Chapter 4 All the Fuckery
ALL THE FUCKERY
ELOISE
We arrived at the palace gate and presented our documentation.
The guard played twenty questions with us.
I was sure we were about to face another tribunal at the next step.
To my surprise, we did not. Instead, guards pulled us through a back entrance where a man in a black suit waited.
After a ride on a service elevator, and a parade through an endless maze of hallways, we arrived before two large, white doors.
I assumed we would soon see Prince Duncan. I expected him to be attractive, but an asshole. In my mind, I saw him as an angry, defensive prick. What I found was unexpected.
The doors opened and we were introduced.
“Your Majesty, Your Royal Highnesses, and Lady Ferguson, Mrs.. Abigail Forrest and Miss Eloise Mills,” the man called.
I wasn't sure what to do. I stared at Her Majesty, her husband, and her son. I was unfamiliar with the other woman. I followed Abi's lead, bowing. Finally, my days toiling miserably at finishing school paid off. The Queen invited us for tea, which we took advantage of.
As the blonde, the Duchess of Lauderdale, introduced us, I took in the full display of the opulent room. It smelled of cinnamon. Despite everyone’s visible discomfort, the roaring fire seemed a nice distraction.
And was that... a baby? I observed the Prince bopping an infant on his knee. In her chubby fist, the baby held a tea biscuit. She smiled at me gleefully. Who the hell was this baby?
“Oh, ignore her,” the Duchess said. “This is my godchild. Her one mother is working on a project while the other is recovering from a movie shoot and remains overrun with older siblings.”
“My great niece,” the Queen said.
That was Leah Roughy's child? Leah was a bonafide star and by all tabloid accounts, the Queen's favorite niece.
While I took it in, I noted the Prince’s silence. He'd been solely focused on his charge. Perhaps he appreciated the distraction, but I saw this as a savvy strategy to project that he was a nice guy who was wronged.
“Would you like some coffee?” The Queen asked.
“No, I am quite fine,” Abi answered.
An awkward pause descended as someone cleared their throat. It took me a moment to realize Her Majesty awaited my response. I looked to Abi, concerned she was just being polite.
“She will always take coffee!” Abi laughed. “She’s American.”
I blushed and nodded.
“Well, go on. I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t mean it. I do not mince words.” She said, “Duncan, go help Miss Mills. Show her where everything is.”
He peered at his mother, confused. I supposed a footman could have directed me. They lurked in every shadow. This was a punishment.
“Fine,” Duncan sighed. “This way, Miss Mills.”
I followed him to a buffet laid out in back of the room. As he balanced the baby on one hip, he pointed out the assemblage of biscuits, pastries, and accompaniments. Everything was placed with great precision and held in or on a fabulous silver dish or plate.
As they talked, he whispered, “Just grab whatever. It’s not some sort of test.”
“A test?”
He chuckled. “Of manners or fit or what have you. As you’re American—like my grandmother and like Lady Ferguson—you will get an instant pass.”
I set my jaw as he handed the child a biscuit.
“Oh, what, would you rather be put through the wringer as a newbie. I, personally, don’t trust outsiders, but we are apparently so desperate you’re being thrown headfirst into the fire, love. Be grateful you have a bit of plot armor.”
“It is Miss Mills.” I dumped cream first, then poured from the silver coffee carafe.
“What?”
“Don’t call me love,” I corrected. “Your Royal Highness, it is Miss Mills.”
He looked surprised at the correction, but a cheeky grin crossed his face. His eyes didn’t leave mine as he took another biscuit from the buffet.
“Thank you, I’m fine, sir,” I lifted the saucer beneath my teacup.
I left, uneasy as his eyes followed.
“Yes, Miss Mills.” Duncan waited for me to pass.
I returned to my seat, startled by the feeling that his eyes never quite left me.
“So, what is the strategy?” the Queen asked, shaking me out of the odd encounter.
“Well, I spoke with the Duchess early this morning,” Abi began.
“And it seems our best approach is to isolate Prince Duncan so we can control the narrative. Go back to basics. Identify the strengths where he shines in the media and exploit them. Now, I have a few ideas based on what I know. I pulled some recent data.”
Abi circulated two pieces of paper. The fact that Abi gathered opinion data while sitting at an OB appointment was unsurprising. She loved numbers. We both did.
“So, as you can see...”
The baby threw the paper down. The Queen returned it to her son.
“Thanks, Mum,” Duncan finally spoke. “You need to calm down, Vanna. Let the adults read. You'll get it someday.”
He doted. At least the man could act.
“Go on, Mrs.. Forrest,” Her Majesty said.
“Yes, of course. About to have one of my own. Distracting in the best way. Yes. So, The Prince of Wales is well-liked among young women between the ages of 16 and 40.”
“Good,” The Queen said. “Unsurprising.”
Abi continued, “From a short survey of social media, the greatest engagement on the Kensington Palace social channels came with posts about military service, visiting veterans, playing with animals, and greeting children. He is far more beloved when he makes it to the countryside.”
“Kissing babies and playing with horses,” Prince Duncan joked awkwardly.
I got terrible secondary embarrassment, aware this was awkward for him.
I adjusted in my seat and recrossed my legs at the ankle.
He looked over at me. He should have been contrite, but couldn’t stop making jokes.
Did he think laughing it off with a baby in his lap lessened the harm of verbal abusing his girlfriend?
“So, move him out to the country?” the Queen’s husband, the Duke of Edinburgh, asked.
“One would assume that is best, yes, Your Royal Highness.”
“Let's list some places, Lucy. Some possibilities,” the Queen detailed.
The Duchess nodded.
“You can't just ship me off like I'm avoiding the blitz!”
“You are quite literally evading the blitz,” the Duke said.
While her husband whipped up in anger, The Queen remained subdued.
I wondered if that was because she was apathetic or because she was so disappointed.
I suspected the latter. I'd never known the Prince Consort to shout.
The media made him out to be such a sweetheart—Britain's father and Her Majesty’s constant companion.
The Queen said, “Be grateful we can hopefully get you out of this.”
“I will... try to keep an open mind then,” Duncan said flatly.
Yep. He was fit to be tied. And he had no choice to go along. I suspected, however, the Prince would not go quietly into the night. He would be an exhausting “adventure” of a client—the type that kept me up at night and made me pull my hair out.