Princess Dottie

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 the 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.”

A flash of inspiration came to Randolph. He assumed an air of hauteur to say, “As a matter of fact, it's not 'Okay.”'

She rose at once. “All right, all right, keep your hair on.”

“Keep-my-hair-on?” he echoed in bewilderment, feeling the top of his head. “Are you impertinent enough to suggest that I'm wearing a wig?”

Again her laughter bubbled up. “Blimey no! It's just an expression. It means don't get worked up. Keep your hair on.”

“But why hair?”

“I don't know. It's just, well, you're not English, are you?”

“Is that a crime?” he asked sternly.

“No, it's just that it's an English expression and, well, you're not English, so you don't understand it.” She made a wry face. “I think I've said enough.”

“More than enough,” he said coldly. “Now, if you don't mind, I should like something to eat.”

“Sausage and beans? Sausage and fries? Sausage and bacon? Sausage and eggs?”

“Do you do anything that doesn't come with sausage?”

“Hamburger with beans? Hamburger with fries, ham-”

“Thank you, I get the picture,” he said hastily. “You'll pardon me for saying that the cuisine hardly lives up to the place's name.”

“Cuisine? Oh, posh food. No love, nothing posh about us.”

“So I gather,” he murmured heavily.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing. Down here it says 'liver and bacon'-”

“Sorry, liver's off. It's the end of the day. We ran out an hour ago.”

“Rabbit stew?”

“We ran out of that two hours ago.” She checked her watch. “And you'll have to be quick. We close soon.”

“Close? With an unsatisfied customer?”

“Well, if we could find something you like-”

“But I've already found two things that I like, and you said they're both off,” he said, trying to sound peevish. He was really getting into the skin of the part now, seeking the point where her patience would fray. Turning the screw a little further, he added acidly, “This hardly seems a very well-run establishment.”

“It's a little backstreet café, not the flamin' Ritz,” she protested. “I know what my customers like and I cater for it.”

“You're not doing so well with me.” undervoice

“But you're not like the others. You should be at the Ritz. Are you sure you came to the right place?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” he responded in a hollow voice.

“So what'll it be?”

“Since it all looks equally disgusting,” he snapped, “you'd better bring me anything that isn't 'off.' That is, if you can find something.”

That should test her temper to the limit, he thought. But when he looked up she was regarding him with quizzical amusement.

“You've had a hard day too, haven't you?” she asked kindly.

“Yes,” he said, suddenly dazed. “Yes-”

“What's the matter?”

“I-nothing.”

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

“I'm not. Just bring me the first dish you lay your hands on.”

He was glad when she left. He needed a moment to come to terms with his sudden sense of shock. It was nothing that could be precisely defined, just a strange sensation when he'd surprised that odd kindness on her face.

Suddenly he was a child again, with his Aunt Gertrude, his father's sister who'd raised him after his mother died. The boy had been throwing a temper about some childish tragedy. And when he'd kicked the furniture and shouted unforgivable things in his frustration and misery he'd looked up, expecting anger, but encountered instead his aunt's understanding smile.

“Why don't we just forget all about it?” she asked tenderly. And he'd known that she was the kindest person in the world. As well as the prettiest.

He could see Aunt Gertrude now, her pixie face with its halo of soft blond hair, so like the waitress's. There could be no doubt about it. Impossible as it seemed, this was a member of the Ellurian royal dynasty, bearing the family face down through the generations.

His rudeness hadn't fazed her, and he had to give her high marks for her patience and self-control. But oh, her voice! Her laugh! Her way of calling him “love”! And this woman was the rightful monarch of Elluria! He could have wept for his country.

She returned with a plate of pie and peas.

“Sit down,” he said, indicating the seat opposite. She gave him a wary look and he nodded. “I'm not consistent, am I? But I'm a stranger here and I'd like to talk.”

“All right,” she sat down with a sigh of relief.

“It must be a hard job,” he said sympathetically.

She groaned. “Tell me about it!” Then she laughed. “But I enjoy it. You meet people.”

“Do you live on the premises? I understand you're the manageress.”

She giggled. “Manageress! Honestly! That's just one of Jack's harmless daydreams, like calling this place The Grand. I mean, look at it. He's a sweet old boy, but you've got to admit it's hilarious.”

Randolph, who was feeling anything but amused, agreed that it was.

“So you don't live here?” he continued valiantly.

“I've got a room a few streets away.”

“You're not married?” Randolph asked cautiously. He no longer dared rely on any of Sigmund's information.

“Not yet, but Mike and I will be setting the day soon. That's him, over there.”

Randolph followed her gaze to the stocky young man who was just coming through the door. From his stained overalls he seemed to be a mechanic. He waved at Dottie, then settled down in a corner table.

“No other family?” Randolph persisted. “Father? Mother?”

“My parents died years ago.”

“Brothers or sisters?”

“No.”

“Ex-husbands?”

“No. Excuse me,” she said with sudden determination, “I've got some urgent business to attend to.”

She jumped up, hurried over to the young man, just getting there ahead of the dark-haired waitress, and planted a firm kiss on his mouth. “Push off,” she told Brenda. “Find your own feller.”

“You can talk.” Brenda addressed herself to Mike.

“She's been all over that bloke behind the palm. Can't see his face but his clothes are posh.”

“Eee, Dot,” Mike said, awed, “have you got a rich admirer?”

“Could be,” Dottie agreed.

“He's been asking her all sorts of personal stuff,” Brenda went on. “Like, has she got any family?”

“What's he want to do that for?” Mike asked, puzzled.

“White slavery,” Brenda said dramatically.

Dottie stared. “You what?”

“He's the front man, luring innocent girls into his net, then selling them on,” Brenda said with relish. “He's probably stocking a harem. He's asking all those questions because he wants to know if anyone will be looking for you.”

“Then why isn't he asking you questions?” Dottie wanted to know.

“There's a better market in blondes. He's probably got your purchaser already lined up.”

Mike was impressed. “Hey, Dot, do you think he'd give me two camels for you?”

“You cheeky blighter!” she said indignantly. “What do you mean, two? Three, or you're dead.”

“Well, tell him I'm open to offers. Three camels would just about pay the deposit on that garage.”

This sent Dottie into gales of laughter. Still shaking she made her way unsteadily back to Randolph's table, and collapsed into her seat.

“What's so funny?” Randolph demanded, fascinated. He'd only caught odd scraps of the conversation.

It took her some time to get the words out between chuckles, but when she'd finished he gave a reluctant grin. Despite his gloomy mood he found her sunny approach to life infectious.

“I'm afraid I'm not anything as interesting as a white slaver,” he said.

“Pity,” Dottie said, making a face. “I could sell you Brenda at a discount. That would make her leave my fiancé alone.”

“She's certainly making eyes at him. And he doesn't seem to mind.”

“Oh, Mike's an innocent,” Dottie said cheerfully. “He needs me to look after him.”

“Shouldn't he be looking after you?”

“We look after each other, we always have, ever since we were at school. On my first day, someone knocked me down in the playground and he picked me up and stopped them doing it again. And I helped him with his sums.”

Yes, Randolph thought uncharitably, the bumpkin looked like someone who would need help with his sums.

“Is that all you want out of life,” he asked, “to settle down with a garage mechanic?”

“What's wrong with him being a garage mechanic?” she fired up.

“Nothing,” he said hastily, reading dire retribution in her eyes. “I just thought you might have been a bit more ambitious.”

“Why?” she asked, honestly baffled.

“Because a girl as pretty as you could take her pick of men.”

“Do you really think I'm pretty?”

“Ravishing,” he said, adding shamelessly, “With that tiny waist and those smoky blue eyes, you could be a model.”

“You are a white slaver,” she said triumphantly. “I must tell Mike. He said you could have me for three camels.”

Randolph felt all at sea. Nothing in his previous life had prepared him for a woman who turned everything into a joke.

“Why does he want three camels?” he asked, grasping at straws.

“When he's sold them he can afford the deposit on a garage.”

“I'm not sure how much three camels would fetch,” he mused, keeping gamely up with her.

“Well if it's not enough we'll throw Brenda in as well, for another two.”

“Only two?”

“Well, she's not worth as many as me,” Dottie said with such indignation that he laughed. “He's not just a mechanic,” she added. “He's going to be an owner.”

“And who'll do the sums?” Randolph asked, touched by her eagerness.

“Me of course. Mike's genius is in his hands.”

“And did you, by any chance, put the idea into his head?”

“I may have done.”

“And who found the garage?”

“Well, me.”

“And who's been talking with the bank? Mike?”

Dottie crowed with laughter and thumped him on the shoulder in a familiar way that nobody had ever dared do before. For an instant he stiffened, but then he remembered he was incognito and forced himself to relax.

“It's no use you trying to make me think Mike is thick.”

“I can see that,” he murmured wryly.

“Anyway, I don't care. He's mine.”

The sudden softening of her voice, and a glow in her eyes made Randolph ask quietly, “You really love him, don't you?”

“Heaps and heaps,” Dottie said with a happy sigh.

“So you wouldn't be interested in my nefarious intentions?”

“Nef- What?”

“It means 'up to no good.' That's what you think of me?”

“I've got to, while you're in that posh gear,” she said cheekily. “The last bloke who came in here dressed like that was arrested as he went out the door. Got five years for fraud.”

“Then since my clothes have given me away, you'd better tell me something about yourself so that I can decide whether you're worth three camels.”

That made her crow with laughter, and to his ears it had a pleasant sound.

“My name's Dottie Hebden,” she said, unwittingly sinking his last hope. “It's short for Dorothea. I ask you! Fancy saddling someone with a name like Dorothea!”

“Perhaps it's a family name.”

“Funny you should say that because as a matter of fact it is. According to my grandpa, anyway. If you believed him we come from a grand family, years and years ago.”

“Did he ever tell you anything about this family?”

“I'm not sure. The trouble was, he was a terrible man for the drink, and when he was tipsy everyone stopped listening. No, it was just Grandpa spinning pretty tales.”

“Haven't you ever wished that they were true?”

“Heavens no! What, me? Swanning about in a tiara and acting grand? Don't be funny!”

Her smile died as something attracted her attention. Randolph followed her gaze and saw that Mike was talking into a mobile phone, looking as annoyed as his good-natured face would allow. He finished the call, shrugged helplessly at Dottie and rose to his feet.

“Sorry, love,” he said, coming across. “Gotta go out and see to a breakdown. Important customer. It sounds like a long job, so I won't see you tonight. Never mind. Tomorrow's half day. Meet you in the park as usual.”

He kissed her cheek and departed.

“Oh heck!” Dottie sighed. “Just when we're about to close. Brenda, come and help me clear up. Brenda? Brenda?”

“I'm afraid she's gone,” Randolph told her. “She slipped out straight after Mike.”

“The lousy, rotten… She's not supposed to leave until I say so. You wouldn't believe it, but I'm supposed to be the manageress here.” Dottie stood in the middle of the floor, raised her fluffy head to heaven and cried, “I am Authority, with a capital A. Underlings tremble when I talk to them.” There was a cheer from the other customers, evidently used to this, and she reverted to normal. “But for all the notice she takes of me I might as well be the dogsbody. In fact,

I am the dogsbody, because now I've got to clear up on my own.”

“I'm afraid that's the price of scaling managerial heights,” Randolph said sympathetically.

Dottie pointed a sausage at him. “You can hush!”

She went around the tables collecting money, and the café slowly emptied. As she started the washing up a wall phone buzzed. Under cover of taking his crockery to the counter Randolph shamelessly eavesdropped, but it gained him little. Dottie's face, full of exasperation, was more revealing.

“I'll strangle Jack,” she said, hanging up. “Someone called Holsson made a reservation for tonight and Jack forgot to tell me, so I've got to get his room ready before I go. Oh blast Jack. I hope his milk curdles and his socks rot. And the same goes for Mr. Holsson, whoever he is.”