He threaded my arm through his. “While it’s always entertaining to watch you consume food, I must run an errand first. I was hoping you’d come with me.”

I rubbed my stomach.

He smirked but took hold of my arm and we walked back outside. “I believe this short detour will be worth your while, and I promise to feed you afterward.”

“I hate to remind you, but when we last spent quality time together, I ended up hiding in a closet and finding another dead body.”

He leaned in close. “Are you too much of a coward to give it another try?”

“Coward?” I said, insulted and excited all at once. “Lead the way, Jack.”

A black Bentley limousine pulled up. The driver hopped out and opened the door for us. When we were ensconced in the backseat and the driver made his way out to the Royal Mile, I turned to Derek. “Where are we going?”

“To the palace.”

“What?”

Within minutes we’d left the High Street behind and I could see rugged Arthur’s Seat rising up to stand sentry over the Palace of Holyroodhouse. Then, within moments, we were actually driving onto the stately grounds of the palace.

Wow.

I turned to Derek. “What are we doing here?”

“Just picking something up,” he said cryptically.

The driver opened the door and Derek led me to a side entrance away from the public tour area. Before I could get over my shock, we were met at the door by an older woman in a slim blue dress. She escorted us to an elegantly appointed sitting room, where a well-dressed man in his early forties was waiting.

“Ah, Mr. Stone,” the man said. “Here you are, right on time.”

“Hello, Jones,” Derek said. “This is Brooklyn Wainwright, the book restoration expert I was telling you about.”

“Lovely,” he said with a slight nod.

“ Brooklyn,” Derek continued, “this is Phillip Pickering-Jones, personal secretary to the royal highnesses.”

The royal highnesses?

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Pickering-Jones.”

“Delighted,” he said, extending his hand to shake mine. “And just ‘Jones’ is fine. His Highness is quite delighted at the thought of your doing the work. He asks only that you ship the parcel back within a month, in time for the young lady’s birthday.”

His Highness?

Were we talking about the prince? Like, the real freaking prince? Was it the cute one? Or the other cute one? Or the much older, not-so-cute one? Did it matter? I looked from Jones to Derek. “What am I working on?”

“Ah, you haven’t informed her, then?” Jones asked Derek.

“No,” Derek said with a slight smile. “I thought you might do that.”

“With pleasure, sir.” He walked to a small, elegant pale green desk set against the wall under a portrait of some distinguished lord of something or other. He picked up a brown-paper-wrapped parcel and handed it to me.

“It’s a favorite childhood book belonging to a dear friend of His Highness,” Jones explained. “Now tattered and torn, as you’ll see. We would be most appreciative if you would work your magic to transform it into a gift of beauty for his lady friend’s birthday.”

I took the parcel and found the seal. “May I?”

He nodded regally. “Of course.”

I unwrapped the package. It was a leather-bound version of what I assumed was a British children’s book I’d never heard of: A Flat Iron for a Farthing, by Juliana Horatia Ewing. I turned it over in my hand. It was fraying at the edges and torn through to the boards in spots. My brain went into bookbinder mode, cataloging the book itself and the work required: original green leather binding so faded it appeared light gray. Title embossed in gold on spine. Faded. Masking tape residue on front hinge. I resisted shivering in disgust.

The front and back boards had come loose from the spine. The paper was thick and in decent condition, with only a bit of insect damage and foxing on several pages. The signatures had begun to unravel from the tapes. It would need new tapes, new flyleaves and a complete new binding.

“It’s charming,” I said, and it was, despite its disrepair-and the masking tape. Ugh. I opened the book to the title page and noted its printing date: 1910. “Do you know what type of binding His, er, Highness would prefer?”

“Leather, of course,” Jones said, waving his hand theatrically.

“Of course.”

“Something elegant and pretty, perhaps somewhat close to the original green.”

“Sounds perfect.”

I turned the book over and studied the back board. Forest green morocco would be pretty. “Would he prefer gilding or heat stamping? Raised cord spine?”

He gave me a deferential nod. “I was told that the details were to be handled at your discretion, Miss Wainwright.”

“And you’ll need it back within a month?”

“Yes, miss.”

I nodded. “I can do that.”

“Excellent.” He bowed. “Thank you, miss.”

“Thank you,” I said. “It’ll be my pleasure.”

He handed me a small white shopping bag with the royal crest imprinted on it in black, and explained that inside the bag was a card with instructions as well as a preaddressed overnight mailing packet for my convenience.

Then he walked with us back along the wide gallery, allowing us a brief glance at the library and identifying the subjects of a number of different paintings. He stopped to allow us to admire a huge set of Sèvres urns that were particular favorites of Queen Victoria. Farther along, he proudly pointed out the impressive silver tea service on display that had been a gift from Lord Wellington.

When he bade us farewell at the limousine, I didn’t know whether to curtsy or bow, so I just shook hands with him.

Once inside the car, I turned to Derek. “Oh, my God, I’m working for His Highness. Whichever highness it is, it totally rocks. You rock. Thank you.”

I kissed him, then sat back. “Wow, this is so cool. I really-”

“Come here.” He drew me back into his arms and proceeded to finish the kiss properly. Before my eyebrows singed and I turned into a yearning puddle of need, the chauffeur had stopped the car.

“That’s a short drive,” I mumbled.

“You’re welcome,” Derek said.

Once inside, we made tracks straight to the restaurant, where the hostess led the way to a corner booth. I scooted in on one side and met Derek in the middle. He ordered a cup of coffee and I went with the ploughman’s platter and a pint of pale ale.

“Platter’s enough for two,” the waitress said as she wrote the order.

“Yes, we’ll have two plates,” Derek said with a smile.

The waitress returned his smile, looked at me and patted her heart, then walked away.

I grinned, then remembered he’d asked for two plates. “I thought you already ate.”

“I did,” he said. “And no, I’m not going to take your food.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“I’d rather keep my skin intact.”

The waitress delivered his coffee and my beer. He took a sip and whispered, “I asked for two plates because I didn’t want our waitress to fret about your eating issues.”

“I have no eating issues.”

“I know that, but she doesn’t.”

“Oh, I get it. You were being thoughtful.”

“Yes, I was.”

“That’s such a gift.” I smiled and leaned back against the cushioned booth. I was exhausted and achy. I needed a nap and a massage, not necessarily in that order. But I had my royal assignment, and that made me feel all rosy inside.

“Thank you again,” I said.

“You’re more than welcome,” he said. “I know you’ll do a good job.”

“Well, of course I will, but…”

He was staring.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

He moved closer and brushed my bangs off my forehead. “You’ve got a bump and a bruise.”

“I do?” Before I could touch my forehead, he pulled my hand away.

“It looks painful.”

“Now that you mention it, I do have a slight headache.” I’d forgotten all about it, thanks to the distraction of our little errand to the Palace of Holyroodhouse.