Chapter Seventeen

@duchessvofyork My heart goes out to Her Majesty and HisRoyal Highness the Duke of York for this abhorrent invasion of their privacy. Happiness shouldn't have to be sacrificed in the name of crowns and thrones, and they have my deepest sympathy.

12:52 a.m. · 5 January 2024

@yorkiesfurever @duchessvofyork Does that mean it's really true? I'm so sad. I always thought you two made such a lovely couple and hoped you'd get back together.

12:55 a.m. · 5 January 2024

@dutchessdame172 @duchessvofyork did you know?? how long have they been together? and with her husband's brOTHER??? #ew #twotimingqueen #offwithherhead

12:59 a.m. · 5 January 2024

@mrshrhnickofyork @dutchessdame172 Can't you read? Those photos are revolting, and the Duchess is right. Even if they aren't photoshopped and the Queen and Duke are sneaking around behind His Majesty's back, maybe we should all be asking ourselves why.

1:05 a.m. · 5 January 2024

—Twitter exchange between Venetia, Duchess of York, and users @yorkiesfurever, @dutchessdame172, and @mrshrhnickofyork, 5 January 2024

#OFFWITHHERHEAD TRENDS FOR A FULL week after the pictures are released.

I think it starts as a joke, but soon enough, a terrifying number of people are taking it much too seriously, and death threats—real, actual death threats against Helene and Nicholas—flood in. Each morning at breakfast, Jenkins briefs Alexander on the worst of them, and they grimly discuss the measures both the police and palace security are taking to ensure none of those threats turns into bloodshed.

In light of the scandal, Alexander cancels all royal appearances in hopes that the furor will die down, but it quickly becomes apparent that this isn't going away anytime soon. Helene and Nicholas retreat to Kensington Palace, where they remain for the week as a specialized crisis management team works overtime to quell the uproar, and Maisie joins her mother during the day to offer her support. I'm not surprised—if our positions were reversed, I wouldn't leave my mom's side. But I still check on my sister every night when she returns to Windsor Castle, if only to make sure she hasn't gone to pieces again.

By that Monday, four days after the photos are released, seemingly every royal correspondent in the UK has dived headfirst into the mess. Some insist it can't be true, while others write exposés about the whispers they've heard and the moments they've witnessed between the royal pair that gave them pause. Helene's die-hard fans spend countless hours online defending her, refusing to believe the pictures aren't photoshopped, but others gleefully jump to the conclusions those images offer, delighted to watch her downfall in real time. Every known photo of Helene and Nicholas is unearthed and dissected, and every glance they've ever exchanged in public suddenly becomes a conniving—or occasionally lovelorn—look between two people pulling a fast one on the entire world.

The promised press release from Buckingham Palace is simple and to the point, with no wordsmithery to manipulate the facts: Alexander and Helene have been separated since early July, and though my father deeply regrets the pain he's caused his wife of twenty years, he wishes her and Nicholas well in their new relationship. Most of the commenters and posters seem to take his statement at face value, but there's more than one corner of the internet that doesn't believe a word of it, and the rage against Helene only grows.

Amidst the chaos of the monarchy all but burning down around us, I start both physical therapy and, even though I'm nowhere near fully healed, self-defense lessons with Ingrid, my protection officer. She's careful with me, despite her gruff demeanor, and Kit is a ready and willing participant when she needs to demonstrate something she can't yet do on me.

"Oof,"he grunts as he hits the mat that's been laid out in the green drawing room, his hair fanned out in a wild tangle. "That one hurt."

"That's the idea, Lord Clarence," says Ingrid without the faintest hint of apology, and she offers him a hand up.

"Just Kit, if you would," he says as he takes it, and she hauls him to his feet.

"I'm afraid that's against protocol, sir," she says, and he winces again.

"Considering you've been throwing me to the ground for the past twenty minutes, perhaps we can consider ourselves above protocol. Just for the time being."

Ingrid makes a noncommittal sound in the back of her throat, and when she turns away, I see Kit's expression grow pained. His courtesy title, Earl of Clarence, is only his because his older brother died, and even though I never met Liam Abbott-Montgomery, I know without a doubt that Kit would give up every penny of his inheritance—titles and estates and future dukedom included—if it meant having him back.

"Call him Kit," I say suddenly. It's as close to an order as I've ever given, and he looks at me, surprised. "Or else I'll tell His Majesty that you call me Evangeline."

Ingrid raises an eyebrow, and I think I see a hint of amusement on her somber face. It's hard to tell, though, considering I'm pretty sure she hasn't smiled since she was in diapers. "If you insist, Miss Bright."

"I do," I say, amazed that this actually worked—and admittedly a little worried that Maisie is rubbing off on me. "Thank you."

The rest of our lesson goes off without a hitch, and though Ingrid slips up once or twice, she corrects herself immediately. She does seem to throw Kit a little harder than before, though, and by the time our session is over, I notice he's favoring his right side.

As soon as we return to my sitting room, I request an ice pack from the kitchens, and we spend the rest of the afternoon on my sofa together, lamenting Ingrid's unyielding toughness and fantasizing about the day I'm strong enough to throw her. Eventually Kit's phone buzzes, and as he checks it, his head resting in my lap and the warm ice pack discarded on the side table, I reach for my own. To my mild astonishment, I have no messages from Maisie, but there's a notification about a new post on the Regal Record. And as I read it, I swear under my breath.

"Everything all right?" says Kit, and I shake my head.

"The Regal Record's reporting that Helene and Nicholas are living together at Kensington Palace," I say. "How do they know? How could they possibly know?"

"Someone trusted the wrong person," says Kit simply, and I grumble.

"Maybe Ben's still feeding the Regal Record information."

"It's possible," he allows. "Though as far as I know, Ben hasn't been anywhere near Kensington Palace in ages."

"He's in Florence with Venetia," I say, and Kit doesn't seem surprised I know this. "Nicholas probably told him."

"Son or not, you'd think he'd know better by now," says Kit, though his gaze is focused on his own screen again, and we lapse into silence.

As I scroll through the latest posts, a thought occurs to me. "I bet we could figure out who runs the site."

"The Regal Record?" says Kit, his thumbs typing furiously. "You know all about that computer stuff, don't you?"

"A little, but not enough to get around any privacy protection." I pause and glance at him. His frown is deeper now, but it's directed toward his phone, not me. "What about Aoife?"

Instantly he stills, and his brown eyes meet mine. "What about her?"

"She's studying computer science, isn't she? She might have some ideas."

Kit watches me for the space of several heartbeats, and I can practically see his mind turning this over. "You…want me to ask?" he says slowly, and I shrug.

"It's probably easier if you give me her number. If that's all right," I add, because based on his scowl, it isn't. But the moment I say this, he seems to realize his face is telling its own story, and it relaxes into a neutral expression.

"Er, yeah," he allows. "I'll text it to you. Just…" He hesitates. "She hasn't been vetted. By the palace, I mean. Whatever you say to her might end up in the papers, so be careful, all right?"

Now it's my turn to frown. "I thought she was your friend. Your good friend, according to her."

"More of an acquaintance," he mumbles. "We wouldn't know each other if it weren't for Dylan, and I'm not particularly chummy with him, either. We just go out to the pub together sometimes."

"Oh." This is at odds with the conversation they had in the gift shop near Sandringham, and I sift through the memory, trying to decide whether I'm imagining things. I don't think I am, but I also know the royal family and those connected to it are the evergreen targets of social climbers and sycophants. And Kit, who's a tabloid staple now because of me, is no exception.

"Just…promise me you won't trust her, yeah?" says Kit. "Not completely. That's all I mean."

"Okay," I say. "I'll be careful. I promise."

I watch as he types into his mobile, and a moment later, mine dings with her number. I add it to my contacts, but instead of messaging her, I set my phone aside and study him. He stares unseeingly at the ceiling now, and though he hasn't moved from my lap, I can sense a strange distance between us that wasn't there a minute ago.

"Are you okay?" I say at last. His gaze drifts to me, coming into focus as the faint furrow reappears between his eyebrows.

"Of course. I might be a bit sore in the morning, but it's nothing I can't handle."

"That's not what I mean," I say, running my fingers through his waves. "Something's been off for a while."

"We did both get shot," he points out, and I automatically glance at the pinkening scar on his bicep, visible now that he's wearing a T-shirt.

"You know it's more than that," I say quietly. "Something's going on, and I think it started before the attack. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," I add. "But if you do, I'm here to listen."

A moment passes, and then another, and part of me is sure he won't say anything. But then he lets out a weighty sigh, and his hand finds mine.

"I've been thinking about Liam a lot lately," he admits as he laces our fingers together. "When I went home over the summer to see my parents, my mother told me she'd kept a box of his things hidden from my father in the attic. I was looking through them, and…" He exhales again. "I don't know. I was hoping they'd offer answers. About why he did it, about…about who he was as a person toward the end. I didn't see him much in those last few years," he adds. "With him at Oxford and me at Eton. I just wanted some insight, I suppose. Some closure."

"Did you find it?" I say, and he hesitates.

"No. Not yet. But I've been doing more research about his time at university now that I'm there, too. His professors remember him. He was part of certain social groups and clubs, and…well, it's almost like following a ghost. Everywhere I go, a part of him is there."

I rest our joined hands on his chest, directly above his heart. It's racing, and I don't fully understand why. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He smiles, but it's weary. "Maybe there were never any answers to be found. But I do have to try."

"When I start in October, I'll help you," I offer. "If you're still looking, I mean."

He draws my hand to his lips and kisses it. "I'd like nothing more."

We fall asleep early that night, and it's a damn good thing, too, because there's a tap on my door well before the sun rises. Though the knock isn't loud, it sends a jolt through me, pulling me from my dreams so quickly that I'm dizzy, and I mumble a curse as Lady Tabitha Finch-Parker-Covington-Boyle strides into the room.

"Good morn—"

As light floods the room, she stops dead in her high-heeled tracks, her eyebrows climbing nearly to her hairline.

"Well, then," she says, and it takes me a beat to realize what's grabbed her attention.

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Tibby," I grumble as Kit shifts beside me, rubbing his eyes in the unexpected light. "What are you doing here?"

"What your father pays me to do," she says, and she resumes her stroll to my armoire, where she starts to rifle through a selection of designer dresses. "Doesn't your new term start in a few days, Kit?"

"I'll be there when it does," he says, his voice thick with sleep. "Does she always wake you up like this?"

"Every morning except Sundays," I mutter.

"I feel like I understand so much more about your relationship now," he says, and he gives me a quick peck. "I'll see you at breakfast."

Both Tibby and I watch as he rolls out of bed in his flannel pajamas, and once he's pulled on a robe and left my apartment, I turn the full force of my glare onto my smug private secretary.

"It's not a big deal," I say, and she hums in agreement.

"If anything, it's about bloody time. I expect the precautions I included in your luggage to Sandringham were put to good use, then?" she adds, and I flush.

"That's definitely none of your business."

"Everything you do is my business, Evan. It's my job to know the details, so I can help keep your private life private and prevent any sordid affairs from becoming public knowledge."

"Yeah? Then Helene probably needs you more than me right now."

"Mm. The staff at Kensington Palace is going through a rather brutal restructuring at the moment, but you're a far better long-term prospect. Speaking of," she adds as she pulls a burgundy coatdress from my closet, "His Majesty has decided to go ahead with your and Maisie's scheduled joint appearance today at the Royal London Children's Hospital."

"Really?" I say, still trying to digest the compliment I think is in there. "I thought everything was canceled."

"Yes, well, it seems the monarchy is currently in desperate need of good press, and Doyle believes that you and Maisie are the best bet. She's universally adored, and you provide…well, a distraction, shall we say?"

I narrow my eyes. "Is this about the hunting accident?"

"If you'd like to call it that. The public will no doubt be relieved to see you whole and well. You are whole and well, yes?" she says with something that sounds suspiciously like concern, and she studies me more intently now.

"I probably won't be able to wear strapless or low-cut dresses anymore," I say, pulling aside the collar of my shirt to show her the healing scar. "But that's Louis's problem."

As Tibby takes in the sight of the bullet wound, her throat contracts. "I see," she says quietly. "I was led to believe it was a shoulder injury, but that is…very close to…"

"Missed by a couple inches," I say, straightening my shirt. "The bullet nicked an artery, so there was a lot of blood, but itdidn't hit anything else important. I keep asking if I can haveitas a souvenir, but Jenkins ignores me every time I bring it up."

"I will see what I can do," says Tibby a bit shakily, and it might be the lack of sunlight, but her face has a slightly gray cast to it now. "In the meantime, it would be good for…for the people to see that you're all right."

"And you think the best way to do that is to send me to a hospital?" I say, and she sniffs.

"I didn't arrange it. Fitz did, ages ago, and I'll happily let him take the blame for any perceived blunder."

I finally climb out of bed and carefully start one of the morning stretches my physical therapist recommended. "This isn't going to steal headlines away from Helene, you know."

"Darling," says Tibby in a dry tone that's much more her usual style, "you and Maisie could walk into the middle of Piccadilly Circus and stab someone, and it still wouldn't steal headlines from Helene right now. But Doyle's desperate."

"Clearly," I say. "And you never know—maybe he'll get lucky, and whoever shot me will try again. That would probably make a few front pages."

As Tibby goes ashen once more, my phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I glance at the screen. This early, I shouldn't have any messages, but there's a single text from an unknown number I don't recognize. And as I open up the conversation, my finger already hovering over the delete icon, I freeze, and every single cell in my body goes cold.

Good luck in London today. I'll be watching.