Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(112)

He spread the paper across the desk, using the disks to hold each of the four corners so the page would not curl up on itself. The parchment was clearly old, covered with spidery writing and snaking lines.

“You read Nvengarian?” Alexander asked her. He spoke English perfectly, with only the faintest Nvengarian accent, unlike Damien who always allowed an accent through, letting it grow or fade depending on who he was talking to.

“I speak a little,” Penelope said in that language. She was able to follow conversations now between Petri and Damien, Damien and Sasha, but she had much more to learn before she would be fluent.

“These are mostly names.” Alexander pointed with a broad finger to a single name at the top of one column. Augustus Adolphus Aurelius Laurent. “This, Miss Trask, is the first prince of Nvengaria, joint ruler with Prince Damien’s ancestor.”

Penelope sensed Sasha craning eagerly from behind Damien, trying to see the paper. The opportunity to gaze at another document of the family tree seemed to drive away his fear of Alexander.

“Yes, I know all about him.” Penelope gave Alexander a smile—as though graciously thanking him for pointing this out, but truly, she needed no instruction. “I am descended from Prince Augustus, through his daughter.”

“No,” Alexander said, his voice almost kind, “you are not. You see here?” He drew his finger down the column, ruby ring winking. “The line flows quite easily all the way to 1567, where it ends with Princess Elisabeth Amata Anastasia Renee. Here it says, Deceased, Without Issue.”

Penelope peered at the barely legible writing and agreed, reluctantly, that the Nvengarian words said just that.

“Now here …” Alexander gestured to a column of clearer writing with the name Elisabeth Bevridge at the top. “Here is as far back as I have traced your family tree, beginning with your mother, Simone Trask, née Bradshaw. The lineage is not a low one—you have quite a few earls and viscounts in your past. Elisabeth Bevridge is your ancestor, the first record of her appearing in Oxfordshire in 1560.” Alexander gave Penelope a look of near sympathy. “It was an easy mistake for Sasha to make. The name of the man the last daughter of Prince Augustus married was Bevridge, but it was a different family altogether. The Elisabeth Bevridge from whom you descend was born in the north of England, married one Thomas Bevridge there, and moved with him to Oxfordshire. Princess Elisabeth married a Jeremiah Bevridge, a native of the town of Oxford, but as the record says, they had no children.”

Penelope stared at the words and curlicues in silence. No magic, no rings, no spells, no prophecy—only simple history, carefully researched and written in black ink on pale parchment. The fairy tale explained and dissected until it no longer existed.

Penelope lifted her hand, willing her fingers not to tremble, and let light flash on the silver band on her finger. “I have the ring,” she said, holding it toward Alexander. “It was passed down through my family. This ring matches Damien’s.”

Penelope’s voice firmed with each word. The ring was tangible evidence, a talisman passed from mother to daughter through the centuries. The lines of its crest were blurred, much like the lines on the Roman tablet that marked the ancient crossing of the Danube.

“Purchased from a shop in Oxford in 1662,” Alexander said. “By one of your forbears. The proprietor told her it belonged in your family.”

Penelope lowered her hand and sat silently. She did not entirely believe Alexander, but she had to agree that all he said was plausible.

And more than likely probable. How ridiculous to think that Penelope was the long-lost princess of a fairy-tale kingdom, prophesied to save its people! She was Miss Penelope Trask, spinster, of Little Marching, Oxfordshire, who looked after her mother and collected little folktales that she translated and had published for others to read.

The truth was, Penelope had loved the tales because she’d wanted to live one—she’d wanted to believe that one day a prince would come for her. This prince would love her for herself in the way Rueben and Magnus never had, and treasure her. When Damien had turned up, handsome and smiling, declaring she was his long-lost princess, Penelope had not tried very hard to resist him.

Her eyes misting, Penelope looked up at Damien. He was her husband, and she carried his child. That was real.

She noticed, however, that Damien neither looked surprised nor outraged at Alexander’s revelations. Penelope rose to her feet, her legs trembling. “You knew this,” she said to Damien. “You knew …”

Damien’s eyes held sadness. “I was aware that Alexander had these papers—but Sasha’s notes said differently. Sasha believes the line unbroken.”

“Sasha is wrong,” Alexander said.

“It scarcely matters,” Damien told him. “I only know what I felt when I first saw Penelope. I began to believe Sasha then.”

“But you did not know when you set off to look for me,” Penelope said with sudden understanding. “You did not know which I’d turn out to be—a princess or a mistake in the records.”

Damien swallowed, but his eyes never wavered. “I had to take the gamble. The stakes, my country, were worth it.”

“Would you have told me if you discovered I was not the princess?” Penelope asked in a faint voice. She feared the answer, but had to know.

Damien hesitated a long moment. “I am not certain,” he said finally.