The Golden Princess (#4 in the GOLDEN series) ✔

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"Anyway, at least the Dowager's—ahem, the Duchesses'—conspiracies have left with her. We need none of those here." Charlotte fiddled with her half up-do, pressing down on her already perfect curls. She sparkled, radiating with a touch of narcissism that made Céleste's guts churn. "I never took part in her dreadful designs, and never would. Ally myself with someone like that? No, thank you."

Céleste wrinkled her nose as she lowered her cup. Sébastien wanted her to dig deeper, to extract more from Charlotte, to truly get to know her; which meant she had to stoop to the girl's level.

"But she could have offered a particular degree of protection, no? Made certain Jules chose you as his bride?" Her heart thrummed in her chest, aware she sounded unconvinced, her voice too soft and her face too sweet to imply she'd ever thought of such dire things.

But Charlotte took no note of her hesitation. "I did not need her for that. I secured him on my own," she winked, "with my unmeasured charms."

The way she said it—her words light but heavy with implications—caused Céleste to gag, wondering what exactly Charlotte had done to keep Jules' interest. She remembered their proximity at almost every Ball; how Charlotte's décolleté was often so plunging it must have held thousands of secrets in its depths. How they drank too much and became overly familiar with one another near the buffet, or scampered off together to do who-knew-what.

Did Charlotte lose her virtue to him?

Prince Jules was far from prude. Stories of his soirees with women and men had reached the Academy many times. Though most swooned at his adventures, impressed with his prouesse, it repulsed Céleste. And until today, she thought Charlotte would have balked at such details, too. She was always the first to frown at the idea of men defiling women before marriage, and she'd voiced it, screaming it in the hallways, proclaiming it in all her lessons.

But this girl, parading the corridors of court with her perfect pout, her breasts spilling from her corset for all men to ogle at, her lips loose and available to the Prince whose escapades once disgusted her, was not the same prude Céleste had gone to school with. She'd been desperate to have a spotless record, a flawless reputation—yet now she seemed ready to proclaim her openness with Jules and smile about it.

She hides something beneath that exaggerated perfection.

Charlotte's husky voice drew Céleste from her thoughts. "I do wonder what will happen to all those ladies once the Queen leaves."

Céleste gasped—Charlotte knew the King planned to rid himself of his dreadful wife? How? As far as Céleste was aware, it was only speculation; so how did Charlotte get confirmation?

Her arm shook, and a few drops of hot liquid splashed onto her upper chest, sliding down to stain her cerulean bodice.

Hissing at the liquid's heat, she grabbed a handkerchief from the coffee table and tapped it to her skin. "The Queen is leaving?"

Bobbing up and down on the couch like an over-excited child, Charlotte grinned. "You did not hear it from me, but yes. It has been reported the King plans to annul his marriage with her!"

Céleste had to feign utter shock to not rouse Charlotte's suspicion. Jaw clenched, she loosened her grip on her cup, emitting a small squeal as the beautiful china dropped and smashed to pieces.

"What?" She squirmed up from her seat as blazing liquid seeped through her thick layers and singed her skin. "Oh dear, look at what your revelations have done! I have made a mess."

One of Charlotte's maids came to the rescue, removing the broken bits from the floor and wiping down the puddle at Céleste's feet.

Charlotte snapped at her to hurry. "I did not think it would surprise you so," she said, waving at her serving girl to produce another mug of tea. "You loathe her, do you not? I would have expected you to be current on her situation."

"How," Céleste's mouth gaped open then slammed shut with a pop, "why would you assume that?"

Had she been too transparent with her sentiments towards the Queen? Had she made it too obvious how she disliked her?

Charlotte giggled. "Oh, fret not. We all hate her." She tilted forward and cupped a hand around her mouth. "A lady from a treacherous French family, at our court? Seducing the King and failing to give him an heir after three years? Trust me. This rumor of her departure pleases us all."

"Treacherous?" Céleste accepted a new cup from the maid and settled into her spot.

Charlotte clapped at her chambermaid, then pointed at the door. "Leave us! I will summon you if I need you!"

The girl issued a quick curtsy before hunching over and scurrying out, closing the door behind her.

Once certain they were alone, Charlotte grabbed Céleste's wrist and hauled her onto the couch beside her. "Let me be plain." Her voice was different; less sugary and nauseating than usual, more to the point and firm. "Adelaide's family in Avignon are usurpers. Her father stole the seat of power and has been in a secret rebellion for years, feeding information to Général Napoléon. Adelaide knows, but keeps it under the table, to save her status from being tainted."

This was intelligence Céleste had never heard. "Does the King know?"

Charlotte rolled her eyes. "For heaven's sake, Richel, everyone knows. The Dowager likely arranged the marriage between her son and Adelaide for that reason. Securing that red-headed bitch a throne to sit on was important, as no one can predict how long her father will be in power. The Dowager is French, and from near Avignon, after all; she would want to aid her kind."

Letting out a loud hiccup, Céleste ripped her wrist from Charlotte's grasp.

I had no idea Clémentine came from Adelaide's area of France!

She slouched into the couch cushions, battling with Charlotte's enormous skirts. "So if their marriage is to be annulled, what will happen to Adelaide?" She winced at the name. "Was Marg—argh, was Prudence aware of this when she was our director? When she ran, three years ago?"

Charlotte shrugged and reached for a biscuit from the doily laden platter on the coffee table. "I am unsure what the Giromian Princess hides in that mind of hers. As for the Queen, I assume she will return home, back to her father and his schemes." She bit into the pastry, then perked up, setting a finger beneath her chin as she chewed. "But what if she is already on the prowl for another husband? She will want another throne, no?" She wriggled her eyebrows and chuckled as she finished her bite.

Céleste knew there was nothing funny about her words. "What King would want her? Discarded, destitute, daughter of a treacherous family, as you called it? Who?" Céleste smelled the raspberry coulis from Charlotte's biscuit, and her mouth watered.

"I am certain," Charlotte pulled a napkin from near her teacup and dabbed at the corners of her lips, "that her father will first seek some treaty with Giroma. In revenge for what King Antoine did to shame her. A union with King Romain, of course. I doubt he would accept her, after the fiasco he and his sister have run away from. He will seek a German or Italian bride, now. Oh, what if he travels to England for a spouse? That would be dramatic..."

The longer Céleste listened to Charlotte's babbling about wives for Romain and royal crowns Adelaide might seek, the more her temples ached. When Charlotte switched to her own former potentials—the stable-boys and kitchen hands she'd wanted to marry as a younger teenager, but that her father had refused—Céleste blushed. She'd never be comfortable discussing such sinful things.

She'd never fit in with ladies like Charlotte, who were privy to all sorts of theories and secrets that they examined over tea and biscuits as if conversing about the weather. Céleste wasn't sure she'd ever want to learn to behave in such a manner.

Are all future Princesses so indelicate?

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