The Crown Jewels Boxed Set (A Crown Jewels Romantic Comedy Series) Read online

  I find her in the kitchen with my two sisters-in-law, Isa and Nina. They’re too engrossed in a heated discussion about the new school uniform policy to bother with me.

  “I know!” Nina, who is starting her second trimester, pops an olive in her mouth, then keeps right on talking. “I was told they weren’t going to do this again this year, but you know you can’t ever trust them. It’s a money grab.”

  “A total money grab.” Isa’s head is bobbing so fast, I’m afraid it might fall right off. Wouldn’t be too much of a loss for her. She tends to use it mainly for displaying her hair and makeup skills anyway. Oh, that was bitchy, wasn’t it? I wonder if I’m getting PMS?

  My mum takes her position in front of the stove, her hands a blur of activity, and she stirs, spices, and sautés dinner for sixteen. “So, Tessa, how’s the blogging going?” She emphasizes the word blogging so as to prove she’s finally remembered the name of my current profession.

  “Really well, thanks. Steady increase in subscribers, so that’s always good.”

  Her face pinches in confusion, and I know what’s coming. “I still don’t understand how you make money.”

  “It’s, um, ads, mostly. Some of the companies that I review for also pay me a fee for testing their products.” I wash my hands and start to slice some pickles that will be served with the stew.

  Mum nods. “Right. Companies pay you to advertise on your sites.”

  We go over this every time, but I don’t mind. It means she cares. “Yes, sort of. I get paid for the ads indirectly. They pay Google. Google pays me.”

  “And you really get enough people reading your blog to pay your bills?”

  She must know that I’m exaggerating about how well I’m doing, but in my defense, I only do it because I don’t want them to worry. Okay, also because I would die if my brothers found out.

  “I do.” I make just enough to get by. Real money. Not Bitcoins, which will be her next question.

  “Real money, or those Bitcoins I keep hearing about?”

  “Real money, Mum. It goes in my bank account and everything.”

  “Good, because Grace next door told me that those Bitcoin people are going bankrupt.”

  “Oh, really? Well, then I’m glad I opted for being paid in real money.”

  The doorbell rings, indicating that Bram has arrived. Unlike me, Bram likes to have everyone’s full attention at all times. Something about being born in the middle of a pack of boys that is apparently still affecting him.

  “Hello? Where is everybody?” he bellows. “I want you to meet my new girlfriend.”

  “Another one?” Nina purses her lips at Isa, setting off a wave of head-shaking and eye-rolling as they go in search of Bram’s catch of the day.

  My mum wipes her hands on a tea towel and bustles in the direction of the front door. I take the opportunity to gulp back the rest of my wine and top up my glass before going to greet his latest squeeze.

  ***

  We sit down to eat at exactly six o’clock. The adults squish in at the dining room table, while the kids are at a precariously tippy card table filling the entrance between the TV room and dining room. The television blares in the background so my father won’t miss an all-important goal. My mum cracks the window, as within a few minutes it will be stifling hot in here. She shimmies past the buffet, which proudly displays her Royal Family commemorative plate and mug collection, then is just about to sit down at the head of the table when she pops back up. “Nearly forgot the fancy napkins!”

  “Now don’t fuss, Mum. It’s not like we’re hosting the King.” My dad, who likes to get through dinners almost as fast as I do, says this every time.

  Mum waves off his comment as she hurries back into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a pile of thick paper napkins with a spring motif. She’s big on theme napkins.

  Everyone marvels at how my mother has managed to once again pull together such a fine feast. She pretends she doesn’t need the praise, and then the mayhem of dishing up begins. Noah, Isa, and Nina carry plates around the table, loading up food for their children. My brother, Lars, sits on his skinny arse and loads up his own plate before his pregnant wife barks at him to get up and help her. He jumps up as though shocked to find out that four of the children at the kiddie table belong to him.

  I’m positioned across from the new girlfriend, Irene, who is exactly what I expected. Young, pretty, big hair and even bigger breasts. Finn, who was hasty to grab the empty chair next to our brother’s new girl, glances down her deep V every time he hands her a dish, while Bram, who is on her other side, does the same thing when she hands each dish to him.

  My dad stands, clears his throat, and holds up his glass of beer. “We’re here together today to celebrate the life of a very special man who would have turned eighty-five today. He was a hell of a gardener, a kind soul, and the best father-in-law a man could ask for. To Grandpa Seth.”

  We all raise our glasses and toast. Tears fill my eyes. After fifteen years, I still miss Grandpa Seth so much, it hurts sometimes. He moved in with us when I was six, right after our grandmum passed on. He and I used to sneak out to the yard every chance we got. We’d talk while he worked in the garden. Well, actually, I would do all the talking, and he would do the listening. He was the only person in my family who treated me like a grownup, even when I was a little girl. He understood me like no one has since, and there’s been a hollow spot in my soul ever since we lost him.

  My brothers, who believed Grandpa Seth favoured me—which he totally did—didn’t have much use for him. They’ve all started eating while I fiddle with my tulip-stamped napkin and wait for the lump in my throat to clear.

  “So, Tess, how’s the blogging going?” Noah asks, now that he is finally seated and is piling his own plate with food. Let the games begin.

  “Tessa’s a blogger,” Bram tells Irene. “She used to be a real reporter until she got fired for shagging her boss.”

  “Bram Devon Sharpe!” my mum spits out. “We agreed not to bring that up anymore.”

  My face flames with humiliation. “It wasn’t just shagging. We were together for almost a year.”

  “What’s shagging, Mummy?” Poppy pipes up from the card table. “And why was Auntie doing it to her boss?”

  Isa’s shoulders drop, and she gives Noah a glare that tells him to handle this if he ever wants to get any you-know-what again. (I’m not guessing about that. She once told me she controls him by doling out sex on a reward-system basis. He doesn’t know this, of course, and I wish to hell that I didn’t, either.) Noah snaps into action.

  “Thanks a lot, Bram,” Noah mutters. “Nothing, luv, it’s just a made-up thing that Uncle Bram is talking about. From the movies.”

  Irene smiles at me. “So, you blog?”

  My mum answers for me. “Tessa’s quite the entrepreneur. She’s getting new subscribers every month.” Her expression says, ‘Isn’t that surprisingly good for our little Tessa, from whom we expected so little?’ To be fair, though, I am the least impressive one of the family. Noah is a structural engineer. Lars is a professor of astrophysics, so in our house, instead of saying someone is ‘not exactly a rocket scientist,’ we say, they’re ‘not exactly a Lars.’ Finn is finishing architecture school, and Bram is a dentist. And I blog.

  “What type of blog do you have?” Irene asks.

  “I run a few different sites. Photography, running, a site about the Royals…”

  My mum stiffens at the mention of my royal blog. As a huge royal watcher, it’s been a bitter disappointment to have her daughter become openly anti-royal. She’s such a fan, I actually think she would have preferred that I was an open polygamist.

  Irene’s eyes light up. “I just love the Royal Family! Especially Prince Arthur—yum!” She giggles, then stares at me, clearly expecting me to agree with her on the yumminess of our nation’s crown prince.

  “Yes, he’s very popular.” I smile pol
itely.

  She gasps. “I wonder if I follow your blog.”

  “Not if you love the Royal Family,” Lars quips.

  Her face falls. Mine turns red. “It’s less of a fan site and more of a critical look at the necessity of having a monarchy in this day and age.”

  “Tessa wants to oust the whole bunch,” Finn says to Irene’s breasts.

  “Off with their heads!” the voice of my nephew, Josh, rings out. Or is that one Geoffrey? I can’t tell them apart, but it’s really not my fault. They’re twins, and they never stop moving long enough to get a good look at them.

  “I don’t want anyone to be beheaded—”

  Irene is glaring at me now as though I just told her she has an ugly baby. Bram cuts me off and tells Irene’s boobs that I want to see the Royal Family turn everything over to the people and get honest jobs for once instead of stealing from the commoners of Avonia, like they’ve been doing for centuries.

  While her breasts seem neutral on the topic, their owner—and I say owner because I’m fairly sure she paid a lot for them—clearly is not. But this is to be expected—her anger, not the fake boobs. It’s a polarizing topic, and if I couldn’t handle people’s negative reactions, I would have no business blogging about it. If there’s one thing that I learned growing up with four brothers, it’s how to fight, and how to let criticism bounce off me. Oh, I guess that was two things. Good thing I don’t run a site about math.

  I reach for the wine bottle, but when I lift it, my heart sinks to discover it’s already empty. “I have nothing against the Royal Family personally. It’s more of a political and philosophical question.”

  “If it’s not personal, why did you call them ‘a pack of dishonest, inbred leeches’ last week?” Nina purses her lips and folds her arms over her belly.

  “Oh, so you’ve been reading my work.” I can’t help but be flattered, even though I know after she read it, she probably called Lars at work and bitched at him for ten minutes about what an awful human being his sister is.

  “It would be hard to miss,” Finn says, his mouth full of carrots. “That line was retweeted over fifty thousand times.”

  Noah almost chokes on his beer. “Fifty thousand retweets? Not bad, Tess.”

  “What the hell’s a retweet?” my dad asks.

  “Do you actually believe all those terrible things about our Royal Family? Or are you just saying that to get attention?” Isa asks.

  “What—”

  “Not attention, Isa. Subscribers,” Noah says. The guilty expression on his face tells me that they have clearly said this behind my back, probably on many an occasion.

  “Auntie Tessa,” my niece, Tabitha, is standing right behind me, her hot breath going directly into my ear, “my mum and dad said it’s not nice to say mean things about other people, so why is it okay when you do it?”

  “Uh, well, it’s just that, the people I’m writing about aren’t going to read it, so it’s not really the same thing…” My entire head is hot with shame. I glance over at Isa, who gives me a smug eyebrow raise.

  “So, it’s okay to say bad things if the people you’re talking about won’t find out?” Tabitha asks.

  “No, not really…” Oh, nuts, the look she’s giving me makes me want to slide down off my chair and hide under the table, but somehow I think the guilt would find me there. “It’s very complicated, Tabby. The people I’m writing about make choices that affect our entire country, and I believe very strongly that they’re doing the wrong thing. If someone doesn’t speak out, nothing will change.”

  She tilts her head like a confused dog. God, she’s cute. “But if they’ll never read what you say about them, how will they know they have to change?”

  And smart. She’s really fucking smart. I’ve been outwitted by a girl in a Hello Kitty jumper. “The thing is… well, sometimes, in politics… you need a lot of people to apply pressure to our lawmakers in order for… for…”

  “Ha ha! She’s got you there, Tess!” Bram laughs.

  In order for what? I suddenly realize that, other than the sound from the TV, the entire room has gone silent, and everyone is waiting for an explanation that I’m not prepared to give. “You’re a very wise young lady. I’m going to have to think long and hard about your questions. For now, let me say your parents are right. We shouldn’t say bad things about others.”

  “Mum, Josh spilled his milk all over the carpet!” Oh, thank God!

  “Shit.” My dad, who couldn’t care less about the carpet, is referring to the opposing team having just scored.

  “Watch your language in front of the children!” My mother hurries to the kitchen for the necessary supplies.

  “Grandpa just said ‘shit!’”

  “Geoffrey, enough!”

  “I’ve got it, Mum. Let me clean that up.”

  “That’s okay, dear. You eat while it’s hot.”

  “Muuummmm, Poppy’s smiling at me again!”

  “Poppy, what did we say about smiling at Knox?”

  “He said my bum smells like farts!”

  “Well, it does smell like farts!”

  “Do you have to go poop, sweetie?”

  “No!”

  “No talking about farts or poop at the table!”

  “Hang on, what’s a retweet, Finn?” My dad points a forkful of beef at me. “And more importantly, does she make any money off them?”

  “You don’t, but—” I start, but my dad interrupts me.

  “You’re not lettin’ them pay you in Bitcoins, are you?”

  THREE

  A Kick to the Crown Jewels

  Arthur

  My father, His Serene Highness, the King of Avonia, or Winston, as my grandmother calls him, is away on a two-month diplomatic tour in Southeast Asia at the moment. Of course, this is when it would all come crashing down. Not only is the reigning monarch away, but this is the one time this month I was supposed to have an entire evening to myself. I had planned to spend it not-so-alone with the Duchess of Funville, who lets me play her front-nine whenever she’s in town, which is not very bloody often.

  She’s from Scotland, and her father owns half the golf courses around Europe. She’s one of very few women who is only interested in a naughty diversion, rather than hoping to end up wearing matching his and hers crowns. Since she’s already got her own castle, she has no interest in mine (hers is slightly bigger, and the fact that I can admit that should indicate that I have no need to compensate for anything, wink, wink).

  Instead of arriving at her hotel, like I’m supposed to be doing right now, I’m stuck dealing with what could be the final crisis that brings down our family’s nearly eight-hundred-year reign. Turns out our new prime minister is secretly plotting against us. In spite of my father basically handing him the election last fall, he’s going to bend us all over and give us the old ‘referendum to oust the Royal Family.’ Well, thank you, Jack Janssen. Wanker.

  I sigh and stare longingly at the suit of armor that stands guard at the door to my office. Whatever happened to the days when a prince could say, ‘Off with their heads!’ and shit would get done?

  I’ve been in a meeting with Damien Peters, my father’s senior adviser and government liaison, and Mr. Blue Cheese for over an hour now. I’ve positioned myself behind my antique oak desk so the smell is only choking Damien, who is seated next to Vincent (but don’t feel too bad for Damien. He’s a complete twat). I glance out my office window at the view of the city across the river, where my naughty duchess awaits. My pants are suddenly very constrictive. Time to take control of this meeting.

  I hold up my hand, interrupting Vincent, who is repeating how shocked he is. “All right, setting aside the fact that the PM is basically a lying shit, what can we do about it? If he calls for a referendum, we can’t exactly stop him. We’ve faced these votes before, and the people haven’t ousted us yet.”

  “Unfortunately, with the poor economy and the high
unemployment rate, and your father’s recent… situation… about the taxes…” Vincent pauses and clears his throat twice, which is what he does whenever he’s about to drop a fucking a-bomb on me. “…the polls are showing that seventy-two percent of the population will vote to have the monarchy dissolved.”

  Well, isn’t that a kick to the jewels?

  Damien clears his throat. “There’s been either no press or bad press lately, Your Highness. The people are feeling rather cut off. I’m afraid the family’s private nature hasn’t played out well, especially when the royal family across the pond is constantly giving interviews and photo ops—”

  “They’re very open with their lives. Will, Kate, Harry, all the young royals, really.” Vincent gives me a look that is somehow both apologetic and accusatory.

  Oh, God. If I have to hear about Mr. and Mrs. Perfect and their perfectly adorable babies one more time, I’m going to vomit. “I highly doubt that posting pics of my morning fruit plate is going to make a difference. We all know there’s an ebb and flow to these things. Popularity waxes and wanes every few years. We can fix it.” The words feel like sand in my mouth. I don’t have the first fucking clue how to fix this. What I do know is that if I don’t find the right combination of hopeful phrases right now, I’ll never get these two out of my office, and I can pretty much forget practicing my follow through this evening.

  Damien shifts in his seat—away from Vincent. “We need to win back the people, and in short order. If Janssen does call for a referendum, we’ll only have a matter of weeks to convince an increasingly angry, financially-strained public that they have any use for you whatsoever.”

  Well, thank you, Mr. Obvious. Like I didn’t know that already. Think, Arthur, think. I stand and walk across the office to the wall of windows. I look out at the city lights as they twinkle against the darkening sky. A city of critics waiting to dethrone me before I can even sit my arse down on it in the first place.