I calculate the time in my head. “That’s a week away.”
“Yes. And a week from then, I will name my official heir.”
I shift my weight in the chair and it creaks. I abandon all attempts to sit comfortably. “Why now?”
“You know why,” she says impatiently. For a moment, she is not the queen. She is my aunt, quizzing me after my lessons.
Of course I know why. She is forty-five, and pregnant for the first time, with triplets. As healthy as she is, with the best medical care in the world, it’s still considered a high risk pregnancy. As soon as the news breaks, the whole country will be wondering whether their queen will survive.
“I know why,” I say. “But you haven’t officially secured succession all these years. To do so now would be—”
“A vote of no confidence?” Her voice is drier than the Sahara. “In the face of my own mortality, it doesn’t matter. We are Lyonnesse. We do our duty.”
I straighten. She’s right. The Lyonnesse line has done their duty, ruling for five hundred years.
The window’s light halos her as she turns to face me. “If something happens to me before…” she takes a deep breath, “before the birth, the country will need a steady hand. As the eldest son of my deceased sister, you stand in line for the throne.”
I tilt my chin. I am aware. We’ve had many conversations to this effect, in this very room.
“I have not formally acknowledged you as heir, for reasons you know. The public has accepted this, but in light of the news of my pregnancy, they will expect a formal announcement. And I will make it. A week after Midsummer.”
I swallow. “I would be honored to serve—”
“It will be either you, or your brother.”
I sag back in the chair like I’ve been struck. “My brother?” My usual reserve is gone as I reel from the shock.
“Indeed.” The queen is watching me with something like pity in her brown eyes.
“But why?” I’ve been groomed for this moment since my mother died. I’ve gone to the best schools, gotten the best grades, worked the best internships. I endured years of thankless work, interning at each Ministry before accepting my dream job at the Ministry of Finance. There isn’t a junior government official who doesn’t know me by sight, if not by name, and not because I appear regularly in the tabloids. I do not.
Unlike my brother.
“My career and service have been exemplary.” Understatement. I didn’t just accept success as my due, I worked for it. I never partied, never caused a scandal, never stepped one toe out of line. I’ve been perfect.
“I know. If it were entirely up to me…” My aunt doesn’t shrug—queens don’t shrug—but her jaw tightens as if she’s holding back what she really wants to say.
“Isn’t it? Up to you?”
The queen doesn’t answer my question. I knew my enemies wanted to get their hooks into her, but I had no idea they had succeeded. “Benedict, there’s a very high chance it will be you. But you can’t afford any mistakes. Not now. Not with everyone watching.”
“But Franz—”
“Your brother is wild, to be sure.”
“Wild?” Another understatement. “He organized a regatta down the Regin river, on the night of your Silver Jubilee. All his crew friends in their fathers’ yachts.”
The queen closes her eyes, her lips pressed together. “I remember.”
“It caught fire. And that wasn’t even one of his more destructive parties.”
“He’s straightened up since then. His military superiors report he’s taken to discipline.”
“And every time he goes on leave, he ends up in the tabloids.” I snort.
“You know how they are.”
They being the press. The paparazzi. Hungry, vicious sharks. “Yes, I do. And I may have a certain strike against me, but Franz is a complete wastrel.”
“The strike in question, dear nephew, isn’t a small matter. If it got out, it would be the scandal that would eclipse all other scandals.” The queen settles into a chair closer to me. In a rare gesture, she covers my hand with hers. “We’ve worked hard to come to this day.”
“I am ready to serve.”
“I know. And I will do everything in my power to be sure it will be you.”
“Is there anything I can do?” I haven’t done everything perfectly, only to have it all snatched away now.
My aunt purses her lips. This is what she’s been unhappy about. “Yes. There is one matter.” She nods to the second folder on the table before her.
I lean in and take it, opening it to reveal half-blurred photos. Not ultrasounds, not this time. These pictures are of me and a woman.
A naked woman.
Few details are clear—the photo was taken from far away, from a building opposite the hotel room. But one shot perfectly captures my face, and the fact that I’m holding a brunette. She’s naked and pressed against me.
“The press forwarded these to my office before dawn. I called you here early to warn you.”
I suck in a breath. “I can explain—”
The queen waves a hand. “I know you abhor the limelight. As much as your mother thrived in it. I, too, have shunned it. It is what a good ruler does.”
My stomach is roiling, but I maintain a level tone. “Can you stop these photos from running?”
“It’s too late. The first printing is already done. I’m sure it’s hit the streets by now.” The queen shudders delicately. “I can only imagine what they’re speculating. And Benedict,” she gives me her gimlet stare, “we can’t afford for them to speculate.”
“I know,” I murmur. “I know.” Everything I’ve worked for. Everything I’ve fought to rise above. One instance, one accident of fate, and it’s all ruined. Everything.
I realize I’m gripping the edge of one photo too hard, and force my fingers to straighten. I place the pictures back in the folder, refusing to crumple them like I want to. “I’ll fix it.”
The queen’s shoulders relax the slightest bit. She’s worried. The pregnancy, the threat of scandal, crowning a new leader the people can trust—each is an added layer of stress. I can’t do anything about the first, but I can shoulder the rest.
“I’ll fix it,” I repeat. A Lyonnesse does his duty.
The queen gives a regal nod. “See that you do.”
“It was an accident,” I tell Daniel, head of my PR team, as I stride out of the palace with my phone pressed to my ear.
“Of course it was. The Duke of New Arcadia, caught with a lady of the night? It’s not your MO.”
I duck into my waiting car and direct my driver to take me home. Then I roll up the privacy window so I can speak freely.
“She wasn’t a lady of the night.” I grit my teeth before I admit the next part. “She was Wyndam Bennett.”
“Winnie Bennett?” Daniel chokes. “Heir to the Bennett Hotel chain? Reality TV star and B movie actress?”
I force my jaw to unclench. “The same. I didn’t know she was in a movie.”