His Royal Secret (17 page)

Hesitantly, Ben clicked on the envelope. Was it
that
W. Clifton?

It was.

My beautiful boy—

How I laughed when I read this. Not that it isn’t well-written; all your articles are. (At least, the ones I’ve seen. Every once in a while I check in on you, you know. Did you ever think I wouldn’t?) But as I read it, I imagined you casting me as the textbook sociopath, working out your adolescent angst anew.

Just because I didn’t feel what you wanted me to feel doesn’t mean I don’t have emotions, my boy. I wouldn’t like to think of you hating me just because I don’t do well on collar and leash.

Congratulations on your stellar career. To think it all came about because of Bangkok. Reason enough to remember that time fondly, surely?

Every once in a while I travel to London for business. Maybe I’ll look you up sometime. We owe each other a drink, at least.

Warner

Ben gaped at the note for a few long seconds. Warner had always been good at pushing his buttons, but to work in so many ways of being infuriating in just a few lines—it went beyond rudeness to become almost a work of art. Vile art, but art all the same.

“Hey, you coming?” Roberto called. “The pub’s calling our names. At least, it’s calling mine. So get a move on.”

“Be right there.” Ben hit delete, shut off his computer, and headed out. But Warner’s words rang in his ears, every line of the letter already locked in his memory.

The part that bothered him most was what Warner had said about “collar and leash.” Ben had always thought that was his line. He must have picked it up from Warner instead, without realizing.

Cover Stories

Ben wound up realizing he needed to poke around in the royal archives for real. No history of corporations could be written without paying attention to early mercantilism and the royal charters that had created the East India Company, the South Sea Company, and others. Amused that their cover story had turned genuine, James told Ben to put a request through normal channels; his assistant, a Ms. Tseng, would make sure it got approved in no time. Which it did.

So he found himself in an entirely different area of St. James’s Palace on a rainy Thursday afternoon, surrounded by the delicious dichotomy of a top-notch, sophisticated, searchable database and thousands of leather-bound, pleasantly musty old books. It was the perfect place for research, but Ben’s mind kept wandering, traveling through the corridors seeking the door that would bring him to James . . .

Who is in Wales until the weekend
, Ben told himself sternly.
Put your libido
aside and get back to work.

His imagination had other ideas, however. The solid days of writing he’d done over the past week seemed to have tapped his store of concentration. He found himself dawdling at one of the computer terminals, following links further and further from his original task. What began as research into the South Sea Company led to the king who had given that company its royal charter, namely George I, founder of the House of Hanover that still ruled the United Kingdom. How odd, to look at a portrait in oils of a bewigged figure in stockings and ribbons and realize this was one of James’s ancestors.

Ben hadn’t bothered going into the history of James’s house for that long-ago assignment in Kenya, but now he became intrigued. At first it was mostly a matter of looking at picture after picture of long-ago kings and queens, wondering when he would start to recognize some of James’s features in their faces. Yet no writer could ignore words for long. Slowly Ben became absorbed in the narrative of James’s family history.

It turned out the survival of the House of Hanover had been very much at risk in the early nineteenth century, when King George III had only one legitimate grandchild, Princess Charlotte. The fragility of the royal line had become even more apparent when the princess very nearly died giving birth to her one and only son. But thanks to the use of forceps—then a newfangled medical device distrusted by many—both she and her son survived to become Queen Charlotte and King George V, respectively. Ben was amused to realize that, technically, the House of Hanover should have been considered over and done with right then; such things were determined through the male line, and every ruler from George V on ought to have belonged to another house, one determined by Charlotte’s husband, a German prince. But he had died in his son’s infancy, and when the time came for Charlotte to ascend to the throne, the English government wordlessly but firmly kept referring to the House of Hanover.

They act as if these royal rules and regulations are inviolable
, he thought, smiling crookedly
. But the minute they don’t like where those rules lead, it all changes in an instant.

Did that mean James’s pessimism about coming out was ill-founded? Or was this centuries-long chain of descent proof of James’s absolute responsibility to continue the line?

Ben stopped lying to himself and started digging around in more immediate royal family history. Before long he had reached the royals he most remembered, the ones who had been more reported on than any others: Edmund, Prince of Wales, and Princess Rose, James’s parents.

They had been the golden couple of the late 1970s, a real-life fairy tale. Their first photo together—the match that had lit the paparazzi flame—showed them strolling in the flower garden of some country estate or other: Edmund, even more handsome than his son, in a chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, clearly in thrall. Rose, fawnlike in her graceful fragility, smiling shyly as the breeze stirred her long brown hair and pink cotton skirt. The sunset behind them made it seem as if they actually glowed. In a movie, Ben would have scoffed at such a picture-perfect ideal. Now, however, as he studied the photograph, he found himself smiling as he recognized both halves of James in their faces.

No wonder the world had fallen for them. After years of the grayest, stodgiest Hanoverians in that house’s history, Edmund and Rose must have seemed like a shaft of sunlight through the clouds.

They appeared just as naturally happy and beautiful through their wedding (Edmund in a red military uniform, Rose in a billowy silk concoction), their early marriage, and that first pregnancy. To Ben’s astonishment, the heir presumptive began appearing in photos even before his birth. There, reproduced on newspaper and magazine pages from around the world, was the blurry smudge on a sonogram that had become James.

What kind of nurse sold a prenatal sonogram? Surely Princess Rose had to have felt profoundly violated. How must it have felt for James the first time he was old enough to understand that the press had started sneaking around for photos of him while he was still in the womb?

Ben realized he had clenched his hands into fists and forced himself to relax. No doubt he was drinking too much coffee these days.

He flipped more quickly through the more recent photos, refusing to be charmed by the sight of tiny James toddling in a park, being held in his mother’s arms, or waving from the Buckingham Palace balcony with both arms, an enormous smile on his chubby-cheeked face. (Well. Maybe Ben was charmed a little.) Soon Amelia, or “Indigo,” joined the family, and the sweetness of it all became dull, almost cloying—

And then finally, horrifyingly, came one of the most condemned tabloid photos in the world: a sodden corpse being dredged from the sea into a retrieval raft. That was all that was left of Prince Edmund after the plane crash. Ben found himself grateful that the image was so blurry. At least James hadn’t had to see what a couple of days in the water did to a corpse’s face—to see the bloating, the greenish-white cast of the skin, or the places where the fish would have begun consuming him.

“I beg your pardon, sir.” Caught off-guard, Ben turned to see one of the librarians standing nearby. She was too polite to point out that a man who had come to investigate an eighteenth-century company was using palace resources to look at a photograph anyone associated with the royals must loathe. “The library will be closing momentarily.”

“Of course. I’m sorry. Excuse me.” He snapped off the monitor, erasing all record of the images in an instant.

As he hurried out into the street, battered satchel in one hand, Ben found himself startled by the darkness outside. He stood in full night. Some of his surprise was the usual dismay at realizing winter was near, but mostly he was angry at himself for wasting so much time.

A traitorous voice inside his head whispered,
Is it really wasting time, if you’re trying to understand James better?

Yes. It was. He’d have to pull himself together. That deadline was already uncomfortably close. Ben had to wrap this up soon.

•   •   •

James felt as if he had personally congratulated every charity organizer in the whole of Wales by the time he returned to London late on Friday afternoon. Despite the busy few days he’d had, he found himself more energized than he would’ve expected. Maybe he should call Ben, tell him to come by immediately after work instead of later on, so they could get started having fun right away . . .

Don’t call
, he admonished himself.
You mustn’t come to rely on him too much.

He did not question what it was he was relying on Ben for.

“You’re quite sure you’ll require nothing tomorrow, sir?” Kimberley Tseng said this as if she positively longed to be called in to work on Saturday.

James knew better. “Yes, I’m certain. Enjoy your weekend; God knows you’ve earned it. You must be shattered.”

“No more so than you, sir.”

“That settles it, then. You’re
absolutely
shattered.” This earned him a laugh—not the dutiful, high-strung giggle even his lamest attempts at humor were granted, but the real thing. Although Kimberley immediately covered her lips with her fingers, as if appalled, James took heart. It was nice, once in a while, to know that something he’d said was actually a little bit funny.

As his car turned toward Clarence House, James’s cell phone rang. With a frown, he answered. “Hello?”

“James?” Indigo’s voice wavered. “Do you think you could come by?”

It was as if he could feel the crushing weight come down on him, compressing his chest until he could hardly breathe. “Are you having a bad day?”

“Not the way you’re thinking. But I need you here, please. Help me talk to Uncle Richard.”

James had no idea why Indigo would be in conflict with Richard, at least not why today more than any other day. Regardless, his duty was clear. “I’m coming straight away,” he promised, before telling Kimberley, “Inform the equerry. We’re heading to Kensington Palace first instead.”

When he arrived at the palace, James expected to find Indigo in her room, probably her closet, curled into a ball and trying very hard not to cut. However, he was shown to Indigo’s all-but-unused formal stateroom, where he found her sitting in the middle of a long chintz sofa, head bowed, while Richard paced in front of her. James’s began catching his words mid-lecture: “—the irresponsibility of your actions seems not to have occurred to you at any point—”

“What actions?” James said, before the hapless footman could even announce him. He shot Kimberley a look, and she began ushering the servants out. As soon as the stateroom door shut, he repeated, “What actions?”

“I’m just posting online,” Indigo whispered. Her baggy jeans and old T-shirt contrasted sharply with Richard’s and James’s fine suits. “That’s all.”

“That is not all.” Richard turned toward James, completely unfazed by the Prince Regent’s arrival. “Despite that scare a few years ago, where we thought some hacker or other had discerned your true identity, we’ve allowed you to continue going on these ‘forums’ or whatever they are, as you enjoy it so much and it appears to be the only hobby you can conduct from your closet.”

“Richard,” James said sharply. To his uncle’s credit, he actually looked abashed. Richard’s temper could be petty and churlish, but he tried to spare Indigo the worst of it. Not even Richard was cold enough to purposely traumatize someone so fragile. James continued, “I take it the issue is about something specific that’s been posted? Something identifiable?”

“No!” Indigo protested. “Nobody is going to know that’s me.”

“They will if you get ‘hacked’ again.” Richard pronounced any technological terms from the past quarter century as though they were from a foreign language. “And then what will they see?”

Indigo looked up at James, and her hazel eyes were bloodshot with unshed tears. “I found an online forum for people who self-harm. I only wanted some advice, don’t you see?”

“Today’s advice is tomorrow’s tabloid headline,” Richard insisted, but his tone had changed. Now he was trying to be reasonable. “You’ve always abhorred the idea of anyone knowing about your . . . difficulties. So sharing them in an online forum, over a computer network that could be compromised at any time, is pure recklessness.”

James sat beside Indigo, putting his arm around her shoulders. He said nothing at first, because this was one of the rare occasions when Richard had a point. How long had he wished for Indigo to take charge, to make a proactive step toward some sort of recovery? But the palace had suffered too many security breaches for him to take lightly any risk of personal information being transmitted via computer.

If the world at large learned of Indigo’s self-harm from a braying tabloid headline, James knew the violation would destroy her. Worse, he knew it was one of the few things that might lead her to destroy herself.

Gently he began, “Indigo, did you see other posters there who had experiences like yours? Who did the same things you do?”

She nodded. “It was like—like for the first time in so long, I didn’t feel like some sort of freak.” Richard opened his mouth to continue his objections but James held up his hand.

“Perhaps we could try a compromise,” James offered. “You can read all the answers and advice you wish. But you mustn’t post unless—unless it were some sort of emergency, I suppose.”

Indigo slumped against him, staring at the floor. “That might help.”

He felt filthy, even cowardly. How could he ask Indigo to turn away from the first place she’d ever dared to share her experiences outside the family?

But James knew how. It was because the risk of exposure, and the damage that would cause, was simply too great.

Why not a therapist?
he thought miserably.
Indigo, why won’t you let me bring in someone you
could
talk to, someone with the power to help you?

Because a therapist could betray her, he supposed. The threat of betrayal online was even greater, but at least felt more remote. Indigo preferred communicating with most people via keyboard and screen because that way she could imagine them as smaller, more distant, and less dangerous.

“A very sensible solution,” Richard said. Obviously he felt vindicated, or he would never have allowed himself to praise one of James’s ideas.

“I shouldn’t have bothered you.” Indigo looked at James and tried to smile. “But thanks for coming, just the same.”

“Always,” he promised as he hugged her tightly.

He meant to sound reassuring, and perhaps to Indigo, he did. Inside, however, James found himself asking,
Is that true? Will she always be in this much pain?

Is there any way out, for any of us?

•   •   •

After the first few weeks of their arrangement, James and Ben had settled on a “usual time” for Ben to arrive—which was observed more in the breach, but at least gave them a goal to shoot for, a point past which James could issue standing orders for the rest of the staff to be gone. This goal came in particularly useful on days like these, when James’s travel meant they had no time to talk in advance.