His Royal Favorite (12 page)

There, wrapped in Ben’s fiercest desire, was the threat: sugared and deadly, like some poisoned sweet in an Agatha Christie tale.

“We should talk,” Ben said.

“My thoughts exactly. Is it impossible for us to see each other?”

“Not now. Give me your phone number. When I have a moment—”

“Of course,” Warner murmured, the note in his voice low and familiar. It reminded Ben of long-ago days, of afternoons spent in Warner’s bed, learning how to give Warner everything he wanted. Even the telephone number sounded like an obscene invitation. Ben jotted it down, but his hand seemed to be moving automatically, bypassing his confused brain.

Ben managed to say, “I’ll call you.”

“I’ll be waiting. I do miss you every once in a while, my boy.” The phone line clicked and went dead, denying Ben even the possibility of a response.

Then he could only sit there, staring down at the numbers. Ben remembered Kimberley’s instructions: Hand Warner over for destruction. He also remembered James’s offer: whatever money it would take to silence him.

But what did Ben want?

After a few moments, he folded the paper and tucked it in his pocket. He’d think about it later.

***

When Ben arrived back at Clarence House, he expected to find James waiting for him; this was a day when his royal duties would have him home fairly early. Everything within him fought against telling James about Warner’s call, which was why Ben was leaning toward doing it right away, before second thoughts could take over.

As he walked in, he could hear thumping from the kitchen and the unmistakable smell of lasagna cooking in the oven: James was indeed here. But someone else sat cross-legged on the sofa with a corgi in her lap. Taken aback by the unwelcome surprise, he needed a moment to recognize the figure with her hair in messy pigtails, wearing a Wonder Woman T-shirt. He said, “Princess Amelia.”

“You may call me Amelia,” said Indigo, who apparently hadn’t chosen to share her nickname with him just yet. Despite her casual appearance, she was speaking to him quite formally . . . and, he realized, carefully. “May I call you Ben?”

“Please do.”

At that moment James hastened in, a glass of red wine in one hand and hair mussed. To judge by the tomato-stained apron he wore around his waist, James was entertaining himself by cooking their dinner personally. “Ben, hello. Indigo’s come to see us—but you’re already talking, aren’t you? You know, Indigo, Ben and I met in Kenya. You were so interested in hearing about Africa. You two should chat about it!”

James was trying so hard to help that he was making the situation even more awkward. Ben said, “We’ll be fine. Dinner smells wonderful.”

“Should get back to the pasta.” James handed Ben the glass of wine, which Ben knew would be the perfect vintage. It hit him anew how pleasant life with James could be in these simpler moments, and he quickly drew James in for a swift kiss. James smiled up at him, then took himself off to the kitchen.

Indigo’s careful civility seemed to have been thrown off-balance by the sight of Ben kissing her brother. Her cheeks were flushed pink, as though she’d just glimpsed something far more intimate. “I—I came by not that long ago. I should have given you two more warning.”

“Quite all right,” Ben said, though at the moment he would rather have been venting to James than making small talk with his sister. The girl was trying, and it was difficult for her; Ben wanted to respect that. He could put Warner aside for a while. That would be a relief.

After a few moments, she ventured, “What happened with the newspapers yesterday was horrible.”

Did she have to go straight to the most sensitive subject of all? Ben forced himself to hide his irritation. “Yes. It was.”

Her lower lip trembled. “I remember when they printed photos of our father, after the plane crash. He’d been in the water a while by then. It was awful.”

Ben felt a rush of pure horror. What had happened to him yesterday—the exact same thing had happened to James. Ben had
known
that. He had gawked at those photos for himself. And yet he hadn’t thought of it once in the past two days.

What kind of a selfish asshole am I?

“I just wanted to say that I understand,” Indigo finished.

“I—thanks. I appreciate that.”

She nodded. And then they sat there, formality gone, but both enclosed in the ghastly social vacuum that followed any conversation about dead parents.

Indigo finally said, “What have you done?”

“What do you mean?”

“To take your mind off it.”

“Spent time with James. Watched a movie.”

“James always helps,” she said very seriously.

Apparently she wasn’t going to let go of the subject yet, so Ben asked, “What did you do, when it happened to you?”

“I grabbed the biggest book on my shelf I hadn’t yet read and plowed through it. Nearly nine hundred pages, but I still read it in two days.”

She couldn’t even have slept. “Which book?” Ben asked, out of politeness.

But she said, “
Dune
,” and his interest piqued.

“By Frank Herbert? I love that book.”

“Really?” Indigo smiled again. She looked less guarded this time.

“Yeah. I bet I’ve read it half a dozen times.”

“What about the sequels?”

“I liked
Dune Messiah
well enough, and
Children of Dune
was okay, but after that—”

“It just gets
weird
,” Indigo said very seriously, and after that they were off and talking about whether Chani’s death from childbirth made any sense in a world with technology so advanced. Then they were comparing what other genre series they’d both read, and by the time James emerged from the kitchen again, Ben and Indigo were debating Neil Gaiman.

“He’s a genius!” Indigo protested.

Ben finished swallowing his wine to say, “Yes, but that doesn’t change the fact that he doesn’t know how to end a book.”

James smiled at them in dumbfounded wonder. “Neil Gaiman? I’ve heard of him.”

“Yes, because he’s a national treasure.” Indigo pointed at her brother and said to Ben, “This one loves science, but forget science fiction or fantasy.”

“I know,” Ben said. “I already tried to get him to read
The Left Hand of Darkness
. No luck.”

“We can discuss my shortcomings as a reader over dinner,” James said, shooing them both into the kitchen.

Indigo turned out to be a delightful young woman, once she’d relaxed enough to talk. Science fiction was virtually the only interest they had in common, and really she was more of a fantasy fan . . . but it was enough to start on. Ben could catch a glimpse of her resemblance to James here or there, mostly when she laughed.

When they said good-bye to her after the meal, Ben called her Amelia. She didn’t attempt an embrace, but she did hold on to his hand for a few moments before she left.

Together he and James stood still, listening to her steps on the stairs. Once they were truly alone, James said, “That was amazing. She adores you! I’ve almost never seen her take to someone else like that. Prince Zale, maybe. And him she has a crush on. Oh, no. Do you think she has a crush on you? Surely not. Though I could understand, of course.”

“James, why didn’t you say something yesterday?”

“About Indigo coming to dinner? I didn’t know. She only sent word half an hour before she showed up.”

“Not that. About—the photographs. Your father, after the crash.” Ben still couldn’t believe his own idiocy. “The fact that you’d been through this also.”

“Oh.” James honestly seemed bewildered. “That didn’t matter, compared to what had just happened to you.”

“Of course it matters.”

“I would’ve felt selfish.”

“What, admitting you’d been hurt as well? I just wish—we should have talked about that too.” Ben brushed James’s hair back from his forehead; it was getting a little longer, attractively floppy.

“I was trying to think of you first,” James said as he hugged Ben. “You needed that last night, I thought.”

Ben didn’t want to be the one who needed help, or coddling, or protection. But saying so would sound as if he were criticizing James again. Right now they were holding each other, and he was still buoyed by wine and good food and pleasant conversation. That was comfort enough. He didn’t want to ruin it. Instead he snuggled James close for a while.

The whole time he imagined he could feel the bit of paper folded in his pocket—Warner’s number, and a decision, waiting for him. Already it seemed too late to speak of it. Already it seemed to belong to him alone.

***

Some of James’s engagements were not wholly official in nature, but obligatory all the same. Usually they involved a friend or relative’s charity effort, one to which James was invited socially rather than in his role as Prince Regent. Of course he could have simply declined, but he knew that his appearance added luster to the event, that people attended in hopes of seeing him, and that their donations would be all the more generous if he actually appeared.

One of those beckoned only a few days after the publication of those photos of Ben’s parents. A reception at a gallery featuring ghastly pop art, rhinestone-bedecked plungers and neon-painted skulls, that sort of rot: James would have longed to cancel regardless. Now, especially, he would have liked to get home early to greet Ben, who had been so quiet and troubled ever since.

Still, James couldn’t start slacking, not while his throne hung in the balance. Besides, the charity supported people with motor neuron disease, and surely that was worth his time even if the neon skulls weren’t.

As his car drove toward the gallery, James braced himself. Here, he wouldn’t be dealing with the public; he’d be dealing with other members of the aristocracy, the people he’d gone to school with, the rarefied few invited to socialize with him. Supposedly these were his friends, though really only a handful fit that description. For the most part he found them snobbish, superficial, and dim.

If you lose the aristocracy, forget winning over anyone else
, James reminded himself. Besides, at least this time he wouldn’t have all the women throwing themselves at him.

He wasn’t announced when he entered—it wasn’t that sort of event—but the moment James stepped into the cavernous gallery space, dozens of sleekly clad attendees clutching wineglasses seemed to turn toward him at once. The hostess, a distant cousin named Lady Wilhelmina, came to him immediately.

Air kiss. “Your Royal Highness
. James
,” she crooned. “How lovely of you to attend. Everyone wants to congratulate you!”

“How kind of them,” James said. This was normally where he and his cousin would detach, but instead Wilhelmina held out her hand toward a young man standing nearby. This man had blond hair, chiseled features, and an almost uncanny ability to make instant, unswerving eye contact.

Wilhelmina said, “James, you
must
meet Lorcan Montmorency. Lorcan, His Royal Highness the Prince Regent.”

“It’s an honor, Your Royal Highness,” Lorcan said, almost breathless. “You can’t imagine what it’s meant to other gay men, your coming out.”

“I ought to have done it sooner.” James was slightly thrown. “But I appreciate that.”

“And you enjoy modern art too. We’ll have to talk later, sir.” Lorcan’s hand tightened around James’s, a swift but intimate squeeze. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Before James could do more than react, an old school friend had walked up to say hello—and to introduce his younger brother, who was slim and dark and sultry, his eyes focusing on James’s lips. “James, you remember Fergus, don’t you? You’ve always been an idol of his.”

Then there was Crispin. And Kenneth. And a full-grown man who apparently didn’t mind being known as Davy. On and on they came, each one more attractive than the rest. James handled the introductions as smoothly as he always did, but inside he was reeling from the suddenness of the turn.

The aristocracy hadn’t even hesitated. As easily as they’d offered up their straight daughters, they were now offering their gay sons, baiting the hook in whatever way they thought would work.

It was all James could do not to laugh.
They’ve released the Hounds!

Of course, it was also—just a little—well,
enjoyable
. James had been flirted with often enough in his life, but virtually never by anyone he’d have wanted to be flirty with. The men vying for his attention now were gorgeous, impeccably dressed, schooled in charm; some of them were even intelligent and well worth talking to.

“Little ridiculous, isn’t this?” said Kenneth, who had ginger hair, a gentle smile, and a slight dusting of freckles across his nose. He was referring to one of the neon skulls.

“It’s not my style,” James said tactfully. Even the most innocuous comment could be turned into news fodder, and thus an insult that might hurt the artist. “Then again, I’m terribly old-fashioned when it comes to art.”

“Me too, sir.” Up until now, their conversation had been as blank and useless as the average patter at this sort of event. But then Kenneth added, “My secret vice is a passionate love for the pre-Raphaelites.”

“Oh, I adore the pre-Raphaelites.” In James’s bedroom hung a small Millais. “I know it’s all creamy and dreamy and a bit trite, but—”

“The colors,” Kenneth said. “And the love of beauty for its own sake. People will laugh at them, sir, but they’ve got more poetry than the PoMo monstrosity in this gallery tonight.”

This was precisely the kind of conversation James would have liked to continue, but he realized that he was not only being flirted with, but also in real danger of flirting back. He managed to excuse himself gracefully and returned home to Ben that evening feeling both innocent and elated.

“Can you believe it?” he said as he divested himself of his suit. Ben stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb as James spoke. “They turned quick as that! I’d thought it would take them much more than three weeks to get used to the idea of a gay heir to the throne, but I guess not.”

“Guess not,” Ben repeated.

Blithely James went on. “It’s not as though I hadn’t seen other attractive men at events before—or figured out they were gay—but I couldn’t ever act on that, you know? Not and be sure of keeping things secret. So I always tried not to talk to them at all. Not even to see them, if I could help it.”