it, Frankie was pulling on a canary-yellow dress and spiking her hair in Kris’s bathroom mirror. She was so drained her eyes and throat were gritty, and her body felt like something she was wearing rather than controlling. Her hands trembled as she flipped open her foundation and met her own dismayed gaze in the mirror.
She’d wanted to be wrong.
She’d sped to Kuria Estate straight after her talk with Zara. She’d wanted to stand before Adam and sense in her gut that he was a good man—incapable of malice, of planned murder. Instead, she’d discovered he’d left the mansion just minutes before to organize a surprise for the bachelor party, claiming he would meet Markus and the others at seven.
Mouth dry and head aching, she’d tripled security for Darius that night. Nothing would happen to that child while his family was celebrating in the city.
She’d returned to the palace, telling herself it could still be a coincidence. The ‘A’ of his pin might really stand for Adam, and he might really be out arranging a surprise for Mark.
But Prince Aron’s old manservant had confirmed it. Frankie had asked why Aron had decided to dine on the balcony that night. At first, the man couldn’t remember. The conversation moved on, but then he’d circled back, and said, “Actually, I think it was suggested by one of his younger servers. Blond. Quite formal.” He’d paused, remembering. “Adam.”
Cream powder dusted the vanity. Cursing, Frankie clenched her teeth and wiped it onto the marble floor.
Next, she’d shown a photograph of Adam to the proprietor of the Bull’s Quest. “Yes, I’ve seen him. He doesn’t come to every meeting, but most of them.”
“Can you tell me anything else about him,” she’d said faintly. “Anything at all.”
“He doesn’t order much from the bar. Seems to like to stay clearheaded. And his brother used to attend the meetings with him, but stopped turning up about six months ago.”
Brother? On edge, Frankie had ordered a shot at the bar before leaving.
This much she knew—Adam attended anarchist meetings and lied to Zara about it. Through these meetings, he was acquainted with a number of men who’d worked on the construction of the west-wing balcony. He’d personally suggested Prince Aron eat with his father and uncle on the unfinished site. He’d had bags packed in the days following their deaths. He’d been disinterested in Zara until the moment he realized she was close with the princess—who was getting close to Mark. He’d worked hard and faultlessly for the royal family for over a decade, according to the head of palace HR, and requested the opportunity to be promoted to personally serve the new king.
And he would be at the bachelor party.
All three brothers in one place.
Did Adam have a plan? She’d ordered both the bridal and bachelor venues to be thoroughly searched for potential threats. Nothing. She’d ramped up scheduled security and organized a detection dog at the venue entrances, and if asked, would claim standard procedure for times when the entirety of the royal line was gathered in public. If Adam himself was a threat, he wouldn’t go undetected. She also had the anarchists who’d worked on the construction under continued surveillance in case Adam rallied his team.
Frankie applied her base coat in determined strokes.
No one would get near her boys.
“Frankie?”
She jumped, startled at the call from Kris’s sitting room. Tommy?
“In here,” she called. “I’m dressed. Come in.”
Pulling herself together, she dabbed her brush into a cocoa-brown eyeshadow until Tommy’s reflection appeared in the bathroom behind her. He’d scrubbed up for Mark’s bachelor party in a steel-grey shirt and black jeans, even had a haircut, but his blue eyes were too wide and his skin too pale.
“Hey,” she said, looking back at the palette.
The steadiness of his stare bore into her in the mirror, and after an assessing silence, he asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Big day.” She met his gaze. Avoiding it would give her away. “Headache.”
He paused. “Most people don’t look that good in yellow.” It was the closest she’d ever heard him get to a compliment.
“Thanks.” Frowning a little, she leaned over the vanity to apply the shadow.
“You could have an attendant do that for you,” he said. “Several, actually.”
“Oh boy, my dreams are coming true.” She kept brushing. “What’s up?”
He stepped to one side and sat on an elegant stool positioned by the door. Knees wide, elbows on his thighs, hands clasped between. Head angled to regard the lush vine spilling down from a hanging pot beside him.