The Prince

“Mon Dieu,” he breathed, recognizing the face in an instant.

“‘And this is the promise He has promised us, even eternal life.’ 1 John 2:25.”

Kingsley stared in silent amazement.

The black cassock, the white collar and thirty years had done nothing to disguise the face that smiled at him.

“Christian?”

“Father Christian Elliot now. Remember? Or do you not read your alumni newsletter?”

Christian and Kingsley embraced like brothers. Christian had been the first boy at Saint Ignatius to befriend him and the only one of them all to try to find him after Kingsley left the school.

“I am afraid I’ve neglected to pass my new address on to the alumni committee.” Kingsley patted Christian on the face. “It’s good to see you again. You look terrible.”

His old friend laughed heartily and turned around once. “What? You don’t like?”

Kingsley shook his head in disgust. “You enlisted in God’s army, as well. How could you? I take it very personally.”

“The Fathers at Saint Ignatius make it their goal to turn one student from each class into a Jesuit. Just be glad it was me and not you.”

“They would never take me alive, mon frère.”

They looked at each other another moment and laughed again. The years between them, the very separate paths they’d taken, disappeared in an instant.

“I can’t believe I’m looking at Kingsley Boissonneault. Truly, I thought I’d never see you again—not until heaven, anyway.”

“Surely not even there.” Kingsley flashed him the devil’s own smile.

“I shouldn’t be comforted that you haven’t changed a bit. But I am. It’s not fair. I’ve aged thirty years in thirty years. Why haven’t you?”

“I’m French.”

“Of course. I’d forgotten. I saw Stearns…Father Stearns a few years back. He’s aging even better than you are.” Christian smiled placidly and Kingsley knew he was baiting him with mention of Søren. Priests…they never stopped with their mind games, did they? Not that he minded. Really one of their best qualities.

“I do think he sold his soul to the devil for that face of his. You can see it today if you like. He’s here with me.”

Christian’s eyes widened. “Really? You two are still—”

“Family. My sister died, yes. But he and I are still close. Times were…difficult for a few years.”

They started walking toward the hermitage.

“You left right after…everything happened. Where did you go?”

“France,” Kingsley said simply, and waited. Christian said nothing else. With a sigh, Kingsley continued. “I joined the French Foreign Legion. Distinctly not God’s army.”

“I’ve heard about la Légion. Doesn’t surprise me in the least that’s where you ended up. Interesting uniform you legionnaires wear.” He gave Kingsley a once-over.

“You should see me when I’m not trying to look inconspicuous.” For the trip to Saint Ignatius, Kingsley had abandoned his usual uniform of riding boots and a Victorian or Regency era suit of black or gray. He’d left the embroidered silk vests, the military jackets and his cravats in the closet. Today he wore a simple Armani suit—black and single-breasted. One of his employees had told him he looked dull and safe in the suit—exactly the look he intended. “I left la Légion years ago for Manhattan.”

“I heard rumors you were a businessman now. Do I want to know what sort of business?”

Kingsley slapped Christian on the shoulder. “Non.”

Laughing, Christian opened the door to the hermitage. Kingsley paused on the threshold, suddenly reluctant to enter. So many memories…all of them powerful, not all of them good.

“You can come in. It isn’t really haunted. Father Henry only said that to scare the younger boys from coming out here. Dangerous terrain…oh, King. Forgive me.”

Kingsley stepped into the hermitage, unwilling to let the past have any more power over him than it already did.

“Christian, it’s been thirty years. I can bear a mention of her and her death. Believe me. I would have hardly stayed friends with that blond monster otherwise, would I?”

“I can’t believe you two were friends in the first place.” Christian waved his hand at a chair, and Kingsley sat down in it gratefully. He missed his riding boots, their supple leather and support. These shoes…he’d have one of his assistants burn them the minute he returned to the town house. “Not to ever speak ill of another Jesuit, but he’s a difficult man to get to know. Hard to imagine being friends with him at all.”

Kingsley heard a note of something in Christian’s voice. He couldn’t place it at first because he never heard it often. The note…knowledge. Kingsley narrowed his eyes at Christian and decided to find out exactly what Christian thought he knew.

“He’s not an easy man to get close to. Once you do, however, you are well rewarded,” Kingsley said, subtly baiting Christian back.

Christian put the kettle on the stove. Kingsley gazed around the hermitage and saw Søren had been right about the remodel. Thirty years ago, when he and Søren had used this cottage for their assignations, there’d been nothing here but a rough wood table, one chair and rotting wood stacked by the spiderweb-infested fireplace.