Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Arthur
I couldn’t sit still. My office chair—cream leather, Italian, frightfully expensive—might as well have been upholstered with nettles.
I’d perched on it for less than thirty seconds before I was up again, pacing across the rug.
Chris’s rug, technically. He had insisted on it when we’d moved into the Bond Street headquarters two years ago.
Persian, hand-knotted, something about knots per square inch—I’d stopped listening after he launched into a dissertation about warp and weft.
“Darling,” Chris drawled from the sofa, long legs crossed and one arm draped lazily over the back as if he hadn’t a care in the world, “you’re going to wear a trench in the carpet, and then we’ll have to send it out for repairs. Do you know how ghastly the waiting lists are?”
I ignored him and kept pacing, from the window that overlooked the busy hum of Bond Street to the opposite wall, where framed fashion sketches from our earliest collection hung like family portraits.
Four years. That was all. Clarence Atelier was barely out of nappies, and yet here we were, waiting to meet with buyers from Thorne & Whitmore. The Americans.
“I can’t help it,” I said, running my fingers along the edge of my desk as I passed it. The surface was spotless except for a vase of white roses—Chris again, he’d decided my office needed “softening.” “This could be the moment, Chris. If they stock us, we’ve cracked America. If they don’t…”
“Then we shall carry on being fabulous elsewhere,” he interrupted breezily.
He reached into the tin on the coffee table and fished out a sugared almond, popped it into his mouth, and spoke around it.
“And really, darling, don’t say ‘cracked America’ as though it’s a walnut. It’s terribly unglamorous.”
I shot him a look, though the corners of my mouth twitched. He always did that—deflated my nerves with absurdity. “Easy for you to say. You don’t have to live with the weight of a royal title hanging over your head if this goes pear-shaped.”
“Correction: you don’t live with it either, you merely parade it when it’s advantageous.
And, incidentally, you do it beautifully.
Which is why, in a few minutes, I shall begin dazzling them with my talk of evening wear, and then you will stride in like you’ve just come from having whisky with the King. Works every time.”
I stopped pacing, hands on hips. “You still think evening wear is the way to go? Honestly, Chris, they’ll never commit to our formalwear before they’ve proven we can sell to their everyday shoppers. The suiting line is more accessible, more—”
“Boring,” he cut in with a grin. His hair, artfully tousled in that way only a professional blow-dry could manage, gleamed under the recessed lighting.
“The Americans want drama, Arthur. They want dinner jackets that make their Park Avenue men weep. If they wanted off-the-rack suits, they could buy Ralph Lauren.”
“Don’t be rude about Ralph. He’s practically their national treasure.”
Chris waved a hand as if to shoo away the notion.
“National treasures are overdone. We are Clarence Atelier. The clue is in the name. We are here to remind them Britain does it better. Imagine their black-tie galas—our midnight silk shawl-collar jackets, the draped backs on the women’s gowns. They’ll be begging for us.”
I sighed and resumed pacing. He wasn’t wrong about the evening wear—it was breathtaking, no one denied that—but I couldn’t shake the practicality. If we wanted a long-term relationship with Thorne & Whitmore, we needed to start with pieces that would actually move volume.
The knock on the door startled both of us.
“Enter,” I called, more briskly than I meant.
In came Laurence, our secretary. A tall, angular man with spectacles perpetually sliding down his nose, he’d once confessed he’d only taken the job at Clarence Atelier because he preferred answering telephones for a fashion house to managing spreadsheets at a bank.
His ties were always impeccable, though. Today’s was a deep burgundy silk.
“Your Royal Highness, Mr. Tennant,” he said, his voice carrying that dry politeness I adored. “A message from the lobby. Ms. Carlisle from Thorne & Whitmore is running a few minutes behind. Traffic, apparently.”
I exhaled sharply in relief. “Thank God for London congestion.”
Chris chuckled. “See, darling? The city conspires in our favour. More time to perfect our pitch.”
Laurence inclined his head and slipped back out, leaving us alone again.
I spun back toward Chris. “So. Evening wear or suiting? We can’t go in muddled.”
“We go in with the formal collection.”
“The suits.”
He arched his brow. “I designed the formalwear myself.”
“And I designed half the suit line,” I reminded him.
“Which explains why it’s so…practical.” His smile was wicked, teasing.
“Practical sells.”
“Formalwear stuns.”
I folded my arms and glared at him, though I could feel laughter bubbling underneath. This was us—sparring, needling, winding each other up until one of us caved. Usually me.
Before either of us could declare victory, the intercom buzzed.
Laurence’s voice: “Sir, Mr. Tennant—Ms. Carlisle and her assistant, Ms. Hammond, have just arrived.”
Chris leaned forward, pressing the button with practiced ease. “Lovely. Please let them know I’ll be right out.”
He released the button and turned to me, his eyes glittering with mischief. “Showtime.”
Our gazes locked for a moment, and then, as if choreographed, we both broke into laughter.
“Go on,” he said, waving toward the adjoining room. “Hide. I’ll dazzle them first, and then you can sweep in when I give the signal.”
“Honestly, Chris, we’re ridiculous,” I said, though I was already scooping up my phone.
“Ridiculous but effective.” He leaned back against the sofa cushions like a cat who’d just cornered a mouse. “Don’t forget to look impossibly regal. They must believe you dine on royal swans every night.”
I snorted. “Shall I dig out Grandfather’s signet ring? Would that help?”
He threw his head back and laughed, the sound filling the office. “Divine. Utterly divine. Yes, wear the ring. Americans adore a prince.”
Shaking my head but smiling all the same, I slipped into the adjoining room.
It was hardly a glamorous hiding place—a small sitting room that doubled as a refuge on days when the office felt too exposed—but it had become part of our ritual.
Chris went first, dazzling with his designer’s patter, and then I appeared at just the right moment to remind the world that Clarence Atelier came with its own touch of aristocratic sparkle.
I leaned back against the cool wall, phone in hand, waiting for the buzz.
My heart thudded with anticipation, but also with the comfort that Chris was on the other side, holding the line.
We were a team, always had been. Best friends before business partners, and somehow still managing both without losing our sanity.
And when that phone buzzed, I’d stride out in all my regal glory—signet ring or not—and together we’d charm the Americans into falling hopelessly in love with Clarence Atelier.
I listened through the door, straining for every sound. Chris’s voice carried first—smooth, melodic, the practiced patter of a designer who believed in every stitch he’d sketched. There was laughter, then a feminine voice I didn’t recognise, followed by a warm chorus of “oohs” and “aahs.”
I grinned. That would be Chris unfurling the evening collection like banners at a coronation. He always knew how to work a room.
Turning toward the mirror on the wall, I inspected my reflection.
My hair—dark chestnut, slightly tousled as always—looked fine, though I ran my fingers through it to settle the wave that never quite behaved.
My suit was holding up: a slim-cut navy number from our own line, the lapels sharp enough to signal intention without screaming for attention.
I straightened the knot of my tie—a deep forest green in raw silk—and adjusted my cuffs.
Perfect: polished, understated, confident.
From the other room came another ripple of appreciative exclamations.
I bit back a laugh. Chris was clearly slaying.
If I actually swept in wearing a coronet, the poor Americans might faint dead away on the rug.
Not that I’d ever inflict one on myself—those wretched things sat on the head like a medieval torture device. No man in his right mind enjoyed them.
My phone buzzed.
The signal.
I drew in a deep breath, lifting my chin. My heartbeat quickened, but my expression was serene. This was the role I’d been born to play—not designer, not entrepreneur, but the ineffable aura of royalty that still clung to me whether I liked it or not.
A calm smile fixed itself to my lips. I placed one hand lightly on the doorknob, straightened my posture, and with a final glance in the mirror, stepped out into the corridor.
And with that, His Royal Highness entered the stage.
* * *
The crystal clink of champagne glasses echoed through my office like music. I leaned back against the edge of my desk, savouring the effervescent fizz on my tongue and the rare satisfaction of a deal gone precisely our way.
“To Clarence Atelier,” Chris declared, raising his flute high as if to toast the whole of Bond Street. “And to Thorne & Whitmore, may their customers buy our clothes until their credit cards melt.”
I laughed, the tension of the morning evaporating. “That was a coup if ever I saw one.”
“Darling, it was more than a coup. It was a full-scale coronation.” He winked at me, mischief sparkling in his eyes.
“Did you see poor Ms. Hammond? The woman nearly fainted when you strolled in like James Bond at a garden party. Her laptop went crashing to the floor. I swear I heard the hard drive give up its last breath.”
I nearly choked on my champagne. “Stop it! I saw her flail. I thought she’d taken out an ankle.”
“She probably would’ve, had you been wearing a coronet.” He arched one perfectly shaped brow. “We’d have been ringing for smelling salts.”
I laughed again, clutching my glass as bubbles threatened to spill over. “You are incorrigible.”
“And you adore me for it,” he said, leaning back on the sofa, his champagne flute dangling casually between elegant fingers.
We sat there in comfortable silence for a moment, basking in the glow of victory.
The Americans had been dazzled—Chris’s formalwear, my theatrics, our practised routine.
They’d placed a significant order on the spot, though with the caveat that Clarence Atelier mounted a “serious marketing push” to accompany the launch.
Typical Americans—always wanting a spectacle.
The intercom buzzed.
Laurence’s crisp voice: “Her Royal Highness, Princess Anne, is on line one for you, sir.”
I closed my eyes, exhaling through my nose. “Of course she is.”
Chris glanced at me, his face softening. He knew. He always knew. Without a word, he rose, set his flute down, and brushed a quick clap against my shoulder. “Good luck. I’ll be in the studio.” And then he slipped out, leaving me alone with the inevitable.
I lowered my glass, reached for the phone, and pressed the blinking button. “Hello, Mummy.”
“Oh, Arthur,” came my mother’s voice, faintly crackling over the line. She sounded breathless, followed by a cough. “You must do something for me.”
I straightened. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing serious,” she said quickly, though another cough punctuated her reassurance. “A blasted cold. It was all those hands I shook in Cornwall at the hospital opening. You’d think by now I’d know better than to touch anyone in February.”
I smiled faintly despite myself. Typical Mummy. Duty first, germs be damned.
“But I can’t possibly attend the reception tonight at Regent’s Park,” she continued. “The King insists one of us be there—your grandfather’s in one of his moods—and with the new American ambassador being received, it simply has to be family.”
My stomach tightened. “Mummy—”
“Please, darling. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important. Bryce Lewis is his name, newly arrived from Australia, I think. The previous ambassador, poor man, dropped dead, and now it’s all rather delicate. Your grandfather doesn’t want anyone thinking Britain can’t roll out the carpet properly.”
“I’m not a working royal,” I reminded her, my voice sharper than I intended. “You’ve gone to great pains to make sure of that.”
“I know,” she said softly, another cough muffling her words. “And I try to keep you out of it. But sometimes…sometimes we can’t.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, willing the champagne buzz not to sour into irritation.
These functions—the stiff handshakes, the small talk, the endless parade of diplomats who saw me as nothing but a title—were exactly the parts of royalty I loathed.
I much preferred sketchbooks, fabric swatches, and Chris’s irreverent jokes to the world of polished courtiers.
Yet Mummy was ill. And beneath the frustration, there was still that pull—the duty drilled into me since childhood.
“All right,” I said at last, resigned to a night of tedious bureaucrats. “I’ll go.”