Outside the room, there’s a gruff-looking man in a navy suit and yellow tie. He takes a step toward me as I approach, as if to block my entry.
“Um . . . the Smoking Room?” I point toward the door, barely recognizing the timidity in my voice.
He nods, taking a step back.
The room is gorgeous, but it’s less grand than I expected—especially compared with the library. There are a few overstuffed sofas and ancient chairs, a piano in the corner, a fireplace in the center of the room, and a colossal floor-to-ceiling war tableau covering half of the wall opposite the door. The floor is covered in a red-and-gold antique rug. On top of the piano, there’s a framed photo of an old man with the King and Queen. With the exception of the truck-sized painting and the royal photo, it’s pretty damn similar to my parents’ drawing room at home in Sussex.
And on a hideous floral sofa nearest the fireplace, with his head buried in his iPhone, is Prince Edward. A golden retriever is curled up into a ball next to him, its massive head leaning on Prince Edward’s thigh.
I walk in, clearing my throat. “Hiya!”
He looks up from his phone, his face breaking into a warm smile. “Hi! Charlotte, right?” At Edward’s voice, the dog lifts its head, looking at me lazily.
Prince Edward knows me. Holy crap.
“Yep, Charlotte Weston. India’s friend.”
“She mentioned you were coming. You’re from Midhurst?”
Remember what Libby said: treat him like any other guy.
“Have you got a dossier on me or something?”
He laughs. “Something like that.”
“Where is everybody else?”
“They’re never on time.”
“Scary guy standing watch outside the door.”
“Oh, that’s just Simon. Ignore him.” Recognition dawns—it must be his bodyguard.
As if sensing my thoughts, the dog jumps off the sofa and rearranges itself on the floor. I will myself to walk over and sit next to Edward on the sofa. “I like your kicks.” He’s wearing a pair of blue-and-red trainers with his jeans and rugby shirt. Up close, I notice how wide his shoulders are. I picture myself snuggling into him by a roaring fire at Kensington Palace, his arms wrapping around me as we make out during adverts of Britain’s Got Talent. I have to snap myself back to reality, otherwise I’ll start blushing.
“Thanks!” He puts his phone down and swings his arm around the back of the sofa, crossing one leg over the other and jiggling a heel up and down. “So, you’re a forward on the hockey team?”
“Seriously, how do you know all this? My stalkers are normally way less up front about it.”
“I have MI6 on my side,” he says, stone-faced. It takes me a second to realize that he’s joking.
“Undercover. Nice.”
We hear a din out in the hallway, and Flossie, Alice, and India walk in.
“There you are,” India says. She’s wearing a flowing white caftan with gold embroidery, looking perfect as always. “I knocked on your door. But I see you were otherwise occupied.” She smiles, inclining her head toward Edward, and I blush. The two of us stand to greet everybody.
“Hi, Charlotte,” Flossie says, looking back and forth between Edward and me.
“Hi, Flossie! Good to see you!”
She smiles. “You, too.”
Flossie and I have been hockey teammates for two years now, though it was only after India took me under her wing late last year that Flossie started acknowledging my existence.
“Eds! We missed you by the pool today. You would have loved the new diving board.” She opens her arms wide and kisses him on both cheeks. “He does a mean backflip,” she says to me.
“Two weeks in Paris with your family and suddenly you’re double-cheek kissing?” India says to Flossie before giving Edward a hug.
Flossie glares at her, but India doesn’t notice. She’s already turned her back.
“Hi, kids, big kisses,” Alice says distractedly to Edward and me, walking around the near edge of the room by the fireplace. Her wild red hair floats around her thin face in a fuzzy halo. “Where’s the booze cart? I desperately need a drink. I’ve had the worst day.”
“Oh, no,” I say. “What’s wrong?”
“My parents just phoned to say my pet ferret, Mr. Moose, died.”
For a second, I think Alice is joking. But then I remember last year in our English class when Alice gave an impassioned speech about how plants have souls, and another time when she declared that she intended to spend her Christmas holiday using sonar equipment in Scotland to see if there was anything large in Loch Ness. She’s an eccentric one.
“I’m so sorry. Is he your only pet?”
“Oh, we have a menagerie. Horses, dogs, cats, goats, a donkey, the most wonderful llamas, you name it. My brother Hamish collects snakes—mostly ball pythons, of course. But the loss of one of your children always stings.”
I nod, wanting to show support but not really sure how to respond. “Of course.”
Flossie points to my legs. “You’re covered in dog hair.”
I look down at my black shorts, which—sure enough—have a thin layer of golden retriever hair all over them. I try to appear cool as I calmly dust my hands over my thighs and bum, letting the hair fall to the floor. Inside, though, I’m cringing.
I mean—I like dogs, my mum likes dogs, everybody likes dogs. But the bloody upper classes are obsessed with them.
“Did I get it all?” I ask Edward.
He glances down at my legs nervously, as if worried he’ll get yelled at for checking me out. “Looks good to me.”
Oliver and Tarquin walk in, each holding a six-pack of beer.
“Beer? You must be joking.” India points to the drinks cart in the corner, partially hidden behind a tall plant by the fireplace. “There are like fifteen bottles of gin over there.”
“Gin is for mums. I want beer,” says Tarquin. Even though he’s as posh as it gets, he has a faint Cockney accent, which amuses me—India says it’s because of his childhood nanny. His brown hair is still wet, and his round cheeks are fire-engine red, as always. He grabs her, planting a wet, sloppy kiss on her cheek.
India ignores the kiss, plucking a beer bottle from his pack and holding it between her fingers. She inspects the label, wrinkling her nose. “Stella?”
“Didn’t seem to bother you ten beers in at Arthur’s last weekend,” says Oliver, his dimples popping. He removes the top and looks for a place to put it. Tarquin grabs it from him and tosses it in the corner.
“Let’s not completely trash the joint,” India says. “My father isn’t heir. They could kick us out of here at any time.”
“Oh, please—you have loads of servants. It’ll be pristine by morning.” Tarquin looks at me but doesn’t bother coming over. He nods in greeting. “Hey, Edward. Hey, Charlotte.”
Oliver approaches us both, slapping hands and body-slamming shoulders with Edward and then giving me a polite hug.
I watch all the commotion, looking over at Edward to gauge his reaction. He seems amused, settling back into the sofa cushions as Flossie comes over again.
“Eds, are you thirsty? Beer? Wine? G and T?”