Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Later that evening, with my friends assembled in my reception room, before the tall Georgian windows and sage green cushioned box seats.
I have an array of candles lit in the hearth.
We’re seated in a sprawl. It’s a generous size for London, the reason I chose this flat in the first place.
I fell in love with this room, its high and airy ceiling, the quality of the light during the day.
Which it isn’t, and the gorgeous wood shutters that I restored cover the window to keep the night and peeping eyes out.
Gatherings are meant to happen in this room.
Frankie and James are on a sofa, Ethan leans in the armchair, with Sacha and me at opposite ends of the other sofa.
We all drink the wine that James brought, fueling our planning, working away on the last of the curries I ordered in for us all.
In a moment of weakness, I reveal my sister’s betrayal to my friends.
Despite the risk of telling them, and my secret getting out, I seriously need their help.
I’m totally fucked.
“Quite.” James looks thoughtful. He leans back, elbow on the armrest. The top button of his pale blue shirt is unfastened. “Have you considered kidnapping her?”
“What?” I glance over at him, startled. My wine sloshes in its glass as I turn to look at him more intently because he’s obviously lost the plot. And the night is young. “Kidnapping who?”
“Your sister,” he says with a shrug. “You know, Freja.”
“And do what with her?” I ask, indulging his line of questioning out of sheer fascination. Who knows what James envisions. Not that I have any real plans to kidnap my sister. Probably getting this plan out of James is like staring into the sun by choice. “I’m fresh out of dungeons.”
“What, you don’t have a dungeon here?” James looks shocked.
“Kidnapping is illegal,” Ethan reminds James mildly, who waves him off. “By the way.”
“Details. It would keep her from going to America,” James reasons, “and in the meantime, you make it a condition of her release she’s coronated as the Queen she was destined to be in the summer and leaves you well alone.”
“I knew telling you all about this was a mistake. By the way, we don’t technically coronate anyone anymore, not for over one hundred fifty years—it’s basically a big celebration since the formalities are done.
” I do my best to look threatening. “And if any of you breathe a word of this entire debacle…”
James shrugs easily. “My lips are sealed.”
Sacha and Ethan nod.
“No, you did the right thing,” Ethan exchanges looks with Sacha. Unreadable looks. Then Ethan turns to me. “I hope it’s a mistake.”
“Not as much as I do. I hope I’m still drunk from the other night and it’s all a dream I want to forget. Or nightmare. God.” While I rake my fingers through my hair, Sacha leans over to top up my wine since it’s run dangerously low. I sip wine from my topped-up glass.
“Since kidnapping’s out, no thanks to Theo turned all legal over there,” James drawls, forlorn, “what else is there?”
“What else is there?” Ethan exclaims with concern. “There are plenty of other options, I’m sure, that don’t involve taking prisoners.”
“Can I convince her to annul her marriage?” I muse. If only. “The trouble is she’s sound of mind and it would be hard to build up a convincing case. Except for this shotgun marriage business, that is.”
“What if you burn her marriage certificate?” Frankie tries with a grin.
“This isn’t the medieval ages,” James chides. “That won’t work.”
“Now you’re going to be reasonable, James?” Ethan shakes his head. “A moment ago you were advocating for kidnappings like we’re running a royalty cartel.”
“He’s right, though. The marriage certificate’s got to be registered on a computer somewhere,” I say darkly. “Unless we spring a heist with some hackers, I suspect that cancelling her wedding ourselves is out.”
“Just talk to her again, Theo,” Ethan advises. Which, on the surface, appears to be a reasonable course of action. But Freja’s being totally unreasonable, which means I need equally unreasonable solutions to my problems.
“Didn’t go well last time. What’s to say it’s going to go better a second time?” I slump into the cushions, propping my feet up on the low coffee table, already mourning my freedom.
“Add the element of time. She’ll come round,” Ethan tries optimistically. But even he doesn’t sound convinced.
“And if she doesn’t?” I ask meaningfully. “My life is over. And my career. And so is working with you, Ethan. Plus, my reputation is in ruins.”
Everyone falls quiet.
“That last part does sound like a Regency romance I read last week,” James tells me. “What do ruined heroines and heroes do, anyway?”
“Fuck if I know. Get married, I guess. Leave town.” I shake my head, scowling down at my wineglass as if the whole situation is the merlot’s fault.
Some vineyard somewhere has a lot to answer for.
Leaving town even for a few days has a lot of appeal all of a sudden.
“I can’t even keep a boyfriend, remember?
And I don’t want to leave London for good—that’s the whole point. ”
Ethan gives me a sympathetic look. The worry in his eyes is his tell, though, that he knows I’m fucked. I know I’m doomed.
James nods slowly. “Or hire a PR firm to spin it for you.”
I groan. “No PR firm.”
“Well, then that leaves getting married or leaving town,” James says lightly. “I’d say inherit a fortune—but you’ve already got that covered.”
I groan again. “Yes, rather. I’m afraid that’s not a solution. How about stealing her passport? That’s more feasible.” I’m up for a castle caper.
“She’ll have it replaced in a couple of days,” James informs me, shaking his head. “Speaking from experience.”
“Have you considered dating for PR reasons?” Frankie looks at me curiously.
James brightens, gazing affectionately at him. “Ooh, yes. Find a boyfriend for the media to reform yourself, Theo. Brilliant, Frankie.” He leans in for a kiss, while I roll my eyes.
“One thing queers do well is have a network of other queers,” Frankie tells me knowingly. “Right? We’ll match you with someone.”
“Who,” I begin slowly, “would be out of their mind enough to date me?”
“It doesn’t have to be real. Just a cover,” James says soothingly. “And it’s a way to get back at Aidan to prove you’ve moved on.” He gives me an entreating look. “It’s brilliant, actually.”
“Same question stands.” I give him a hard stare and sip some wine, unconvinced. Though getting back at Aidan is highly appealing. “All of you are conveniently paired up.”
“Leave it to us,” James says with an air of authority. “We’ll come up with a list of suitors.”
“I don’t need suitors. I need my sister to come back to her senses. And Aidan too, for that matter.”
There’s a fleeting moment when I think of Stefanos and quash that because it’s completely impossible.
He’s a prince who doesn’t need more headaches.
Also we tend to spend time in other countries far apart from each other based on our text conversation earlier. Hard to bump into him again at the bar.
“What about Martin?” Frankie offers to the group, scrolling through his phone. “He’s a banker, clean cut, very respectable.”
My mouth twitches. “I don’t know. I may have an aversion to bankers.”
“Nonsense. Or maybe there’s Douglas…” James considers, shrugging a shoulder. “His scandals are far behind him. Aristocratic family and all that.”
“I can fill the scandal sheets all on my own just fine, thanks. I don’t need any help doing that.
” I sigh. Douglas Whitby, if I remember, was arrested regularly for public disorder a few years back.
It’s true he’s reformed his image, but that took time.
Years. I don’t have years if I’m meant to be King like five minutes ago.
Or at least I must find some iota of self-respect before the year’s out.
“Why would Aidan do this?” I lament, going back to my other new problem. “I want to know how much they paid him to spill his guts out. I hope it was worth it.”
“Forget him,” Sacha tells me, which is easier said than done. I’m all in on the theory, but my mind keeps wandering back to Aidan, pre- and post-betrayal, like a homing pigeon.
Maybe this talk of passports means getting away, even briefly, is a temporary solution.
It could get me away from the tabloids and paparazzi and the media in all forms. Or at least a change of scene before my friends hook me up with some regrettable man.
Like a last-ditch, last hurrah of freedom.
Even if the fake dating ends up being more regrettable than Aidan, who, incidentally, I met at a friend’s party celebrating something notable which I’ve clearly forgotten.
All of this is too much to bear. Truthfully, a change of scene from London might do me a whole lot of good.