Marooned with the Millionaire

‘No. But Axel would have, and Frederick does. Or at least he is trying to.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps one day democracy will be the right way forward—perhaps Frederick himself will decide to make those changes. But now is not the time. Lycander is not ready.’

‘What gives you the right to decide that?’

‘Nothing. It is not my decision—it is my belief. And I will fight for that belief.’

‘Then maybe you should let Brian Sewell fight for his.’

‘Through inciting violence and riots? Through a campaign of rumour and mire?’

‘OK. Not Brian Sewell. But those who believe that a ruler should be elected...shouldn’t be given such immense power simply through birth and blood.’

‘Lycander has had a monarchy for centuries, and on the whole it has worked. Right now it is working. But there is an enormous amount of work to do, and Frederick is the man to do it.’

‘Frederick—or you?’ The words came unbidden, ignited by the sheer determination in his voice.

‘Frederick is the Prince and he has a vision that I share. It is my honour to be of help to him.’

‘And if you and he disagree on policy? What happens then?’

Marcus shook his head. ‘This isn’t an interview, April.’

‘I know that. This is off the record.’

Marcus snorted. ‘But if you quote that “a leading figure in Frederick’s council” privately said blah-blah-blah, I’m sure people will join the dots.’

‘I won’t quote anything you don’t want to be quoted.’

‘That’s what you say now, but if our relationship goes downhill you may change your mind. For the record, I don’t want to be quoted. Period. What I do want is for you to drop the story.’

‘You still haven’t shown me why.’

‘This is why.’

He gestured out of the window and April turned her head.

Now they were in a different place all together. The streets were grubby, poverty was pervasive. Shops were shuttered, broken windows and rusted corrugated iron denoted a desolation that was a world away from lemons, olives and wine.

‘This is the result of Alphonse’s rule, and this is what Frederick wants to turn around. But to do that we need time—time that can’t be taken by a democratic, political fund-sucking fight.’

He leant forward and murmured to the driver, and two minutes later the car pulled to a stop.

‘I want to show you what we’re trying to do.’

CHAPTER THREE

MARCUS ALIGHTED FROM the car and April scooted across the seat after him, emerged and looked around.

This area was different again—not like the plush wealth of the city, nor the high glitz of Lycander’s high life, but it had an air of hope, shown by the green of a park, the few small cafés and shops that weren’t boarded up. One large building had a fresh coat of paint and boxes of flowers on the windowsills. The sound of music came from inside and the front doors were wide open. Groups of youths chatted outside, clustered in the sunshine.

‘This is a newly founded community centre. We opened it seven months ago, with funds from Lycander’s coffers and overseas help from the Caversham Foundation.’

April nodded. ‘Set up and run by Ethan and Ruby Caversham.’

‘I read your interview with them.’

‘They are incredible people.’

They truly were—April had warmed to the couple and their genuine belief in the foundation they ran for troubled teenagers.