Chapter Nine

"Henrietta, would you say that it is unprecedented for the King to so blatantly flaunt his mistress at a royal family gathering?"

"In modern times, certainly, but historically, royal mistresses were extremely common and typically had a prominent place in the royal household. Anne Boleyn is likely the most famous example, though of course she eventually became the second wife of Henry VIII."

"And lost her head for it, as we all know. What about Wallis Simpson, as a more recent example?"

"As the Prince of Wales, Edward VIII certainly made no secret of his affair with Wallis Spencer—who later became Wallis Simpson—after meeting her in San Diego in 1920. This was before he married Catherine Gable in 1927, however, so he was really the third wheel of her first marriage."

"So it's been more than a century since any king has had a mistress?"

"It's been more than a century since any king was caught with a mistress. There have been whispers—particularly about Alexander I—for decades, but no woman was ever named."

"Until Laura Bright."

"Until Laura Bright, yes. Though while I will admit it does look rather dodgy, with His Majesty himself escorting Ms. Bright to Sandringham, one might speculate that she was joining her daughter, Evangeline, for Christmas, rather than coming as the King's plus-one."

"Is there any evidence that she and His Majesty may be resuming their affair?"

"It's anyone's guess, though to do so in such a public manner would be daring, to say the least. Especially with the Queen and Queen Mother present at Sandringham."

"I expect the royals are in for an awkward Christmas, wouldn't you say?"

"That's certainly putting it mildly."

—ITV News's interview with royal expert Henrietta Smythe, 23 December 2023

BEN IS EVERYWHERE.

I have no idea how he does it, but for the rest of the afternoon, every time I venture into one of the common areas of Sandringham, he's there—lurking in a corner, perched on an out-of-the-way armchair, or seated on the opposite side of the room, rarely part of the conversation, but always watching. And usually watching me.

The rest of the family barely bats an eye, as if they've already forgotten the reason for his apology in the first place. Even Maisie seems to reluctantly accept his presence, though she, at least, never actively acknowledges his existence. Despite her unspoken support, however, the whole situation is so unnerving that once I make sure my mom is still sleeping off her jet lag, Kit and I sneak away to spend the evening on my bedroom sofa, up to our eyeballs in cheesy Christmas movies. I'm not in the right headspace to enjoy them, not with Ben skulking nearby. But Kit gets sniffly every time the inevitable happy ending rolls around, so I don't argue when he suggests yet another. At least one of us is having a good holiday.

Sometime in the middle of our marathon, we fall asleep on the couch together, and I wake in the gray morning light to the sound of indistinct whispers. They're faint at first, as if they're coming from the other side of the wall, but after a groggy moment, I realize they're murmuring my name.

"Evangeline."

"Evangeline."

"Evangeline."

The whispers repeat a dozen times over, each voice slightly different from the last. I must still be dreaming, or maybe this place is haunted, and a prickly sensation runs down my spine as I groan into Kit's chest. "Go away."

"I will do no such thing," says an uppity voice, and I sit up like I really have just heard a ghost.

Maisie stands in the doorway, dressed in what I can only call British country chic—a fitted tweed jacket, tan pants, and brown boots so polished that they look wet. Her hair is braided and wrapped into a stylish-but-casual updo, and I shudder at the thought of what time she must've gotten up to make it all happen.

"You do know it's barely dawn, right?" I mumble as Kit stirs beside me. We're both fully dressed—which includes fluffy robes, bulky sweaters, and fuzzy socks, considering it's about two degrees above freezing in my room—but Maisie's eyebrows shoot up anyway.

"Pardon me for interrupting," she says, a note of amusement in her voice. "Did you not check your itinerary? We leave for the Christmas Eve hunt in thirty minutes."

"I don't kill innocent animals," I say, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

"But you do eat them," she says, and I shrug, too tired todefend my hypocrisy. "It's all for tonight, you know. EdwardIXhad a thing about hunting game for the Christmas Eve feast himself, and it stuck. You don't have to shoot anything," she adds. "The route also offers several lovely views of the estate."

"I can see it just fine from my window." My neck is sore from lying on Kit all night, and I dig my fingers into the offending muscle. "Is everyone else going?"

Maisie sniffs. "Mummy shares your softhearted sentiments, and Venetia's always moaning about her manicure, but as far as I know, everyone else will be joining the hunting party."

"Including Ben?" I say, and her eyes narrow.

"I expect so. He has yet to miss a year."

If I was even remotely tempted to tag along, that immediately quells it. "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not go anywhere near him while he's holding a deadly weapon."

Maisie scoffs. "I loathe Benedict as much as you do, but he wouldn't dare try anything. Not with so many witnesses."

"Still. Accidents happen, and I'd prefer not to give him an opening. You shouldn't, either, you know."

"He wouldn't dare risk giving Daddy a public reason to cut him off," she says, but underneath her dismissiveness, there's a note of fear that she can't hide entirely. "Benedict is nothing without this family, and he knows it. He may be a snake, and I certainly won't be taking him into my confidence anytime soon, but I'm perfectly safe around him. We both are, and I assure you, he'll be on his best behavior."

"Maybe," I mutter, though I don't know who she's trying to convince—me or herself. "His best behavior isn't exactly setting the bar high, you know."

With a sigh that makes it clear I'm the bane of Maisie's existence, she looks at Kit instead. "Will you be joining us this year?"

"?'Fraid not," he says as he sits up beside me. His hair is sticking out in every direction, and he futilely tries to comb his fingers through his wild waves. "I was thinking about giving Evan a tour of the gardens and the walking trails through the woods."

"At least she'll be getting some fresh air," mutters Maisie. "Whether you hunt or not, you're both expected at the Christmas party this evening—we'll be decorating the tree in the white drawing room, followed by a formal dinner and opening gifts. And," she adds pointedly, "the dress code is black-tie."

She eyes the cartoon reindeer on my socks with disdain, and without another word, she turns on her heel and marches out of the room, closing the door behind her.

As soon as she's gone, I lie back down in a huff and wiggle my freezing toes. "It's starting to feel like we're the only people actually trying to avoid Ben."

Kit settles on the sofa with me. "Everyone else is used to him, and it's easier to resume old patterns than establish new ones." He nuzzles my cheek. "Good morning."

"Good morning," I say, relaxing as he wraps his arms around me. "You stayed over."

"I didn't mean to," he says apologetically. "How do you feel?"

This, I know, is him asking more than just how I slept. I turn toward him and, mindful that neither of us brushed our teeth last night, I give him a closed-mouth peck. "I have a crick in my neck," I admit. "Can we please aim for passing out in the bed tonight instead?"

Kit hesitates. "Are you sure? I don't have to stay if you'd rather—"

"I want you to," I say firmly. "You're warm, and if it were any colder in here, it'd be snowing."

He chuckles and holds me a bit tighter. "Very well. I'll be your personal Sandringham space heater, but only because you insist."

Once we untangle ourselves and Kit heads to his own room to get ready, I turn the shower on as hot as it'll go and stand under the scalding water long enough to boil a lobster. By the time I dry off and dress in my warmest sweater, I have some feeling in my fingers again, and I braid my damp hair and head out into the hallway, determined to find something hot for breakfast. Before I can take more than a couple of steps, however, a door across the corridor opens, and Ben appears.

Instantly our eyes meet. He's wearing contacts instead of his typical brown frames, making his stare even more penetrating than usual, and slowly I register the fact that his hunting outfit matches Maisie's.

"Evangeline," he says, and while his tone is as genial as ever, it still turns my blood to ice. "Are you not joining us today?"

"I'm not in the mood to kill things," I say coldly, and he chuckles.

"Pity. I rather think you'd be good at it." He smiles, but there's no real warmth behind it—only a mimicry. "If you'll excuse me."

He starts to walk away, but with a surge of bravery—or, more likely, sheer recklessness and a generous lack of self-preservation—Ifollow, my footsteps matching his.

"I got your flowers," I say, and he slows. "I'd say thank you, but."

"Flowers?" he says innocently. There's a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though, and I know he knows exactly what I'm talking about—the bouquet of blood-red gerbera daisies that accompanied the threatening note he sent to my first public appearance. "I'm afraid they must've been from someone else."

"Must've been," I agree in a tone that makes it clear I'm not the least bit fooled. "Why did you do it?"

"Send flowers?" says Ben. "I thought we just established—"

"Not that. All of it. Jasper, the video—everything that happened this summer. Why?"

Ben stills completely now, almost unnaturally so. "You've asked me that before."

"You didn't answer then, either," I say. "But I think I deserve to know. What is it that made you hate me so damn much that you tried to ruin my life?"

He tilts his head. "I didn't try to ruin your life, Evan. You did that on your own the moment you decided to join this family."

Before I can argue, a creak sounds behind me, and I glance over my shoulder. A member of the security team stands fifteen feet away, his gray suit a stark contrast to the rich velvets and dark woods that decorate the hallway. When I look back at Ben, his shoulders are squared and his posture is stiff as he takes in the sight of the officer.

"The family's expecting me," he says, his gaze once again meeting mine. We stand there for several eternal seconds until at last, with a mocking dip of his head that anyone else might assume is a bow, he turns and continues on his way down the corridor.

I watch him go, his footsteps muffled by the hunter-green carpet, and only once he's turned out of sight do I unclench and exhale. My legs feel like they're made of putty, and I lean against the wall, resting the back of my head on the edge of a gilded frame as I focus on my breathing.

Shit.