Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Here we are, Henrietta, yet again talking about the newest explosive story to come out of—well, Buckingham Palace this time, isn’t it?”
“The palace has issued no official statement regarding Prince Benedict’s interview this morning with ITV News, nor can we expect them to address it at all, considering the heinousness of His Royal Highness’s claims.”
“Does that mean you don’t believe Prince Benedict when he claims that…
well, I suppose we have to say it, though we ask you all to keep in mind that we are merely restating the prince’s alleged accusations to pass along the information to you, our viewers, rather than to perpetuate any sordid tales that would not bear repeating, should they have come from any lesser source. ”
“A disclaimer if I’ve ever heard one.”
“Yes, I’m sure the lawyers have been working on it all day.
Here it is, then: In case you’ve missed it, the third in line to the throne, Prince Benedict of York, has come out with an extravagant claim that his cousin, Princess Mary, heir to the throne, is in fact his half sister through his father, the Duke of York.
And considering that Queen Helene has already admitted to an affair with her former husband’s brother… ”
“It’s like something out of a soap opera, isn’t it?”
“Straight out of EastEnders, Henrietta.”
“Yes, well, we must keep in mind that Prince Benedict himself was an infant when this affair supposedly occurred and is therefore making these claims from secondhand knowledge, if that, as there’s simply no way he could remember any of these events himself.
And while of course we must always consider the slight possibility that such a scandal is true, it’s highly, highly unlikely, given this is a revered institution, not a Hollywood movie. ”
“But that doesn’t change the fact that this revered institution is made up of flawed human beings who have already admitted to having a stormy and extremely complicated relationship among themselves during those years and beyond.”
“Indeed. But to fathom the thought that they would allow something like this to happen, in a time of DNA testing and when Alexander himself already wished to abdicate…I have a hard time believing that he would abandon the love of his life, Laura Bright, who was already pregnant with his child, to remain married to a woman who was not only allegedly having an affair with his brother, but who also carried his brother’s child and was trying to pass the baby off as the heir to the throne. It’s absurd.”
“And if they didn’t know?”
“The date on the alleged DNA test posted online that claims to confirm Princess Mary is the Duke of York’s child was supposedly taken while Her Majesty was in her first trimester, before the pregnancy was even announced to the public.
So, should all this be true—which is deeply unlikely even under the most forgiving of circumstances—His Majesty would have, in fact, walked away from his own biological child with Laura Bright to remain King and pretend to be a father to his own brother’s daughter.
It’s completely illogical, especially for someone who claimed he didn’t want the crown. None of it adds up.”
“Or perhaps His Majesty was part of a solution that protected his niece, brother, wife, and the royal institution itself from unnecessary humiliation.”
“Throughout history, we’ve seen plenty of examples of what the monarchy is willing to do to protect its image, and had this truly been any sort of scandal in the making, this would have been properly taken care of long before it ever became a problem.”
—ITV News’s interview with Henrietta Smythe, 19 September 2024
It takes Alexander, Singh, and half the palace’s lawyers two days to put the plan into place.
The whole production is actually impressive, considering every royal and legal precedent they’re working around, but I stay out of it beyond my singular contribution at the meeting, content to hear general updates from Tibby and leave it at that.
Kit and I focus on expanding my—and eventually our—patronages instead, both of us determined to act like the monarchy isn’t one wrong move from falling apart.
Maisie tries to visit seven times in those two days, but I ignore her pleas, leaving Kit to turn her away.
He does so again and again without asking why, but the question grows heavier between us until it threatens to break something, and I know we’re on thin ice.
“Was the DNA test her idea?” asks Kit during lunch on the second day, minutes after he’s turned her away again.
“Maisie’s?” I say casually, stirring chunks of grilled cheese sandwich straight into my tomato soup.
“Yes, Maisie’s,” says Kit, ignoring his own bowl. “You don’t want to give her your DNA, do you?”
I check the clock. 12:19. Forty-one minutes to go. “It’s a long story. I’ll do it if it comes to it. If…if all this doesn’t work.”
“If it doesn’t, then no one’s going to force you,” he says protectively. “You’re worth more to this family than backup DNA and an easy way out, Ev.”
“Tell that to Maisie and Helene,” I mumble. A DNA test that proves Ben wrong is an easy out, or at least an easy way to turn down the temperature on the roaring hell that has become Maisie’s life. And it’s only a matter of time before Maisie isn’t the only one knocking on my door.
But I don’t owe her a damn thing. I can give her my blood if I want to, if it comes to it, but the bond between us will never be the same.
I’ll never be able to trust her again, and I will always question her motives and whether she even wants to be family at all.
That, more than the poison, more than Maisie bringing up the DNA test in the meeting, is what hurts the most.
“It’ll work, right?” I say, even though Kit’s already reassured me a dozen times.
“It’ll work,” he says, his voice low and certain. “It’s about bloody time the palace lawyers earn their keep, and they won’t let an opportunity like this slip through their fingers.”
Except it’s not up to them, and that’s the most terrifying part of all. None of us can do a damn thing about this except wait, and I’m crawling out of my skin as the clock ticks closer and closer to one o’clock.
The door bursts open without warning, and Tibby hurries into our sitting room. “Evan, I hope you’re wearing something appropri—” She stops mid-sentence and sighs, taking in my Reignwolf T-shirt and hot-pink leggings. “I suppose that’ll have to do. Find a jumper and let’s go.”
“Go?” I say, my heart crashing into my ribs. “Where?”
“Buckingham Palace,” she says, already rushing to the bedroom to pick out a sweater for me, her heels clicking against the floor faster than my pulse. “We’ve been summoned, and we’re late.”
—
Out of all the places I expected to go today—which was nowhere, admittedly—outside my father’s Buckingham Palace office was the very last I would’ve guessed.
A pair of PPOs stand on either side of the doors, neither looking at me or Tibby as we approach at a swift pace. Between them stands Jenkins, his spine so straight and stiff that it looks painful, and that’s how I know this is serious.
“Evan.” Jenkins’s strained expression softens slightly when he sees me, and for a moment, I almost forget about the tension between us that’s lingered for the past eight months—tension I’d very much like to get rid of, even if Jenkins has made damn sure we’re never alone long enough to talk it out. “You made it.”
“Of course we made it,” says Tibby, flustered. “You didn’t give us much time.”
“I gave you as much as I had to give,” says Jenkins, and Tibby narrows her eyes. “They’re inside, Evan, and they should be finishing up soon.”
“Inside…?” I glance at the crack between the office doors. “You want me to go in? Right now?”
“His Majesty requested you specifically,” says Jenkins.
“Who else is in there?” I say, lowering my voice. Helene and Nicholas, surely. Maybe even Maisie.
“Just the three of them,” he says. “His Majesty requested that everyone else, myself and the PPOs included, step out until the matter is settled.”
My heart isn’t hammering anymore. It’s down in my stomach, sitting like a lump of ice, waiting for something to restart it. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t want to be here. But Jenkins knocks without asking for my opinion, and when I hear my father’s faint call in return, he opens the door.
“Evangeline, sir,” says Jenkins. And taking a gulp of stale palace air, I step inside the massive office that houses a single mahogany desk, where three people are gathered.
“There you are.” My father sits with regal authority in his chair facing the door, and I can see his tight smile from forty feet away. “I’m glad you made it.”
His guest—a blond woman I never wanted to see again—spins around in her seat, and instantly I’m nauseated. “You invited her?”
“Hello to you, too, Venetia,” I mutter, taking a few ginger steps toward them.
Singh, who stands at my father’s side wearing a navy suit and a stone-cold expression, offers me the slightest of nods.
I return the gesture as my stomach does cartwheels, threatening to expel the soup I never got to finish.
“I invited Evangeline here today in case you had any questions or…hesitations, shall we say?” says Alexander, refocusing on Venetia. What little warmth he greeted me with is gone, and he’s every bit as cold as Singh.
Venetia shakes her head almost violently, and now that I’m closer, I can see how red and puffy her eyes are. Her mascara must be waterproof, though, because it’s still holding on for dear life. “This is blackmail. Retribution for telling the truth. Everything here is circumstantial—”
“Some, yes,” agrees Alexander. “But not all of it. And certainly not the worst of it.”
I slowly move behind the desk, giving Venetia a wide berth as her lower lip starts to tremble. “My Ben never did any of this. He was with me the whole time—”