“I did help you. I tried. You set me up for a scandal,” I said. “I know you didn’t mean to, but come on. I can’t ask the Palace to take that chance again.”
“Oh yes, wouldn’t want to make the Palace cross. What if they take back that big fat rock?” Joss snapped. “I knew you never liked me as much as the others, and now it’s showing.”
“Joss—”
“Piss off, Princess,” she said savagely. “Clive said I can stay with him. He’s a real friend.”
I was miserable about how badly this had backfired. I’d been so sure Lacey’s book wouldn’t fly that I’d never even tried broaching the topic with the powers that be; this favor for Joss hadn’t seemed so out of reach, and yet now we were on the outs, too. With my personal relationships looking as shaky as my mental state, I was even more grateful to be—in a sense—going back to the work that had held me together once before.
The Tate Modern had arranged for Paint Britain to set up creative stations outside on the South Bank, the London Eye looming picturesquely across the Thames in every photo. Part of the price of getting what I wanted had included co-billing with our lofty patron Richard, and I’d dreaded spending the day with him, but I’ve never seen him so alive and kind—getting dirty with the kids as they did spin art and dug into some sculptors’ clay, and doing a lovely impromptu pencil sketch that he donated for our fundraising efforts. The two of us went head-to-head in a paint-balloon contest to see who could make a bigger splatter (he won), and one child did such a gorgeous watercolor that Richard and I got into a bidding war for the piece, and then each agreed to pay our highest offer if she would do another one and let us hang it in the Tate—an idea Richard had on the spot, which led to a permanent Paint Britain exhibition there.
“That was awesome,” I said after we posed for one final photograph and were returning to our lounge. “You were amazing!”
“It’s a lovely charity,” he said stiffly.
“We should do this more often,” I babbled, high on how far Paint Britain had come from its days in the Soane basement. “You’re really talented. That watercolor you left at Cornwall—did you ever finish it?”
Richard turned so rapidly that I almost crashed into him. “We are not friends,” he said evenly.
“Excuse me?”
“We both love art, and you are marrying my son, but we are not pals.” He gave emphasis to the oh-so-American word. “Nor do we need to be.”
His coldness touched a nerve in me that had first been tweaked years ago in Nick’s room at Pembroke.
“You mean, we both love art, and we both love Nick,” I said pointedly. “Right?”
“This conversation is over.” He continued walking, brisker this time.
“I would like to get along, Rich—sir,” I amended, as I trotted behind him, wobbling in my wedges. “And if we did, it might go a long way toward fixing your relationship with Nick.”
“That is none of your concern.”
“It is totally my concern,” I said. “Because without Emma—”
“Joining this family does not give you the right to speak to me about it,” Richard said. “Especially about Nicholas’s mother.”
“Fine, we don’t have to talk about it, but please at least talk to him,” I begged. “That lie was killing Nick. He needed you. He still does.”
From a half step behind, I saw Richard’s jaw tense, but I barreled on anyway. “A terrible thing happened to Emma, but now at least you can live out in the open with it, together,” I said. “You’re all free. Finally.”
As we burst through the door of our private lounge, Richard wheeled on me. “That terrible thing did not just happen to her,” he said. “My wife spent twenty-five years out of her mind, but very happy inside her own head. Whereas I spent twenty-five years hoping someday my mother would allow me to divorce Emma and say that we had drifted apart, so I could have a life that fulfilled me. But if I do that now, I will be despised for it, and any real feelings I have for another person will be irrelevant and wasted and impossible. So I am not free. Nobody is free.”
I found my voice, but it was very soft. “That watercolor. It was so full of love.”
“For a twenty-year-old girl I should never have married.”
“But you did. And you got two wonderful sons out of the bargain. Which you’d know if you ever really looked at either of them.”
I’d gone too far. He leaned into me, eyes crackling with anger, a gaze I’d long been afraid of having turned on me.
“You are here at the mercy of Her Majesty and me,” he said quietly, but with ferocity. “Nicholas wanted to join the Navy, and we agreed, on the condition that he took finding a bride as seriously as he took his military service. He did not. We set a deadline. And there you were, right before the clock ran out, satisfying the letter of our decree if not the spirit.” His lip curled. “You are wearing that ring today only because of our tolerance and your own good luck. Remember that the next time you think you understand anything.”
And with that, he signaled to Barnes, collected his things, and left.
Marj poked her head into the room. “Rebecca,” she said grimly.
Right before the clock ran out was still ringing in my ears.
“Just give me a sec.”
“No,” Marj said. “There’s some news.”
It was Lacey. Impeccable timing.
*
“Well, happy birthday to Prince Nicholas, eh?” the blond Sunrise host asked the next morning, crossing her tan legs and turning toward Katie Kenneth. “But the real question is how the Royal Family will handle this, isn’t it?”
“It is, Holly, and it’s a very complex situation,” said calm, maternal Katie, who, by dint of having interviewed me and Nick, was the media expert of choice. “It’s not immediately clear whether Lacey Porter herself broke any laws.”
“And Lacey is of course due to stand up as Bex’s maid of honor in just about eight months’ time,” said Holly, as photos of the two of us flashed up on the screen: in high school at the famed Dumpster Guy Prom; at my aunt Kitty’s third wedding, Lacey looking like a goddess and me in some ill-advised pantsuit; and of course, a variety of paparazzi shots.
“They could’ve picked something where my hair looked better,” I mumbled to myself, before realizing I sounded exactly like my sister.
“Any indication whether this is affecting the wedding plans, Katie?” Holly was asking.
“None at all, Holly. The Palace won’t comment because Lacey is not a member of the Royal Family,” Katie replied. “The good thing for Rebecca and Nicholas, but I suppose a bad thing for us, is that their friends are generally quite tight-lipped, and that has held true today. But safe to say nobody slept much in the palace last night. The Queen has a very low tolerance for misbehavior, which she’s shown time and again with her own son Edwin.”
“But Lacey Porter might be out of her jurisdiction,” Holly speculated.