His Royal Favorite (10 page)

“Endorsement offers?” Roberto cracked up. “What, like, for Heineken?”

“Nothing that rich yet. If anybody ponies up some real money, I’ll let you know. I could be hawking Pepsi by sundown.” Ben realized suddenly that other people in the newsroom could hear him—and, ever since his initial statement had been circulated by Fiona, they’d all been listening to every word he spoke. So he clarified, “Just joking.”

When were the people he knew going to start treating him normally again? Roberto and Fiona had been great, but were they going to be the only two who could handle it? Ben found it off-putting to be treated like a thing, instead of a person.

But it’s worth it
. Ben remembered the night before—James’s lips on his, the exhilaration of their shared orgasm coursing between them—with a sudden rush of arousal and adoration.
If he loves you as much as you love him, then nothing else matters, right? The rest of the world is irrelevant. Isn’t that how love is supposed to work?

Ben assumed so, but he didn’t know. This was all so new to him. He’d spent his entire life being a loner, not having the slightest idea how to join his existence with another person’s. Although Ben had the impression this was never easy, he felt sure that he and James were up against far more challenges than usual.

It was a bit like never once riding a bicycle before promising to win a BMX race across the Alps.

After lunch, Fiona drew him in for a meeting. “We have to deactivate your e-mail address,” she said. “The volume is about to bring our server down.”

He could see that. But— “It’s going to be difficult to do my job without e-mail.”

Fiona folded her hands atop her pristine desk. One perfectly tweezed eyebrow rose. “It’s not exactly easy for you to do your job right now anyway, is it?”

“I never realized how many people worry about this sort of thing.” Always, Ben had assumed tabloids amused only the very bored and the very stupid. He hadn’t thought his love life would draw the attention of CEOs, lawyers, public officials—the same people he needed to take him seriously, but now spoke to him like starstruck morons.

“Has it been rough?” Fiona said, more gently than he was used to hearing her speak.

“Hardly.” Ben shrugged. “But let’s just say it’s been more intense than I’d expected.”

Fiona studied him for a moment, then said, “Listen. We’ll shift you over to fact-checking for a while. I know, I know. You’re a senior reporter and you ought to be past that. But maybe, right now, it would be simpler for everyone involved.”

She didn’t have to convince him. Ben felt only relief. Fact-checking: simple, basic, and yet absolutely necessary. Best of all, he wouldn’t even have to give his name. That task would help him wait out this first wave of the storm. “That should be fine.”

Her eyes studied his face carefully, as if expecting something else from him. “You know you can talk to me, if you need someone to talk to.”

“I appreciate that. Honestly. But I’m all right.”

He was. Ben could finally see that he’d been woefully unprepared for this, but he was in the heart of it now, and he could take it. He didn’t
enjoy
it, but he could take it. Slowly, gradually, the pressure would ease. Then he could get back to his real job, and he and James could start defining exactly how this would work—a relationship between a member of the royal family and a regular guy.

For the time, there was nothing to do but get through it. He and James could do that, together.

Ben returned to his desk to see Roberto stealing a moment to surf Twitter. “Anything interesting?”

“You’re still a trending topic,” Roberto said.

Have a sense of humor about it, Ben told himself. “What’s the top tweet?”

“Some guy who said they shouldn’t have bothered printing that photo of you today, because everyone already knew you were Jewish.”

***

“BBC poll gives you fifty-nine percent, sir,” Kimberley said. “But Sky News only gives you fifty-one percent, and the
Times
poll has you at forty-eight.”

James winced. “So you think the BBC is an outlier.”

“Possibly. I don’t know enough about their polling methods to evaluate each. Unless and until Nate Silver decides to run the numbers for himself, I’m not counting the BBC as authoritative. To be on the safe side, Your Royal Highness, we should assume that you’ve got about half the country in your corner—which is good—but you’re going to need more than that.”

“I’m not elected, you know.”

“Even archbishops pay attention to public opinion, however much they pretend not to.”

“I know, I know. Don’t mind me. I’m just frustrated.” He looked down at the copy of
Private Eye
sitting on his desk. The photo on the cover was an old one from Ascot a few years ago; it had obviously been chosen because, when cropped just so, it seemed as though James was checking out another man’s bum.

Which he had been. That really had been a spectacular bum. James remembered it.

Kimberley ventured, “The top concerns of those who oppose you are, first by a large margin, the Church—”

“Naturally.”

“Also the failure to come out sooner, and fears of Princess Amelia’s unfitness for the throne.”

One element caught James by surprise. “My failure to come out sooner?”

“Yes, sir. People feel they have been lied to.”

“That’s because they were.” He sat back heavily in his office chair. All those years he’d been afraid the public would be angry if he told them the truth, and he’d never asked himself if they’d be even angrier about the lie.

“Don’t take it too much to heart,” Kimberley cautioned. “A lot of that feeling is being very deliberately stirred up by members of the press, sir.”

“Why? I would’ve thought the press had bigger issues to tackle.”

She sighed. “People who make their living reporting on the palace like to think they’ve got the inside scoop. You’ve just showed up each and every one of them, exposing them all as completely clueless about the private life of the heir to the throne. They’re embarrassed, and they’re piqued, and they’re making you out to be some sort of master deceiver in order to minimize their own ignorance.”

It had never occurred to James that the media even attempted to be accurate when they wrote about his family. “There’s not much I can do about that at this late date.”

“I disagree, sir. In fact, I have two suggestions for dealing with that very issue.” But Kimberley paused. “Are you entirely certain of the loyalty and sympathy of Prince Nicholas?”

“Nicholas? Of course.”

“Then, with your permission, sir, I’d like to suggest to the prince that he become a ‘secret source’ for a reporter or two. Though trusted intermediaries, and under the condition he not be named, Prince Nicholas can reveal the family’s reactions . . . that is, those reactions that most help your cause. Most importantly, sir, he must stress that no one besides Princess Amelia and Lady Cassandra Roxburgh knew until days before your announcement. If these journalists can report that not even your own family understood the truth about your sexuality, that gets them off the hook, so to speak.”

James thought this over and nodded slowly. “Very sensible. And yes, Nicholas would be willing to do it. I’ll call him personally.”

“That would be best, Your Royal Highness.”

“What’s the other suggestion?”

“You need to be seen with Lady Cassandra again, soon and regularly.”

“Really? To what end?”

“To demonstrate that the two of you truly are close friends. Right now, sir, most people assume she was merely pretending to be close to you. Based on my personal observations, I believe that your interactions with Lady Cassandra have in fact been wholly genuine; the only falsehood was in portraying your connection as a romance rather than a deep friendship. I believe that if people realize that your shared outings and holidays were authentic evidence of the closeness between you both, merely mischaracterized, they will become somewhat more forgiving, sir.”

That was no chore. In fact, he’d been wondering whether he and Cass had to give up their cherished autumn visits to Gurness Holm. “Spencer will need to come along too,” James said, and Kimberley nodded. “And Ben as well.”

“First you and Mr. Dahan should choose a time to be photographed together,” she said. “Some outing—nothing official, of course—but an event at which you can both be seen. The paparazzi will be falling all over themselves for the first photo of the two of you together, sir; best get it out of the way. Afterward, I think a group outing would be ideal.”

Ideal.
Given the way that Ben and Cassandra both distrusted each other, practically hissing like wet cats whenever they were in the same room, James wasn’t as confident about the fate of this hypothetical group outing. Still, he knew both of them would try their best. Maybe that would be enough.

“And Ben?” James said. “What does the public make of him?”

Kimberley spoke crisply. “At the moment, he’s almost a nonissue. An amusement. Really, sir, I would say that the average Briton assumes Mr. Dahan’s place in your life to be . . . short-lived.” When James stared at her, she continued, “Obviously this too will break down in time.”

“Obviously,” he repeated, and willed it to be true.

***

He had a couple of free hours in the early afternoon, so James took himself to Kensington Palace. Hartley wasn’t there to shepherd him inside, which James didn’t understand until he reached the old servants’ quarters that had been turned into an art studio. “Oh, Indigo, honestly.”

“What?” she looked entirely innocent, standing in front of her canvas in a paint-smeared smock, while Hartley sat in an armchair, posing for her in a Napoleon hat. “I’m doing a series on deposed royals, and Hartley said he didn’t mind.”

“I don’t a bit, Your Royal Highness,” Hartley said.

James wanted to object further. Yes, servants were there to do the bidding of the royal family, and they’d been asked to do some outrageous things in their day. Once Prince Richard had spilled red wine on a sofa in the middle of a party; rather than disrupt things by having it moved, he’d ordered a poor footman to sit on the stain and remain there until the party ended. But to make a butler wear fancy dress for a painting, particularly one as devoted as Hartley—

Then he realized what Indigo was really up to. Hartley had become so very old and frail. By “ordering” him to pose for her, Indigo had found a way to make sure he sat in a comfortable chair for a few hours and took a bit of rest while still feeling that he was doing his duty.

“I hope the deposed royalty theme isn’t because of me,” James said, leaning against one wall.

Indigo turned to him, so horror-struck that he knew she’d never even made the connection before. “No! Oh, no, not at all. You aren’t going to be deposed—are you?”

“Doesn’t look that way today. We’ll have to see.” To Hartley he said, “I’d like to speak with my sister for a bit. Why don’t you take a short break?”

“Yes, go have a cup of tea,” Indigo added. “I’ll ring for you when we’re due to start again.”

“Certainly, ma’am.” Hartley began to shuffle toward the door before stopping, turning back, carefully removing the Napoleon hat, and only then going on his way.

Once brother and sister were alone, James said, “How have you been?”

Indigo shrugged. “Prince Richard puts together a review of the papers for me every morning. Lines them up, has me go through them. It’s hard, seeing some of what they say about you.”

Richard forced Indigo to read the papers? To confront her worst fears about the succession and the public, first thing every morning? “I can’t believe he’s done that to you. It’s outrageous. I’m going to have a word with him immediately.” James turned, ready to storm out and search the palace for Richard, but Indigo’s hand on his arm stopped him.

“Don’t. It’s all right. I mean, I hate it, but at least I know the worst.”

“He shouldn’t treat you like that!”

Indigo took his hand, then, for just a moment. “No, but—you shouldn’t be too angry with him. Uncle Richard knows as well as anyone how my imagination sometimes runs away with me. In his mind, it would be better for me to see the reality than think up something worse. He was trying to protect me, in his way.”

“I don’t much care for Richard’s way.”

“Neither do I. And I know he’s working against you now, which I despise. But he’s not a monster, James. He’s not inhuman.”

James paced across the studio, a long room still grimy with Victorian soot but now splotched with Indigo’s paint, its cracks and crevices sparkling with glitter. The windows had been papered over perhaps a century ago; the paper was sepia-tinted now, giving the room a strange and unearthly light.

Richard had let Indigo create this studio in the years between the deaths of their parents and James’s graduation from university. He’d welcomed her back to their childhood suite in Kensington Palace so she didn’t have to live at Clarence House alone after being orphaned. For two and a half years, Prince Richard had been her guardian, the person who ate breakfast with her every morning and told her good night. Hartley had been her true emotional support, of course, but Richard had done what he could.

Given her present emotional instability, James sometimes blackly thought Richard hadn’t helped much and might have hurt. Most of the time, however, he understood that Indigo’s troubles weren’t Richard’s responsibility. They went deeper than that. And if Richard had proved himself incapable of handling Indigo’s psychological problems—could James say he’d managed any better?

With a sigh, he let it go and changed the subject. “I was wondering if I could talk you into coming to dinner at Clarence House soon. Ben would like to get to know you better, if you’re ready.”

“He really did it.” Indigo smiled timidly. “Came out with you.”

“Yes. He did.”

“Were you surprised?”

“A little,” James admitted. “But I always had hope.”

“Is he handling it? All the coverage?” Then Indigo’s smile became impish. “Though ‘coverage’ might not be the right word for today’s photos.”

James had to laugh. “I’m going to tell him that.”