Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Bryce
My office at the embassy was lovely in that stiff, government-issue way—dark wood panelling, thick cream curtains that never seemed to hang quite straight, and an oversized seal of the United States of America glaring down from the wall like a watchful parent.
It smelled faintly of furniture polish and over-watered ferns, and at that particular moment, of boredom.
I smiled at the five members of the UK auto manufacturing delegation seated across from me, smiling as though their bad jokes were the height of comedy.
“…and then the German said, ‘Well, at least ours comes with cup holders!’”
They all laughed, and I laughed too. Diplomatic laughter, just the right pitch, polite but not too enthusiastic. I’d mastered the art after years of practice. My cheeks barely hurt anymore from fake smiling.
It was the end of my first week in London, and so far, it felt like ninety percent of my job was meetings like this. Shaking hands, smiling, pretending to be fascinated by factory production lines and tariff schedules.
A week of being told the same bad jokes about unions, petrol, and Brexit. A week of nodding sagely while pretending not to notice the self-satisfied smirks of men twice my age who thought they were terribly clever.
I leaned back slightly in my chair, hands folded neatly in my lap, projecting calm authority. Inside, I was screaming.
If this was it—if this was all there was—then God help me, I’d be climbing out the window by Christmas.
Still, I reminded myself, things could be worse.
Much worse. An uneventful first week was a blessing, not a curse.
In my line of work, boring usually meant peaceful.
And peace was good—for America, for the UK, and for my ability to sleep at night.
The thought had barely settled before a knock came at my office door.
The delegation stopped mid-sentence, all turning their heads at once, as though the knock might deliver salvation.
The door cracked open, and Paula stepped inside. Blond hair smoothed back, impeccable suit in slate grey, calm smile in place—the very picture of efficient, unflappable diplomacy.
“Mr. Ambassador,” she said, inclining her head, “you’re needed on an urgent call.”
The word “urgent” might as well have been a gunshot in that room. The delegation froze, then began gathering their papers and briefcases in unison, clearly relieved to be excused.
“Well,” their chairman said, puffing himself up, “we won’t keep you from important matters. We look forward to your visit to the Rolls-Royce factory next month.”
“Yes,” I said warmly, rising to shake hands again. “I can’t wait.” Which was a lie, of course. I could wait forever and be perfectly content.
They filed out, nodding and smiling, and Paula shut the door firmly behind them.
The polite mask slipped from her face the instant we were alone. She crossed to one of the chairs opposite my desk, sank into it, and shook her head slowly.
“We’ve got a real emergency,” she said.
My pulse spiked, a rush of adrenaline I hadn’t realised I’d been craving. Finally. Something important. Something real.
“What happened?” I asked, already pushing back from my desk, half-ready to start barking orders.
Paula sighed. “At the university roundtable on international law in Edinburgh this morning, a junior officer from the consulate there—Paul Henley, you’ve met him, I think—was caught on a hot mic saying, and I quote: ‘If Scotland ever goes solo, we’ve already got a shortlist for embassy sites.
That view from Calton Hill? Chef’s kiss. ’”
I groaned, slumping back into my chair. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes,” Paula said grimly. “The Foreign Office is livid. And Nigel Thorne is livid-er. He’s on his way here right now.”
The mention of Nigel Thorne was enough to sour my mood completely. Though I’d only met him twice, that man had the uncanny ability to make you feel both scolded and condescended to before he even opened his mouth.
“I can’t believe Henley was so stupid,” I muttered. “What part of diplomat did he not understand? Thinking aloud is bad enough, but about Scottish independence?”
“Exactly,” Paula said. “They’ll want blood.”
Before I could reply, my intercom buzzed. My secretary’s brisk voice followed: “Ambassador, Nigel Thorne is here to see you.”
“Tell him I’ll be one minute,” I said, then turned to Paula. “Stay. Please. You’ve been here longer, you know the players better. I’ll need backup.”
“Gladly,” she said, already rising.
She crossed to the door and opened it wide, ushering in the legend in his own mind, Nigel Thorne himself.
He swept into my office like a cold front, his black suit immaculate, his silver hair gleaming under the lights.
His expression was all frost and disapproval, as though someone had personally offended the Crown by existing in his presence.
Behind him trailed a thin, nervous-looking young man clutching a leather folder.
“Ambassador,” Nigel said stiffly, bowing his head the barest fraction. “I trust you are aware of the unfortunate incident in Edinburgh.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Thorne,” I said evenly, gesturing for him to sit. “Please, let’s discuss it.”
He ignored the chair and remained standing. His aide hovered behind him, pale and clammy.
“The United Kingdom,” Nigel began in that clipped, deliberate cadence of his, “places great value on the so-called special relationship between our two great nations. It is a bond forged in blood, sustained by mutual respect, and—until very recently—above the sort of cavalier recklessness demonstrated by your Mr. Henley.”
I kept my expression neutral, though inside I was composing a strongly worded letter to Henley that would make his ears bleed.
Nigel continued, pacing now, hands clasped behind his back like a headmaster addressing a failing student.
“To suggest—even in jest—that the United States has contingency plans for a hypothetical Scottish secession is not merely indiscreet, it is reckless. The Scottish question is a matter of great sensitivity. Your government’s official position is one of neutrality. I trust that remains the case?”
“Absolutely,” I said, my jaw tight. “The United States does not take sides on the internal constitutional arrangements of our closest ally.”
Nigel’s lips thinned, which I was beginning to understand was as close to a smile as the man ever got. “Good. Then I shall expect a formal statement to that effect by end of business today. And the officer in question?”
“Will be dealt with internally,” I said, keeping my voice firm. “You have my word.”
“As I was saying,” he intoned, “such indiscretions jeopardise trust. The Foreign Office expects a thorough reprimand, and assurances that this sort of… flippancy will never occur again.”
“Of course,” I said firmly, locking my expression into business mode. “The officer will be reprimanded immediately, and I will do whatever it takes to ensure this stays out of the American press. You have my word, Mr. Thorne.”
His lips thinned, and he gave me a curt nod. “See that you do. You are, after all, in charge of this mission now. It is your responsibility to keep your diplomats in line.”
With that, he turned on his heel and stalked out, his aide scurrying after him like a nervous cocker spaniel.
The door clicked shut behind them, and for a few moments Paula and I just sat there, staring at each other in utter silence.
Then it happened: the dam broke, and laughter bubbled out of me so hard and fast it was practically a cackle. Paula clutched the arm of her chair like she was holding on for dear life, and her face went red with relief.
“Oh my God,” I wheezed, pressing a hand over my chest. “Was that—did that really just happen?”
Paula nodded, eyes wide, still fighting to catch her breath. “Bryce, I swear to you, if he’d been any colder, we’d all have frozen solid right here in your office. Forget global warming—just put Nigel Thorne in charge of the thermostat.”
I doubled over laughing again. My nerves had been strung so tight while he was in here that now the release left me practically dizzy.
“No wonder we cracked up like that,” I said between gasps. “It’s not because he was intentionally funny, it’s because we survived.”
Paula leaned back in her chair, blowing out a long breath. “Honestly, you handled him brilliantly. But tell me—have you ever watched The Crown?”
I blinked at her, still grinning. “Of course. I binged it on the plane ride from Sydney to D.C. before I flew out here. It was either that or rewatch Parks and Rec for the millionth time.”
“Well,” Paula said, her lips twitching mischievously, “Nigel Thorne is just like Tommy Lascelles, Queen Elizabeth’s private secretary. In the flesh. Same posture, same holier-than-thou vibe, same way of making you feel like you’re five years old and have just knocked over the royal teapot.”
That set me off again, but Paula wasn’t finished. She straightened in her seat, folded her hands primly in her lap, and pitched her voice into this perfectly imperious register.
“‘Ambassador Lewis,’” she intoned in a low, frostbitten British accent, “‘the special relationship is not some trifle to be frittered away on careless words and ill-considered remarks. It is a sacred trust, upon which the fate of two nations rests. Do kindly remember that the next time one of your people takes it upon themselves to wax lyrical about Calton Hill.’”
Her delivery was so perfect—stiff-backed, eyes narrowed in disapproval, chin tilted just a hair too high—that I nearly fell out of my chair.
“Oh my God, stop!” I cried, covering my face with my hands. “That’s exactly him! If you keep this up, I’ll never be able to look at him again without thinking of The Crown.”
“Which is precisely why we can never do this again,” Paula said, her voice returning to normal, though her eyes were still sparkling. “Mark my words, the next time you’re in a meeting with him, you’ll be picturing me as Tommy Lascelles and you’ll lose it.”
I groaned dramatically and leaned back in my chair. “And then it’ll be my diplomatic career down the drain, because I couldn’t stop laughing at Nigel bloody Thorne.”
As if on cue, my intercom buzzed. I shot Paula a look—half suspicion, half dread—and pressed the button. “Yes?”
“Ambassador,” my secretary’s pleasant voice came through, “Mr. Chris Tennant is on the line. He asked me to remind you of your appointment this evening at Clarence Atelier.”
“Tell Mr. Tennant I’ll be there,” I said, trying to keep my tone dignified, but probably failing. “Thank you.”
The line clicked off, and Paula cocked one perfectly arched brow at me. “You’re actually looking forward to a fitting, aren’t you?”
“Don’t sound so shocked,” I said, smirking. “Occasionally I do wear clothes that aren’t off the rack.”
Paula chuckled knowingly. “Oh, I’m not judging.
I’m thrilled. And Clarence Atelier, no less!
That’s going to make quite the statement.
Nigel Thorne might still be an icy bastard, but he’ll be pleased with your choice of British fashion.
Especially a fashion house owned by a member of the royal family. ”
I barked out another laugh. “You really think a bunch of suits are going to save me from Nigel?”
“Every little bit helps,” she said dryly. “And frankly, we need all the help we can get keeping that man in a tolerable mood.”
Paula stood, smoothing her jacket, and then walked to the door. “Try not to let Thorne haunt your dreams tonight, Ambassador. I’ll see you on Monday morning.”
“Have a good weekend,” I said, managing a wry smile as she slipped out the door.
The office fell silent, only the faint hum of London traffic outside breaking the stillness.
I pushed myself up from my chair and crossed into the adjoining private bathroom, flicking on the light.
My reflection stared back at me—slightly flushed cheeks from laughter, tired eyes, and dark hair that had lost its battle with the London damp hours ago.
And then, without warning, my stomach gave a nervous twist. The thought of seeing Prince Arthur again—at a fitting, no less—suddenly made my pulse tick faster.
“Pull yourself together,” I muttered, gripping the edge of the sink. “For God’s sake, you’ve met him once. At a reception. He’s probably forgotten your name by now.”
Still, my traitorous brain conjured up his smile, that quiet, magnetic warmth about him. And just like that, I felt like some teenager mooning over a movie star’s poster.
I dropped my head forward, groaning. “Jesus, Bryce. You’re the United States Ambassador, not a lovesick schoolboy.” I lifted my chin again, staring myself down in the mirror. “He’s a prince. A real one. A man like that would never look twice at you.”
The words tasted bitter even as I said them. I sighed, straightened my shoulders, and forced a smile at my reflection.
“At least I’ll get some sharp clothes out of this circus,” I told myself.
But as I turned off the light and stepped back into my office, one question still echoed in my mind:
What if Prince Arthur Phillip actually did look twice at me?