Chapter Twenty
I’m here! FRONT ROW at the red carpet!!!!! by the entrance wearing a pink ROYAL REBEL shirt and holding a yellow sign! If I get a selfie I will DIE!!! #brightgomeryforever
“Evangeline!”
Thaddeus’s voice booms through the corridor, twice as loud as anyone else in the castle would dare to be this early in the morning, and he wraps his arms around me in a bear hug like we’re old friends.
In reality, we’ve only met once—at a state dinner last December, though I know he’s been in contact with Maisie frequently.
Obviously, since he’s come all this way to see her.
And, I suspect, thinks she might be interested in dating him.
For once, I have nothing to do with that, considering Maisie was the one who managed to ruin her three-year relationship with one Lady Georgiana Greyville—Gia, the third in the trio that was once her, Maisie, and Rosie.
Given Maisie’s sour mood ever since, I think it’s safe to say she isn’t over the breakup yet.
But Thaddeus either doesn’t know her well enough to recognize the signs, or Maisie’s putting on the performance of a lifetime around him, because his thousand-watt grin could light up all of London.
“Thaddeus?” I say, stunned. “What are you doing here?” I look back and forth between him and Maisie, who’s standing on a platform while a woman with white hair hems her pale blue gown—presumably for the premiere tonight.
My sister must have heard me come in, but she’s staring resolutely in the mirror, as if nothing exists outside of her own reflection.
“Nothing could stop me from missing the premiere,” he says. “Unfortunately I had a charity appearance in Seattle yesterday, so I had to take a red-eye, but that’s what caffeine is for, right?”
“And naps,” says Kit, who steps into the doorway and offers his hand. “Never too old for a good one. We haven’t had the pleasure. I’m Kit.”
“Ah, the boyfriend,” says Thaddeus, and he shoots me a conspiratorial wink as he shakes Kit’s hand. “The pleasure’s all mine. We’re going to be friends, you and I.”
“Seems like we already are,” says Kit easily. “Maisie invited you, then?”
“Yes, I invited him,” snaps my sister, and she holds out her arms for the seamstress to make adjustments to her bodice.
Her collarbone is poking out more than usual, and I notice that padding has been added to her corseted top—something she normally doesn’t need.
“I figured there’s no better time to introduce the world to my boyfriend. ”
If I were drinking something, it’d be all over Maisie’s dress now, despite the fact that she’s several yards away. “Your what?”
“Oh, have you made it official, then?” says Kit, as if this is something he’s been looking forward to. “Brilliant. Gia will be thrilled. She’s coming tonight, too, did you hear?”
This last line is directed toward me, which is a good thing, considering Maisie is slowly turning a shade of red I’ve never seen before. “She is?” I say, barely managing to swallow my surprise and play along. “I can’t wait to see her. Tibby mentioned she’s seeing someone now, too?”
“Mm, one of the actresses in the film,” says Kit. “Odd—isn’t it the one who plays you, Mais?”
If ever there was a moment that my sister’s head might actually explode, this is it. “Lovely,” she mutters through a jaw so tight that I can barely understand her. “I’m sure they’re very happy together.”
“No doubt,” agrees Kit, and he loops his arm around my waist. “By the way, we wanted to let you know that Rosie’s pictures are out.”
This sudden shift in topic seems to take some of the fury out of Maisie’s sails, and her eyes narrow in the mirror. “The pictures…?”
“You know the ones,” he says calmly, handling her with deftness I will never manage. “Just thought you ought to know.”
Maisie’s throat constricts. “Seems like the chickens have finally come home to roost, then,” she says at last. “I hope she enjoys reaping what she’s sown.”
This is such an oddly cold thing to say, even for Maisie, that all I can do is stare at her. Thaddeus also frowns, clearly confused. “Pictures?” he says. “Chickens? I’m lost.”
“Don’t worry about it,” says Kit, clapping him on the shoulder. “We’ll see you tonight, yeah? I’ll be the version of me not on the big screen.”
Thaddeus grins again. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
With the same ease with which he dealt with Maisie, Kit guides me back out the way we came, and only once the door is closed do I manage to find the right words.
“She doesn’t care,” I burst. “She just—doesn’t care.”
“To be fair, they have an entire lifetime of history between them, and Maisie values loyalty above all else,” says Kit. “Something she now thinks Rosie has none of. Give her time. She’ll come around and contact her eventually, but not if we push.”
This is so monumentally unfair that I don’t know what to say, but in reality, what did I expect?
I’m not sure I forgive Rosie yet, or that I ever fully will, especially when she was partially responsible for the fire at Windsor that could have—should have—killed my mother, and almost took Maisie’s life instead.
I can’t blame Maisie for refusing to look past it, especially when she’ll always bear the physical scars.
But the coldness with which she dismissed it all rankles me, and while these two things—all the reasons Rosie doesn’t deserve our sympathy, and all the reasons we should give it to her anyway—can both be true, I don’t know how to reconcile them with each other.
Or the fact that Maisie’s dragging Thaddeus into this mess, too.
“Why do you think Ben posted them today?” I say quietly once we’re far enough away from Maisie’s apartment to guarantee some modicum of privacy.
Kit frowns. “The pictures? I don’t know. Because of the premiere, I suppose.”
“He doesn’t do anything at random, and he wouldn’t wait this long just to waste the timing,” I say. “It has to be because of the premiere. But Rosie isn’t invited. She and Maisie aren’t even speaking.”
“Ben doesn’t know that,” says Kit. “Or at least we don’t think he does. He could be trying to make Maisie look bad, especially if he expects her to be photographed with Rosie.”
“Maybe,” I mumble, but it doesn’t feel strong enough. “Maybe he’s trying to prove he still has power over us. But that’s a really big hand to play for no good reason, especially when he doesn’t have anything else.”
“His carefully laid plans have blown up in his face again and again, and he’s probably getting desperate,” says Kit as he opens our door, which is much closer to Maisie’s and my parents’ apartments than my old suite. “He may be trying to force himself into the narrative and scare us.”
Before I can respond, Tibby looks up from her spot at our dining table, where someone’s laid out three breakfast trays. “There you are,” she says, clearly miffed. “Do you think, today of all days, that you might do me a favor and not run off?”
“Sorry,” I say, even though I’m not. “I had to tell Maisie about the pictures.”
Tibby sighs, but at least she doesn’t admonish me further. Instead, she gestures for Kit and me to sit down in front of our plates, making it clear breakfast is not optional this morning. “Have you decided what you’d like to do about John Phillip Michaels?”
Right. Because the Rosie and Maisie drama isn’t enough of a side quest for today. “Did he say why he wanted to talk to me?”
Tibby shakes her head. “Only that it was important.”
“Everything’s important when you’re stuck in prison,” says Kit testily, and he pours us both cups of tea, adding the perfect amount of milk to mine.
“You don’t owe it to him. You don’t owe him anything at all,” adds Tibby. “His trial is soon—he may just be trying to delay, or to get some press coverage to spout whatever shite he thinks might get him off.”
“Probably. But what if there really is something important?” I counter.
“And he’s just remembered, despite having had half a year to do nothing but think?
” Tibby gives me a look. “Even if he did have important information he’s been holding back, that doesn’t mean you have to respond to him with any urgency.
He’s responsible for the deaths of at least eight people.
He doesn’t get to make demands on his victims.”
I start to reach for my cup, but stop short at that. Is that how Tibby sees me? Sees Kit? As his victims?
“It could be a trap,” says Kit. “Or some sort of mind game.”
Tibby snorts. “I certainly wouldn’t put it past him.”
Neither would I, but it still doesn’t feel right. And as I mull it over, something sparks in my mind. “What if he’s the desperate one?” I say suddenly. “What if…”
My gaze darts to Kit’s, and my heart begins to pound. He holds my stare for a long moment, his lips pursing. “You think he’ll give up Ben,” he says, and it isn’t a question.
“Maybe,” I say, itching to stand up and pace. I’m onto something. I have to be. “He knows that’s why I was in Oxford, and he must know I won’t help him otherwise. If there’s even a chance he’ll offer evidence…” I swallow hard. “Kit. This could be it.”
“I know,” he says softly. And I can tell from the way he averts his eyes that he also knows nothing in the world will stop me from making that trip if there’s even the remotest possibility we’re right.
“Then you can talk to him all you want,” says Tibby, “tomorrow. Today’s all booked up, and if you try to play that royal renegade game with me, I will have a PPO sit on you until it’s time for the premiere.
You cannot miss it, Evangeline. There is simply too much to do before then to fit in a trip to the bloody nick—”
“Okay, all right, fine,” I say, picking up my fork and stabbing a hardboiled egg. “Tomorrow, then. It’ll give me a day to figure out what to say to him.”
“I’ll make the arrangements,” says Tibby, mollified. “Kit? Shall I include you in these plans?”
He’s quiet at first, and I look at him again as he shifts uncomfortably beside me, his gaze locked on the rim of his cup. “Yes,” he says at last. “I’ll go. I have a few things I’d like to say to him, too.”
“About Liam?” I say, and Kit nods, but he still doesn’t look at me. Just like we don’t talk about Ben, we don’t talk about John Phillip Michaels, either.
But maybe this is our chance for closure.
We didn’t get it in Oxford, but maybe confronting John will offer us that sense of finality.
Of a job well done, or at least of a job done.
It’ll show us that this wasn’t all for nothing, and that has to be worth the anticipation of facing him one last time before we do our best to forget he ever existed.
Even if we risk causing yet another wound between us, one that might never heal completely.