Chapter Seven
‘MAD MISTRESS’ SPOTTED AT SANDRINGHAM FOR CHRISTMAS
Laura Bright, mother of the King’s illegitimate daughter, Evangeline, has joined the royal family for Christmas in Norfolk.
A woman identified as the infamous American mistress was photographed early this afternoon in a Range Rover driven by the King as they entered the grounds of Sandringham Estate. Though Buckingham Palace has refused to comment, ananonymous source close to the royals confirms that Bright, 43, made the trip from the United States specifically to spend the holiday with her daughter.
This is believed to be Bright’s first visit to England since news of her affair with the King broke last summer. Traditionally, only members of the royal family are issued invitations toSandringham, though exceptions have been made for both betrothed and former partners, including Venetia, Duchess of York, who divorced the Duke of York in 2006 but continues to join the royals for Christmas each year.
There has been no word as to whether either Bright will make an appearance on the walk to St Mary Magdalene Church, which the royal family famously attends for a service on Christmas morning.
—The Daily Sun, 23 December 2023
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, WHEN WE’VE miraculously made it through lunch without any bloodshed, my mother goes upstairs to take a nap, and Kit and I head into the village near Sandringham.
The protesters are gone now, either of their own volition or because security chased them away, but I’m still a ball of anxious energy as our driver navigates the narrow lanes that lead into town. All I can think about is the poison Constance could whisper in my mother’s ear over the next week, and while I know my mom isn’t fragile, if Constance finds the right combination of words, it could cause the kind of wound that’ll never fully heal—which I’m sure is exactly her intention.
“It’ll be all right,” says Kit as the Range Rover winds through a village full of houses and businesses all built from the same red brick. “Your mother can hold her own, and Alexander will intervene if Constance tries anything else.”
I want to believe him, but he’s never seen my mom when her illness is winning, when her mind is playing tricks on her and she can’t tell what’s real. “I wish Constance would crawl back to her Scottish castle and let the rest of us enjoy the holiday,” I mutter. “It’d be the greatest Christmas gift I’ve ever gotten.”
Kit squeezes my fingers. “We’ll just have to find a way to make the best of it.”
Our eyes meet, and there’s a hint of something in his gaze—something dark that adds gravity to his words, an unexpected solemness that feels too heavy for the circumstances. I shift in my seat to face him. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Positive,” he says, but that darkness flickers again, even as he manages a faint smile. “It was a difficult term, that’s all.”
I’m not surprised. Kit’s one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met, but Oxford isn’t exactly a walk in the park for anyone. “We’ll take it easy this week,” I promise. “Though I bet the Maldives is looking pretty good right now, compared to all this drama.”
“On the contrary,” he says, bringing our joined hands to his lips and kissing my knuckles. “There’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be. Or anyone else I’d rather be with.”
As I rest my head on his shoulder, our driver parks in front of a shop on a quiet corner, which is only distinguishable from the rest of the town thanks to a faded pink sign that reads Noble Norfolk Novelties. While I can’t tell what the shop sells, Kit seems to perk up when we climb out of the car.
“I think you’ll like this place,” he says as he pushes open the door, and a bell tinkles above us.
This place,as it turns out, is a strange hybrid of a bookstore, a gift shop, and an old-fashioned ice cream parlor. It’s warm inside and smells like Christmas, and as I pause at the entrance, taking it all in, a woman with rosy cheeks bustles out from one of the aisles.
“Welcome,” she says cheerfully. “How may I help you?”
“We’re looking for a last-minute gift,” says Kit as I examine a collection of jewelry beside the antique cash register. Some pieces are made of polished stones, while others show off flowers captured in resin or hand-painted earrings in the shape of tiny crowns.
“Anything in particular?” says the woman, but she must catch me eyeing the jewelry, because she adds, “All handmade by my daughter. Only fifteen and already so talented. Do you see anything you like, love?”
“It’s all beautiful,” I say, and as I glance up at her, recognition dawns on her round face. I smile politely, bracing myself for whatever’s about to come, but other than her brief surprise, the only change to her expression is a faint hint of pity.
I touch a ring made of tiny pink stones fashioned into a miniature rose, and something subtle shifts inside me. She doesn’t see me—she doesn’t see a customer coming into her shop to buy a gift for an unexpected relative. She sees Evangeline, the King’s illegitimate daughter, who has excellent posture and is always polite, who would never wear ripped leggings in public, and who everyone knows was sexually assaulted and accused of murder. Maybe in a decade or two, I’ll have done enough for one of the worst moments of my life not to be the first thing everyone thinks of when I’m mentioned, but for now, I might as well have a neon sign above my head that screams victim.
“Is the ice cream parlor open?” says Kit as I pretend to focus on a pair of resin earrings.
“It is,” says the woman, her voice an octave higher than before. “You must try our seasonal selections—they’re like Christmas for your taste buds.”
Mercifully the woman follows Kit to the other side of the shop, where the ice cream freezer is displayed beneath a chalkboard sign listing all the flavors, and I take the opportunity to duck into the crammed aisles. I’m not alone—a dark-haired personal protection officer trails after me with all the discretion of a lumbering grizzly bear—but I have a moment to realign myself and to become Evan again. On my first full day in England, during those precious few hours when I was still anonymous, Tibby warned me that if my identity was leaked, my life would never be the same. That I’d be stalked and hounded everywhere I went, and no matter what I accomplished, it would always be overshadowed by the accident of my birth.
She was mostly right, and despite her warning, I wasn’t prepared for the level of scrutiny I’ve faced since. I’m still not, and even in this new place, far from Windsor and the crowds of London, I’m painfully aware that the world won’t hesitate to turn on me if I even think about stepping out of line.
As I reach the back of the store, I turn the corner and stop suddenly. Two feet in front of me, on a rickety display that looks like it’s balancing on willpower alone, are a dozen copies of Henrietta Smythe’s new biography—complete with a black-and-white picture of my face on the cover. My cheeks grow hot as I glance around, and only once I’m sure this part of the shop is empty, I gingerly pick up the top copy and read the back.
The true story of Evangeline Bright, the secret American princess who’s destined to take the royal world by storm.
“It’s not a bad photo of you,” says Kit softly behind me, and I jump. “Though I’m afraid that’s the only good thing I can say about the book.”
I wrinkle my nose and set it back down. “I can’t believe you read it. Were you really that bored at your parents’ place?”
He shrugs. “Maisie always asks me to read the unofficial biographies—she likes to know what they say, if only to prove them wrong. I assume that’s a trait you two share. Chocolate candy cane with eggnog and evergreen swirl,” he adds, offering me one of the cones in his hand.
I take it curiously and allow myself a cautious lick. To my surprise, the shopkeeper isn’t wrong. It does taste like Christmas. “Weird,” I mumble.
“The ice cream, or my reading habits?” says Kit as we leave the display behind and head down an aisle full of souvenirs and knickknacks.
“Both.” I touch the spine of a purple leather-bound sketchbook, though when I start to slide it off the shelf, I realize it has a cartoon cat on the cover. “Do you think anyone’s going to read it? The biography, I mean.”
“I fear it’s already a bestseller,” he says, unearthing a wooden box that holds a miniature painting set, complete with five colors, two brushes, and several small canvases. “Don’t worry—it’s mostly fiction.”
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.” I nod toward the box in his hand. “My mom would love that.”
“Really?” says Kit. “I thought she’d have a dozen like it.”
I shrug. “She always says there’s no such thing as too much paint.”
Kit holds on to the paint set as we move down the aisle, and we both pause the conversation to lick our cones. “It’s really not as bad as it could be,” he says, and it takes me a beat to realize he’s talking about the biography, not the ice cream. “If anything, it’s surprisingly kind toward you. She interviewed some of your schoolmates and a few people who claim to be family friends, but there’s nothing terribly personal—”
“Kitters?”
We both look up at the same time. At the end of the aisle stands a girl not much older than me, with flaming-red hair and a smattering of freckles so adorable that I’m instantly jealous. Beside her is a brown-haired boy—man—roughly the same age, and though his expression looks like it’s set in a permanent scowl, there’s something inexplicably open about him.
“Aoife? Dylan?” says Kit, his voice tight with wariness I don’t understand. “What are you doing here?”
“Good to see you, too, mate,” says the boy—man—Dylan. He smiles, but even though I think he means it, it comes off as pained. “My gran lives here. Aoife’s visiting for Christmas.”
The redheaded girl nudges him affectionately, and I notice their clasped hands. “You must be Evangeline,” she says to me. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Wish I could say the same,” I say, glancing at Kit. His lips are pursed, and he looks vaguely like a deer in headlights.
“Evangeline,” he says in that polite, formal tone he only uses around other people. “This is Dylan and Aoife. Dylan and I were at Eton together, and now we’re on the same course at Oxford, while Aoife’s studying computer science.”
This immediately piques my interest, considering I’ll be studying the same in the autumn, but Aoife laughs before I can bring it up. “You make it sound like we all nod to each other as we pass in the hall,” she says. “We’re friends. Good friends, I’d say. Wouldn’t you?” She looks at Dylan, who grunts in agreement.
“Had to carry his arse home from the pub a few times,” he says, and Kit turns pink. He’s mentioned going out with friends during our VidChat calls, but for the life of me, I can’t remember him ever mentioning names. Or that he was close with anyone at Oxford.
“Complete exaggeration,” Kit assures me with a forced smile. “If anything, I was the one keeping Dylan upright.”
Aoife snorts. “Oh, no—I’m the one who had to tuck you both into bed,” she teases before catching my eye. “Don’t worry, it’s all in good fun. Unlike Dylan and me, Kit’s not a dosser.”
I have absolutely no idea what that means, and I’m afraid to ask. Dylan must see my confusion, because he finally cracks a smile.
“She means he’s a good lad,” he says. “On the straight and narrow, as it were.”
“He’s actually at uni to study, rather than to poison his liver,” she jokes. “And he talks about you all the bleedin’ time. I don’t know what kind of magic you’ve worked on him, but he’s completely besotted.”
Kit’s blushing so hard now that he’s practically scarlet. “Same magic you’ve worked on Dylan to get him to utter more than two words at a time,” he says, but as he speaks, his phone chirps. He checks his screen, and his brow furrows. “I’m afraid we need to go.”
“Bugger, really?” says Aoife, her shoulders slumping. “I was hoping you’d have time to grab a coffee. I’ve wanted to meet you for ages, Evangeline.”
“We’ll have to arrange something soon,” mumbles Kit as he hastily types out a reply to whatever message he’s received. I fight the urge to glance at his screen, sure he’ll tell me eventually as long as this isn’t a ruse to escape. “Evangeline, did you want to get something?”
I nod and take the box from under his arm. “You say goodbye, and I’ll pay.”
Kit doesn’t argue, and considering he never lets me pay for a thing, that’s how I know this isn’t some kind of ploy to shake off his friends. I excuse myself and head for the register, where the shopkeeper is beaming at my return, and as I pull the rose ring from the velvet case, I hear footsteps behind me.
“I’m sorry if I came off a bit strong back there,” says Aoife, pausing in front of the jewelry display. “Oh, these are grand.”
“Her daughter made them,” I say, and the shopkeeper winks. “And you have nothing to apologize for. It’s nice to meet some of Kit’s friends. I don’t really have many of my own here.”
Aoife’s easy grin returns as the shopkeeper rings me up. “Well, you can consider me one, then, if you’d like,” she says, and there’s a question there that I can’t turn down—not politely, anyway. And definitely not as Evangeline.
“I would,” I say, even though I’m not so sure. “You’ll have to tell me more stories about Oxford.”
She laughs again, any tension in her gone now. “I’ve got plenty of those, haven’t I? Your Kit’s a good lad. Brings out the best in us, or at least he tries, bless him.”
He brings out the best in me, too, but I don’t say that out loud. Kit and I’ve made more than our fair share of headlines since he took my hand at Wimbledon, and even though he and Aoife are friends, that’s the kind of thing I want to—need to—keep private.
Once I pay for the gifts, Aoife and I head out onto the sidewalk together, still trailed by my personal protection officer. Kit and Dylan are waiting for us beside the Range Rover, and while they’re chatting with the ease of two people who’ve known each other for years, Kit’s posture is rigid, and his foot is tapping on the pavement to a fast and erratic beat.
“Evan,” he says, too anxious to hide the impatience in his voice—or remember to call me Evangeline in front of his friends. “I’m afraid we really must go.”
“No worries, mate,” says Dylan, but Aoife’s round eyes go a bit watery, and to my surprise, she catches me in a hug.
“Kit has my number,” she says into my hair. “Stay in touch, yeah?”
“I will,” I say, already feeling guilty for the lie. But I don’t know how else to make a graceful exit, and it would take too long to explain that I don’t have a phone. “It was really nice meeting you.”
When she finally lets me go, she squeezes my free hand before latching onto Dylan’s arm once more. Kit and I both pitch what’s left of our ice cream, and I slide into the car, not sure whether I’m more relieved that’s over or nervous about what comes next.
“They seem friendly,” I say as soon as Kit joins me and closes the door. My protection officer climbs into the front seat beside the driver, and the car begins to move, leaving Dylan and Aoife behind. “Why did you never mention them?”
“Didn’t I?” says Kit, even though I’m sure we both know hedidn’t. “I’ll introduce you properly when you join us next year.”
I eye him, not entirely sure how to take this gentle dismissal. But before I can press, he glances at his phone again, and while I know it’s rude, I shift closer to him. “Who texted you?”
“Maisie,” he says grimly, and he tilts his phone to show me. “It’s a 9-9-9 text.”
“A what?” I say, squinting at the screen. Sure enough, Maisie’s texted a simple 999, and despite Kit’s three follow-up messages, she hasn’t responded. “What does that mean?”
“It means there’s an emergency,” says Kit. “Like your American 9-1-1.”
My heart stutters, and suddenly I feel like there’s a block of ice in my stomach. “My mom,” I say tightly. “If Constance did something—”
“You know how Maisie is,” says Kit. “It could be anything. A lost shoe, a bit of friendly gossip she’s blown out of proportion—”
“But she’d be answering you, then, right?” I say, silently willing the car to go faster. “If she hasn’t said anything yet…”
I trail off, and Kit takes my hand, his thumb stroking my skin. But while we don’t speak for the rest of the drive, my imagination more than makes up for our silence, and by the time wefinally arrive at Sandringham House, I’ve already come up with a dozen different scenarios, each more devastating than the last.
A footman opens the door for us, and as Kit and I hurry inside, I notice Paul packing the antique scale into a cushioned crate. He bows his head in greeting, but before he speaks, a torrent of words rushes out of me.
“Is everything okay? Maisie sent Kit a text, and she said something’s wrong, but we don’t know what—”
“Do you know where Princess Mary is, Paul?” says Kit, far more calmly, as he slides my coat from my shoulders.
“Her Royal Highness is in the white drawing room with Their Majesties and their guests,” he says. “Should I let her know you’ve returned?”
I’m already striding across the entrance hall as Kit responds, “That won’t be necessary,” and his footsteps quickly catch up with mine. “Evan, whatever’s going on, it can’t be a true emergency if the staff hasn’t been informed.”
“You don’t understand how bad things can get for my mom,” I say, keeping my voice low as we round the corner. “If Constance or Helene went after her—”
“Where have you been?”
I skid to a stop, nearly plowing directly into my half sister as she paces the width of the corridor. Her face is flushed, her eyes are wild with panic, and she sidesteps me without a single dirty look—which is how I’m suddenly sure this isn’t a false alarm.
“What’s going on?” I say, ignoring her question. “Is my mom okay? What—”
“Your mother?” says Maisie, taken aback. “How on earth would I know? Is she here, too? Has the entire planet been invited and no one’s bothered to tell me?”
Kit takes my hand again. “Evan’s mother is here as Uncle Alexander’s guest. What’s happened? Why weren’t you answering your mobile?”
“Mummy took it,” says my half sister, tugging on a lock of her hair. “She’s upset I missed lunch, or she was, but now—”
“Maisie,”I snap, and for once, she actually shuts up. “Why are we here? What’s—”
A loud and vivacious laugh reverberates from the nearby drawing room, cutting me off. It’s not my mother’s, and it definitely doesn’t sound like anything that could ever come out of Helene’s or Constance’s mouth. But while I don’t recognize it, Kit stiffens.
“Is that…?” He trails off, and Maisie nods. “And did she bring…?”
“Of course she bloody did.”
Kit grits his teeth so hard that a muscle in his jaw jumps. “And Alexander’s fine with it?”
“What do you think?” says Maisie witheringly, and Kit’s scowl deepens. “But she has no idea, and Nicholas isn’t saying a bloody word—”
“Are you two going to speak in code all night, or do I eventually get to find out what’s going on?” I hiss, and both Maisie and Kit focus on me with very real fear in their eyes.
“Our aunt is here,” says Maisie at last. “Former aunt. But she never seems to have received that particular message, because she shows up every bloody year, and—”
“Who?”I press. “Who are you talking about?”
More raucous laughter echoes from the drawing room, and as Maisie and Kit exchange yet another uncertain glance, I huff. Releasing Kit’s hand, I creep toward the doorway until I can peek inside.
“…and so I tell the sheik that of course it doesn’t matter, it’s only a Kokoschka, but he ought to be prepared to lose the Renoir auction, because my astrologer’s assured me that Jupiter will be moving into my second house the day before—the day before!—and there’s simply no way I can lose.”
A blond woman lounges on a velvet sofa with her back to me, wineglass in hand as she gestures wildly. Nicholas perches beside her, though he leans into the armrest, putting as much space between them as possible. Constance sits unsmilingly in a chair nearby, and to my surprise, Alexander and Helene stand together by the fireplace, his expression stony and hers deeply troubled. It’s the first time I’ve seen them go near each other voluntarily in months.
I’m about to pull back and ask who the blond is when she turns enough for me to see her profile, and even though I’ve never met her, I recognize her instantly. She’s beautiful, in an overdone way that makes it clear she’s fighting her real age. And while I never paid much attention to her growing up, it was impossible to miss the onslaught of skin-care ads, tell-alls, and talk show appearances that she still manages to book to this day.
Venetia, Duchess of York.
As everything Kit and Maisie said clicks like pieces of a puzzle I never should’ve solved, I notice that Alexander and Helene aren’t watching Venetia. They’re looking behind her, to the corner of the room I can’t easily see.
Dread fills the pit of my stomach, and I inch forward to reveal the handsome blond boy leaning against the piano, perfectly at home in a room so full of tension that it seems to seep out of the walls. And as my blood turns to ice and my ears fill with static, his gaze shifts, and he looks directly at me.
Ben.