‘Assalamu alaikum, this way, please.’ Idris gestured to the stairs. On the midwife’s advice he had decided to hold the meeting in Saskia’s rooms—the doctor had said she was to be kept quiet but she clearly had a stake in the subject under discussion and Idris sensed it would be far more stressful for her if she was left out.

The houseboy led them up the staircase and indicated the door leading to Saskia’s apartments. Idris paused, the reality of the situation hitting him anew. Fayaz was gone—and Saskia was here. Here in Dalmaya. Not quite his territory but close enough to discombobulate him with her unexpected presence.

Her bedroom was huge, the outside wall made entirely of glass, doors leading out to a large terrace filled with plants and shaded seats overlooking the sea. The room was decorated in soothing shades of blue and cream; a gigantic bed with ornately carved wooden bedposts sat on a platform at one end of the room, a seating area grouped at the other. Two doors were slightly ajar, and Idris could see they led into a dressing area and a bathroom. Refreshments had been placed onto the coffee table and Saskia was already lying on one of the three couches arranged around it. She smiled wanly at the lawyer as he greeted her and extended her hand to Idris’s great-uncle.

‘Please excuse me for not getting up but I have been ordered not to move.’

‘No apologies needed.’ The elderly man bowed over her hand. ‘Sheikh Malik Al Osman. It’s an honour to meet you, Sheikha Saskia.’

Idris started at the honorary title, nodding curtly at Saskia and taking the seat farthest away from her. A quick glance showed him how pale she was under her tan, the pain in her eyes reflecting the pain he saw in the mirror. He ruthlessly pressed on; there was far more at stake here than personal feelings. ‘I don’t have much time,’ he said, opening proceedings briskly. ‘So let’s get going. Can somebody explain just what is going on here and why nobody knows anything about this baby?’

The lawyer nodded, setting his briefcase on the table and taking out a sheaf of papers. ‘I acted for Their Majesties in this matter so maybe I should start. You have to understand, Sheikh Idris, that legally surrogacy and adoption are still grey areas here in Dalmaya. Historically if a woman couldn’t conceive she would simply raise a family member’s child as her own—either a sister’s or cousin’s or a fellow wife’s child, and that child would be considered hers. Plus any child she bears during marriage is legally her husband’s regardless of actual biological fatherhood; that goes for any child she raises for someone else too.’

Idris frowned. ‘So all Maya had to do was call herself the baby’s mother and the baby became hers and Fayaz’s without any need to adopt it legally?’

‘Traditionally that’s all that they had to do. Of course, by using a surrogate they had ensured the baby was Fayaz’s biological child anyway, but because Sayeda Saskia is a British citizen, and to make sure there was no confusion in the future, they were planning to adopt the baby in the British courts as well.’

‘So why the secrecy? You said it yourself, raising someone else’s child is culturally acceptable and the baby is Fayaz’s biologically, so there should be no quibbling over inheritance.’

‘Your grandfather’s reforms and his subsequent decision to take just one wife, a stance followed by his son and grandson, hasn’t been popular amongst traditionalists, partly because it has greatly reduced the number of potential heirs in the Al Osman senior branch. Your grandfather had just two children and his only son died while Fayaz was still a child. If it was known that the Queen couldn’t conceive there would have been great pressure on Fayaz to take a second wife.’

‘Maya felt like such a failure,’ Saskia said, staring down at her hands. ‘She put herself through hell. IVF after IVF, three terrible miscarriages. She knew how important it was that Fayaz had an heir...she knew that you didn’t want...’ She came to a halt, flashing one quick glance over at him. He’d forgotten just how disconcerting her green eyes were, no hint of hazel or blue diluting them.

‘How many people know about this?’

‘I have known from the start. Fayaz discussed it with me before they went down the surrogacy route,’ Sheikh Malik said. ‘As head of the junior branch of the family he wanted to make sure I had no objections, that there would be no repercussions later on. The staff here know, any lawyers involved in the adoption and surrogacy agreement and certain medical staff here and in the UK. They all signed binding non-disclosure agreements, of course. The heads of the Privy Council are now aware after this morning’s meeting, but they can all be relied on to keep quiet, if it’s for the good of the country. But do we want to keep it quiet? If Fayaz has a son and heir then surely we need to let people know.’

‘Or a daughter,’ Saskia said quietly, her hands back on her stomach. Idris could hardly drag his eyes away from her slim, long fingers as they stroked the bump; the gesture seemed automatic, maybe as much comfort for mother as for child. But Saskia was only the mother until birth... Idris watched her hands in their rhythmic pattern. No child should be born motherless. Even his own beautiful, selfish, careless mother had been around sometimes for kisses and bedtime stories. Occasionally even two nights in a row.

Of course there had been the many weeks he had barely seen her at all.

‘The problem is—’ The lawyer’s voice recalled Idris’s attention back to the matter at hand. He tore his gaze away from Saskia and concentrated on the papers spread out over the coffee table. ‘A baby’s paternity in this country is proven only in two ways. Either the father claims the child as his, which is what Fayaz intended...’

‘What about the surrogacy agreement?’ Saskia asked. ‘Doesn’t that prove Fayaz was going to claim the baby?’

The lawyer shook his head. ‘Surrogacy isn’t recognised here. The only way Fayaz could posthumously be recognised as the father would be if you had been married to him.’

Idris’s heart stopped for one long, painful second as he processed the words. There was no way out. If Fayaz couldn’t legally be proven as the father, if the child wasn’t legitimised, then it couldn’t inherit. Which meant the Kingship fell heavily onto Idris’s own shoulders. A burden he had never asked for and certainly never wanted. He glanced out of the window at the relentless blue and his chest ached as he recalled the myriad colours of the French late spring: greens and lavender and red.

‘In that case who does it belong to?’ Saskia’s voice cut into his thoughts. ‘Isn’t that the most important thing we need to decide? Who is going to raise this baby? Time isn’t on our side.’

Idris stared at her. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean,’ she said, emphasising every word, ‘its parents have died. It’s due in six weeks and it needs a family regardless of whether it can inherit the throne or not. Could another branch of the family adopt it? Would that be what Fayaz would want? Do we know? I mean, that surrogacy agreement covered everything down to what vitamins I should take pre-and post-pregnancy. I can’t believe Fayaz didn’t have a contingency plan if something like this should happen.’

The lawyer nodded. ‘He had named a guardian for the baby.’

‘Who?’ Saskia and Idris spoke together.

The lawyer’s gaze shifted to Idris. ‘His cousin, Sheikh Idris Delacour.’

‘Moi?’

‘Him?’ Again the two of them were in unison. Idris looked over at Saskia. He’d spent the last seven years doing his best to forget about her. How could he raise a child that was half hers? A child who would remind him of its mother every second of every day?

How could he raise a child at all? His mother said all he cared about was the vineyard, about work, and for once she had a point.