  “Of the excellence of her work,” Randolph confirmed.

  “Well, just go through that door over there. The porter will take your bags up.”

  With deep foreboding Randolph passed through the connecting door and found himself in a café whose chief merit was its cheerfulness. The tabletops were laminate, in a truly vile shade of red. Worse still was a small palm tree made of plastic that was clearly meant to dress up its surroundings. Randolph gazed at the palm, dumbstruck at its sheer awfulness.

  The waitress, a dainty blonde with fluffy hair and th
e face of a mischievous imp, called out to him, “Sit down, love. I'll be over in a minute.”

  Randolph didn't want to sit down in this place but his knees were threatening to give way with shock, so he found a corner table that was partly concealed by the palm, and tried to be inconspicuous. It was hard because, surrounded by men in shirtsleeves and overalls, he was the only one in a proper suit.

  Where was the high-class establishment of his imagining? A mirage. Instead, this. This! And he'd committed himself to spending the night in the place. He'd told himself that no sacrifice was too great for his country. Now he began to wonder if he'd been wrong.

  The waitress was gathering plates vigorously. At the table behind her a young man leaned across and patted her behind, making her turn with a little squeal and a reproving, “Hey, watch it!”

  “Sorry,” the young man said, grinning. “Couldn't help myself.”

  “Looks to me like you were helping yourself,” she riposted. “Keep your hands off or I'll set Mike on you.” She was laughing as she eased away from him, wriggling gracefully to avoid his hand again.

  A good-natured young woman, Randolph thought, but hardly the person he sought.

  Another waitress bustled out from the kitchen. She was dark, comely and extremely well built. She called out, “Dottie, do you want me to do the corner table?”

  “No thanks Bren, I've grabbed him,” the blonde sang back. She waved at Randolph and called cheerily, “You don't mind me grabbing you, do you love?”

  “Not at all,” he replied politely, trying to conceal his growing dismay. Dottie! Dorothea? This was Princess Dorothea?

  At that moment one of the men at the table whispered something to her and she went into peals of laughter. It was a delightful sound, rich and resonant, full of the joy of life. But princesses did not laugh in that unrestrained way.

  She scurried over to Randolph, and sat down at the chair opposite with a sigh of relief. “Okay if I sit down to take your order? It's been a long day and my feet are killing me.”