Deep in the warrens of the Louvre, guarded by his Welfenlegion men at every intersection around them, Wulf held his phone and watched Reagan, his Reagan, and now she would indeed be his Reagan, as she took a few steps away to text Georgiana. From just a few feet away, he could see how her hands trembled around her phone. She blinked as if she couldn’t quite focus on the tiny screen.
He could hardly wait to get her back to the hotel. Leaving so early would insult Flicka and scandalize the nobility, but he considered it, nevertheless.
Wulf dialed Frau Keller’s cell phone number because she deserved to know first, even though she was in the Louvre’s noisy ballroom area, enjoying Flicka’s wedding reception.
His house manager answered with an efficient, “Ja?”
“She said yes,” Wulf said in German. Wulf had stolen Frau Keller from his father when she had been running Schloss Marienburg in Hannover, a palace coup that still rankled the old man. “It will be tomorrow, as soon as possible.”
“Very good, Herr von Hannover. I’ll begin preparations,” she said. “It is three o’clock in the US. The lawyers’ plane will be in the air in two hours.”
“Thank you, Frau Keller.”
“And I congratulate you, Wulfram.”
“Thank you, Rosamunde.” If he had been standing beside her, he would enjoyed seeing her slow smile, but at least he heard it in her voice.
Next, Wulf dialed Theo Valencia’s number and lifted his phone to his ear. The international transfers clicked, and rings rattled through the signal.
“Hello?” Theo’s voice sounded angry through the phone. “Mr. von Hannover?”
“Call me Wulf. The plane will leave in two hours. You will be on it?”
“Oh, hell, yes. I need to get out of this place before I strangle someone.”
“Pleased to be of service.”
Rae came back, frowning at her phone. “Georgie says that Lizzy’s there so she can’t leave.”
That was a rare opportunity. “Tell her to bring Lizbeth. Unfortunately, the chartered plane is full, so they’ll have to fly commercial.” He paused. “Is she all right?”
Rae held up the phone so he could read the glowing screen. “This is what I know.”
Wulf scanned it. “Tell her to use any means necessary to get Lizbeth on that plane. I’ll alert Rosamunde that we’ll need commercial tickets as well. Rosamunde will call them for their details.”
“I’ll text them back, then. They can raid the Devilhouse costume closet for clothes.” Rae glanced up, her sweet eyes widened. “I can’t get married. I don’t have a wedding dress.”
“It’s just the civil wedding. You don’t need one of those—” In a rare instance, his English failed him so he mimed the fluff and froufrou that Flicka had been wearing at the church.
“The virgin suit,” Rae said.
“Quite. Flicka wore a cocktail dress for her civil ceremony. I believe you have an ecru lace ensemble that you haven’t worn.”
Rae’s mouth opened a little, and Wulf wanted to kiss her again. Every time she moved, every hand gesture, every bend of her supple body, he restrained himself.
She said, “You planned that, too.”
The truth was far worse. “Not at all. It hadn’t even occurred to me that we would need particular clothes. That dress was Flicka’s entirely unsubtle hint. She always was a conniving child.”