Chapter Forty-Seven
Now
Marina had added a Post-it in the upper right corner. It read: FYI.
James devoured the story in one sitting. He knew instantly that Tristan needed to see it too.
He packed the sheaf of papers in his Smythson Weekender bag, then sent a message to the Privy Council WhatsApp group to confirm everyone was still arriving at Windsor that evening.
? ? ?
“For shame, Lex,” Vidal said, with the gravity of a Supreme Court judgement. “For shame.”
Lex didn’t look up from the finger-sandwich platter he was methodically working his way through. He lifted two at a time to his mouth and consumed them in a single bite, blocking Beauchamp from his turn at the platter.
“He needs to eat four thousand five hundred calories a day,” Barnaby said, from the armchair, without looking up from whatever he was reading. “He’s building thirty-two individual muscle groups for the Vasquez fight. Leave him alone.”
“So is Beauchamp just supposed to starve and waste away in service of Lex’s endless need for nutrients to feed his overblown musculature?
” Vidal demanded. “Am I supposed to sacrifice MY LOVE, for your brute? What would I do without Beauchamp, Bash? Wander the moors, bereaved and alone, for the rest of my days?!”
Barnaby lowered his book just enough to look at Vidal over the top of it, then pointed at the untouched charcuterie board, cakes, and scones, and returned to his page.
“Those,” Vidal said, with immense dignity, “are not sandwiches. And Beauchamp has the right to eat what he pleases.”
Lex rolled his eyes, picked up a finger sandwich, and held it directly to Beauchamp’s mouth. Beauchamp ate it and raised one finger, prompting Lex to feed him another.
Caroline was on the window seat with her legs folded beneath her, saying something low to Benton, who sat in the adjacent chair.
Tristan was perched on a sofa arm at the other end of the room, near Barnaby, with a script on his lap, having long given up on studying it in the presence of this lot.
Lex was still eating, while Beauchamp and Vidal picked at the charcuterie board.
Three frightened boys from Eton had somehow found their perfect matches and brought them into the fold.
Smiling, James brought his hands together in a single, brisk clap. Every head in the room came up to look at him.
“Right,” James said. “You all know why we’re here.
Tomorrow, Tristan and I will be at the Brookridge Cup, Bash’s showjumping invitational at the yard, which the press are already calling the social event of the season.
” He paused. “There will be approximately two hundred and forty accredited press there. Marina has already briefed you on the plan at length. What I need from all of you is to simply follow exactly what she laid out. Do you understand me, Vidal?”
“Why am I being singled out?” Vidal demanded, whipping around from the charcuterie board to glare at James.
“The trebuchet incident of 2019,” James said simply.
Barnaby paled. He closed his book, set it on the side table, and looked at Tristan. “There’s still time to slip away, you know. There’s a secret passage behind the east wing panelling that takes you out by the water meadow, well clear of the press gate.” He paused. “I can draw you a map for later.”
Tristan looked up from his script. “Are you actually trying to help me escape, or is this an elaborate way of telling me you still want me to stay away from James?”
“The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”
“Bash,” James said. “He’s staying. It’s too late for him to go anywhere because people have already noticed him.”
“I’ve been on TV since before I could talk properly, James. People don’t need to notice me.” His eyes found James. “I’m a part of an entire generation’s childhood, and I have a Wikipedia page that’s longer than yours.”
“Yes. I’ve read it.” James reached into the Weekender bag at his feet. “But has there ever been fan fiction of you?” He produced the twelve pages of Establishing Protocol — a Crown Jewels fan fiction — by SovereignDaddysGrl (AO3) and held them aloft.
Tristan snorted. “Birrell and I are a full RPF ship on Tumblr with its own tag, James. BirLock has twelve hundred works on Archive of Our Own. And the Disney fandom is insane. Have you heard of Disney Adults?”
James shuffled through the pages to the passage he’d been saving, the one he’d read three times at his desk that morning with his hand pressed over his mouth.
“Listen to this,” he said, and dropped his voice into the register he reserved for addressing the nation on Christmas Day.
“‘The King drew the necklace from its velvet case and held it against the light, where the rubies burned like the heart of the Empire. Tristan, naked and trembling on the four-poster, could only gasp as His Majesty draped the stones across his heaving collarbone.’” James looked up from the page.
“‘His heaving collarbone.’ Marvellous sentence. Are you taking notes, Tris? I should like to see this very much.”
Tristan hadn’t moved. “For the record, you’ve never made a single part of me heave. You’d have to work much harder to get that reaction.”
A laugh escaped Barnaby. He covered it with a sip of his wine, but James had already clocked him. He shot both Barnaby and Tristan a wounded look, but carried on.
“‘The King loomed above him, his broad chest gleaming with the exertion of sovereign desire. “You will wear my jewels tonight,” James commanded, his voice a dark velvet promise that brooke no refusal. “Every. Last. One.”’” James paused and turned the page with great ceremony.
“She’s missed the D off ‘brooked,’ but I think the sentiment lands regardless. ”
“Does fic-me get a say in any of this?” Tristan asked. “Or am I just lying there being decorated like a Christmas tree?”
“You get several says. All of them are variations on ‘yes, Your Majesty’ and ‘please, Your Majesty.’ You also, at one point, emit a ‘keening whimper of exquisite need.’” James let the phrase hang in the air. “Tris, have you ever keened?”
“Not once. You’d know if I did.”
“That’s what I thought. And yet here you are, keening up a storm on the four-poster while fic-me drapes the Crown Jewels over your naked body like a deranged Cartier window dresser.
” James flipped ahead several pages. “She also attempts to repurpose the Sovereign’s Ring as a cock ring, which I admire as a concept, though the circumference would present difficulties.
It was sized for William IV, who was not, by all accounts, a hefty man.
” James glanced at Tristan. “You’d absolutely shatter it. ”
Tristan nodded solemnly.
“But it gets better. She brings in the Girls of Great Britain and Ireland Tiara.”
“What’s that?” Lex asked, through a mouthful of food.
“It’s a tiara,” Barnaby said. “Paid for by a national subscription in 1893 as a wedding gift for the future Queen Mary. It sat on Queen Amelia’s head for her formal portraits. Everyone in this country has seen a photograph of her wearing it.”
“Continue,” Caroline said, from the window seat. “I have to hear what she does with the tiara.”
James found the paragraph and read it out loud.
“‘With hands that shook with the weight of nine hundred years of history, King James lifted the Girls of Great Britain and Ireland Tiara from its case and set it upon Tristan’s brow. “My crown jewels,” the King whispered, pressing his mouth to the hollow of Tristan’s throat, “belong on you.” Then the King proceeded to make thorough, athletic, and devastatingly competent love to his consort while the diamonds caught the candlelight and threw tiny rainbows across the ceiling of the State Bedroom. ’”
He lowered the page. The room sat in stunned silence.
“Devastatingly competent,” Lex said. “That’s what you want to hear about your shagging.”
“I’ve had worse reviews.”
“The tiny rainbows were a nice touch,” Beauchamp offered. “Very atmospheric.”
Vidal seized the pages from James’s hands and scanned them. “She has you doing things in paragraph nine that are physically ambitious for a man with a tiara balanced on his partner’s head. I admire her optimism. I do not share it.”
“What’s she got me doing in paragraph nine?” Tristan asked, leaning over to look.
Vidal flipped a page. “You are ‘a pliant, trembling vessel for the King’s desire.’ It’s actually quite well-written for what it is. Beauchamp, be an absolute dear and google us. There’s a triumph of a BeauDal piece called ‘Catalan Fury’ that you must send to the group WhatsApp.”
“Please give that back to me,” James said, retrieving the pages from Vidal before he could reach paragraph eleven.
He straightened the sheaf against his thigh and looked down at them.
“How has this woman ripped this scene directly from my real life?” he murmured.
“I mean, not the looming. Or the keening. Or the bit where I apparently have the stamina of a man with three times my fitness. But the spirit of the thing. She’s got the spirit of it. ”
Tristan rolled his eyes heavenwards.
“You know,” James said, “that tiara is held at the Tower. It’s not even terribly difficult to arrange getting it out of there.
I just get Benton to make one phone call to the Keeper of the Jewel House.
They arrange an incognito armoured vehicle, and four members of the King’s Guard dressed as removal men.
” He counted the steps off on his fingers. “I could have it here by midnight.”
“You could not,” Benton said, from beside Caroline. “And in six months, when I’ve moved on to the King’s Trust, you’ll have to explain this request to my successor. Should I flag this for their briefing pack, or would you prefer to blindside them?”
“This is an interesting tone from someone I’ve just made CEO of my charitable foundation,” James said. “You’ve got everything you wanted, and now you won’t even arrange a tiara loan for me?”
Caroline smirked and pressed her cheek against Benton’s.
“Sounds like a good time.” Tristan paused. “Though if you’re putting a tiara on me, I’ll need to be on top.” Tristan held James’s gaze, his mouth twitching.
James set the pages down on a side table and crossed the drawing room. Everyone in it watched him go: Caroline’s hand finding Benton’s knee, Barnaby’s grey eyes, Lex nudging Beauchamp, Vidal opening his mouth and Beauchamp putting a finger to his lips to dissuade him from intruding on the moment.
James stopped in front of Tristan, cupped the back of his neck, and kissed him.
Tristan’s hand came up to rest on James’s chest, his fingers spreading over the placket of James’s shirt.
His mouth was warm and tasted of champagne, and he kissed James back without a single glance towards the rest of the room.
James pulled back and looked at him.
Tonight, every person James loved was in this room, and every one of them was looking at the man he was going to spend his life with. The warmth that moved through James’s chest was so simple and so complete that he couldn’t think of a single clever thing to say about it.
“Right,” said Barnaby, into the silence. “If the King has quite finished his public display, I believe we were discussing operational logistics for tomorrow, to ensure the King doesn’t cock anything up.”
“I thought it was a lovely kiss,” Vidal announced. “No heaving involved, sadly. But still full marks for the feeling behind it, Jams. Beauchamp, take note.”
Lex pointed at James with a finger sandwich. “You’d better be that smooth tomorrow, mate. Can’t fumble the soft launch after that.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” James said, and sat beside Tristan, whose hand went straight into his hair. “Tomorrow’s kiss will be one for the history books.”
THE END