"Indeed I do not. Being well-married would be the best thing for Amelia."
This was not sexism on Richard's part . . . at least, not entirely. Somehow, despite his stiff-necked demeanor, Richard had managed to marry a Swedish princess named Alberte who was warm and gracious, and who thankfully had passed her personality on to her son, Nicholas. James couldn't imagine what the attraction was for her, but he couldn't deny that Richard and Alberte's marriage appeared to be an extremely strong one. Probably that was the only wholly genuine relationship in Richard's life. No wonder he thought marriage solved all problems.
But now Richard's attention had been caught by something else. He snatched one of the brochures from James's hands, and his face paled. "Dear God. You can't be considering anything so outrageous."
"I don't know if I'm considering it or not." James's temper was beginning to fray. "We should discuss this later."
"You were given these by a servant?" The stare Richard directed at Hartley was ice-cold. "Hartley, have you utterly forgotten your place?"
Hartley bowed his head. "I humbly apologize, Your Royal Highness."
James snapped, "Enough of this!"
Now Richard's ire had gone to an entirely new level, beyond almost anything James had seen from him before. "Have you gone as mad as your sister?"
What he meant, of course, was that James seemed to be taking Hartley's side against Richard's. By all standards of royal protocol, such an action was unthinkable. And Richard was right about one thing: It really wasn't appropriate for a servant to opine on Indigo's mental health unless asked. Looking into institutional care, tempting the scandal that would inevitably follow? Anyone else would have been sacked on the spot.
Yet Hartley knew protocol better than anyone. By now he'd served the royal family impeccably for nearly fifty years. He would never have stepped so far out of line had he not been motivated by the deepest concern and love for Indigo. That James could not condemn.
"I shall take this up with Hartley later," James said to Richard, giving Hartley a firm nod that hopefully could be read as both I'm going to read him the riot act by Richard and For the love of God get out while you can for Hartley. At any rate, Hartley hurried away and Richard's wrath cooled--slightly. James added, "If you want to discuss this further, Uncle Richard, let's go to your suite. Indigo's only just fallen asleep and she needs to rest."
"There's nothing to discuss," Richard said, not moving, though at least he'd lowered his voice. "Assuming, of course, that you plan to destroy those."
James looked down at the brochures. He couldn't imagine sending Indigo off to some sort of home. The prospect would terrify her. Still, rejecting one solution didn't have to mean rejecting them all. "We have to find a better way of helping her. Managing each situation as it comes isn't getting us anywhere."
"First you coddle the girl until she's an emotional cripple, then you want to toss her into an asylum and humiliate the family. And to you this somehow seems rational." Richard's disdain was an almost physical force in the room. "It's obvious from the way that you live that you have no pride of station. But must you drag the rest of us down with you?"
"Because I keep a small personal staff, you think I have no pride?" James made do with as few servants as possible, given his position, because his mother had taught him to value both self-sufficiency and privacy. Richard had a personal staff of nearly one hundred, who did everything for him, including putting the toothpaste on his toothbrush. But once again, James was letting Richard bait him; he had to catch himself. "I'm not having Indigo institutionalized. So if that's your concern, you needn't worry. The conversation's over."
Richard couldn't let it go yet. "The king would never allow such a thing to happen, as you should well know."
And James took the bait again. "The king's not in charge right now. I am."
"Not forever," Richard said, so plainly that James knew the king's recovery was finally considered assured. The animosity between them had eclipsed their mutual concern for Indigo, turning them both small and mean. "No, not forever. If you think he can't make changes once he's back in power, you're a fool."
"Some things don't change, Richard." Like the laws of succession.
"Some things do." With that, Richard swept out as imperiously as he had arrived.
James slumped down in the nearest chair. The brochures were still clutched in his hand, just a blur of words like recovery and privacy and family and other things he couldn't understand. Blood was all over him, shirt and sleeves, trousers and shoes, hair and skin. Above him, his sister slept in a cloud of drugs, the only haven he'd ever been able to supply for her, maybe the only one he ever could. Happy Christmas indeed.
*
The New Year was always a time to make changes.
Or, in Ben's case, to redraw the map.
It wasn't that he didn't still want to see James. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced a formal break was unnecessary. James had proved he wasn't really getting confused, hadn't he? They just needed to . . . ease back. No more weekend visits. Fewer sleepovers. From now on Ben could say he had early appointments, something like that. Pulling back bit by bit would help reestablish the lines they'd first drawn.
Once they got to that point, if they could dial it back to just great sex, well, maybe they could keep on for a while. Ben wanted to believe that would be possible. Surely, in the long run, James would see their original arrangement was for the best.
A trip, Ben mused as he walked toward his office, brand-new satchel slung over one shoulder. I haven't taken enough advantage of this generous European vacation time, or the cheap air fares. When he'd been a young man living in Germany, he'd knocked around a bit; Warner had spirited him off for a weekend in Switzerland, once. (It had been a good weekend--maybe the only memory he had of Warner that remained a happy one.) Still, there was so much of the continent remaining to be discovered. Greece, for instance, for a taste of summer warmth here in the heart of winter. When temperatures rose, he could finally visit Scandinavia. Yes, if he were gone a bit more often, that would also help reset boundaries.
He arrived in the office slightly ahead of the rush. Ben helped himself to some of the swill the break room called coffee--really, it didn't pay to be addicted to the stuff in a country more interested in tea--and went to check his e-mail.
Another note from W.Clifton.
Very carefully, as though the mouse itself could hurt him, Ben clicked on the e-mail.
My beautiful boy--
I'll be in London two weeks from now. Just for a night or two, but that's time enough, isn't it? Time for a few glasses of wine, lots of conversation and a chance to see how much we've changed, and how much we haven't.
Once you called me your "fate." I don't believe in any such thing. But you could still try to persuade me.
I considered simply showing up at your flat in the evening so we could cut to the chase. But you like hiding behind your walls, don't you? Hide from me if you like, my boy. Or walk out bravely and meet me on the field of battle--a nightclub, a bar, anywhere you like. Let me know.
You always enjoyed our duels.
Warner
Ben leaned forward, his head in his hands. Sometimes he felt as though Warner Clifton had a skeleton key that allowed him to unlock something deep inside Ben's soul, no matter how long it had been, no matter how much Ben had changed. Or had hoped he'd changed. Granted, the feelings Warner had awakened weren't the ones he'd intended--Warner inspired anger instead of longing, hate instead of love. But the emotions were still powerful enough to erase every other thought in Ben's brain.
This was the first time Warner had openly invited him to resume their affair. There had been other hints and flirtations, but always, before, Ben had thought Warner was more interested in trying to mess with his mind than in trying to seduce him again. Had something dramatically changed in Warner's life? No telling. It was equally likely that Warner was just more interested in visiting London than he ha
d been in going to South Africa.
At least in the past few years Ben had learned not to respond. He put his finger on the delete key . . .
. . . and did nothing.
Images flickered in his mind: taking Warner's challenge. Meeting him in one of the clubs, letting Warner see the man he'd become. Going to Warner's hotel and making him be the one to submit this time--forcing him onto his knees, fucking his mouth, proving he could do that and walk away, just walk away--
But Warner wasn't the one Ben wanted to prove he could walk away from.
Ben hit delete, then sat very still at his desk for a long time, trying not to think about Warner, James, or anything much at all.
"Oh, man," Roberto said as he came in. "Can you believe that girl?"
"What girl?" Ben frowned.
Roberto hesitated. "I'm getting too involved in British gossip, aren't I? Damn. Next I'm going to start caring what happens to footballers' wives."
"What gossip?"
By way of reply, Roberto tossed a copy of the Daily Mirror onto Ben's desk, and instantly Ben's heart sank. The headline read CAUGHT AGAIN!, and although the cover picture was blurry, the woman pictured there was unmistakably Cassandra Roxburgh, locked in a passionate kiss with Spencer Kennedy.
James's best defense, and his own, had just gone up in smoke.
*
The worst part was hearing Cass sob on the phone.
"It's all right," James said. "Really it is. We knew we had to call an end to this sooner or later. So, it's sooner."
"I just feel like shit," she said. "I've dragged you through it again, and my family, and Spencer--he's not used to any of this, you know. Tabloid headlines and OMG Royalty and the paparazzi camped on the curb outside his town house, the usual hell. He's not taking it well."
"Please pass along my apologies. We'll get together soon, in private, so I can speak to him personally."
"It might take him a while to calm down. Spencer's angry with you, and me, and the damned photographer--oh, angry with the whole world, right now. Why didn't we wait to snog until we went inside? Damned hormones."
James made shushing noises over the phone, which he hoped would be comforting. For his part, although he was doing his best to be strong for Cass, he felt queasy and slightly lost. Cass's unstinting support was the only reason he'd gotten away with being closeted for so long. Now she could no longer help him. But his personal problems had to take a backseat. "It's over. All right? It's all over. After a couple of days, we'll put out a formal announcement, and that will be an end of it. After a few months more, you and I can reappear in public as friends. Not so bad."
Cass sounded tired--no, exhausted. Like someone who literally could not take one more step. "I always thought it would be good to get it done with. Instead I feel as though I failed you, James."
"Never say that again. You did more for me than you should ever have been asked to do. Your only mistake was falling in love."
I know how that goes.
After he'd finally calmed her down and hung up, James poured himself a brandy, took a few deep breaths, and called Ben. Luckily it was early enough in the evening that he'd managed to catch Ben at work.
Or at least it seemed lucky at first.
"We'll have to take a couple of weeks off," James explained apologetically. "They'll be sniffing around like mad at first. The press, I mean. Nothing personal."
"No offense taken." Ben didn't sound angry. He sounded . . . nonchalant. "Probably for the best. I'm due to get copyedits back any day. And I might take a trip or something. Fly down to Italy, Portugal, someplace like that."
Someplace with brilliant sun even in wintertime, and beautiful men on the beaches. Ben didn't say that; he didn't have to.
James said only, "Should I give you a call when I think the coast might be clear?"
"Definitely. Yeah, of course." Ben's voice softened slightly. "Are you all right?"
"Shaken up. But it's for the best. Cass deserves her freedom."
"Hang in there, James. It can't last forever."
But of course it could, and it would. Ben just didn't understand. Nobody could who hadn't lived it for himself.
After they hung up, James drank the rest of the brandy in front of the fire. Their passionate night together on Christmas Eve had reassured James for a time, but he was reassured no longer. He'd been wondering whether Ben was cooling to their affair, ironically ever since that incredible weekend they'd spent at Ben's flat. James understood why. He too had been forced to reckon with the distance between the closeness they'd shared there and the divided lives they had to lead. For James that reckoning had been painful; for Ben, who hadn't desired a deeper relationship with anyone--much less a lover with James's considerable baggage--it had to have been the beginning of the end.
Oh, God, Ben, don't leave me yet. I know you'll leave me someday, but not yet, please not yet.
James bit back the thought. He had bigger problems to worry about right now, surely. More imminent ones, at any rate.
Happy lay next to him on the sofa, her back along his thigh; James rubbed her belly, which made her legs twitch in her sleep. Her warmth was comforting, at least for a moment. Then he picked up his iPad and steeled himself.
Normally, after a gossip explosion like this one, James did his best to steer clear for a while. But he would have to work with Kimberley to craft an "official announcement" that got Cass as cleanly off the hook as possible. To do that, he'd need to see what people were saying, the better to refute it. At this point his best move would probably be to claim that he and Lady Cassandra had actually split back in late December, so she was in fact free to see Spencer. Wouldn't that do?
He paused midway through typing bbc.co.uk, his usual first stop after the Global Media home page, and frowned as he remembered something Cass had mentioned and ran a Google search for OMG Royalty instead.
This turned out to be an online gossip site dedicated, as the logo said, to "all things royal." However, while the royal families of other nations made token appearances, virtually all of the forums were focused on Britain. James occasionally read through the comments on the BBC or Guardian websites, so he thought he was reasonably well-versed in the idiocy of the general public, not to mention the many misconceptions about his family.
But he was wrong.
Most of the forums went by name: King George, Queen Louisa, Princess Amelia, Prince Regent James, so on and so forth. But there was one called The Bitch. He clicked on this to find thread after thread of venom about Cassandra.
*
How big a whore do you have to be to practically do a guy in public?
I bet she'd fuck Kennedy in public if it would get her any more attention. That's the only reason she stays with HRH, the attention. Why he lets her get away with it I don't know but maybe he'll finally GROW A PAIR and get rid of the whore. But with his taste he'll probably just find someone worse.
It's obvious that Jamie's one of those guys who gets off on seeing other guys fuck his girlfriend. If Cassandra doesn't actually bring them around for him to watch in person, I bet they have something else figured out--like, she wears a mic so he can listen, or there's a hidden camera around or something.
IDK, maybe it's a cuckolding fetish but it could just be a humiliation kink? And maybe we should be kink-positive instead of demonizing them. If their arrangement works for them it's none of our business.
Kink? Sure. I bet Randy Sandy does something for HRH so filthy he wouldn't ever dare ask anybody else for it. So we're going to be stuck with her as our Queen, no matter how big a slut she is.
*
It went on and on in this vein. James read every thread, alternately shocked, amused, angry, and ashamed. Shocked at the sheer levels of venality people could dream up and ascribe to him, his family, and the people he loved. Amused at the contrast between the posters' confidence and their ignorance.
Angry when he saw that there was a thread speculating that his mother had cheated on his
father out of boredom. When he saw the names being thrown at Cassandra. When he found "Mellie's Death Clock," a thread where people cheerfully wagered on how long it would be before Indigo overdosed because of her imaginary drug addiction.
And ashamed of himself.
The hours drew on, turning afternoon into night. James hadn't forgotten his plans for the evening, knew they were in fact more important than ever, but still found it hard to rise from the computer. He walked through his preparations as though in his sleep, hardly able to pay attention to a task as mundane as making soup.
So this, he thought, is how the impossible becomes inevitable.
On the hour precisely, Glover opened the door and said, "Her Royal Highness the Princess Amelia."
Indigo, unlike Cassandra, always chose to be announced; she didn't care for surprises herself, and so didn't want to surprise anyone, even the big brother who had invited her for dinner.
"Hello there," she said softly as she walked in. In the weeks since Christmas, she'd calmed considerably, but she was still subdued. Indigo wore jeans and an old threadbare jumper, one James recognized as having belonged to their father. But the Converse trainers on her feet were the ones she'd decorated herself, painting them silver and bronze with steampunk gears and swirls, and he took that as a positive sign. Indigo smiled unevenly as she came into his embrace. "Something smells good."
"Chicken soup."
"Mum's recipe?"
"Not quite. I've been playing with it."
"Oh, Glo," Indigo whispered as she knelt on the floor, the better to accept the dogs' adoration. "And Happy, I missed you too. They're getting fat, James."
"Their Christmas treats, probably." The memory of Ben buying presents even for his dogs cut through James like a knife, but he kept smiling.
They sat down to eat in the kitchen, where the dogs could doze in front of the Aga, and where brother and sister could sit together at the table they'd shared as children. When James had invited Indigo to come to dinner a few days ago, he'd thought only to get her out of her rooms, but in a space she'd still think of as safe and comforting. Now, though, he was grateful they had privacy to talk this through, with no danger of being overheard.