His Royal Favorite (5 page)

Returning home was even stranger than entering Buckingham Palace had been that morning. He walked in as though it were any other evening. By now it was roughly the time he usually got off work. Being surrounded by the ordinary again was disorienting, his own flat now as alien to him as the royal world.

Ben began going through his usual routine: sorting the mail, kicking off his shoes, considering his options for dinner. His thoughts, however, ran on an entirely new track.
I’ll have to get my mail forwarded. Can they send someone to pick it up for me? God, I’d feel stupid having someone do that. I have to throw out everything in the fridge. Shit, I have to pack.

For most of his life, Ben had been on the go. His things would still fit into two suitcases easily enough. But he realized he was reluctant to leave even for a brief time. Living in the palace, surrounded by the archaic hierarchies and formality he’d witnessed all day—could he deal with that?

No, he wouldn’t be at Buckingham Palace every day. Probably he’d never enter its doors again. Instead he’d be staying in James’s private suite for a few weeks. No staffers calling James His Royal Highness, no horrified relatives, no other complications. Just James, and good sex, and quiet meals in the warm kitchen. Nothing to be afraid of.

Except the coming tsunami of media attention, and the increased pressure on their relationship, and Warner lurking in the shadows waiting to spoil it all.

Nothing besides that.

***

James had longed to see Ben as soon as his meeting with Kimberley ended, but this meeting with the prime minister had been critical. Knowing their conversations were completely confidential, he’d gone ahead and revealed the truth. As the prime minister was a longtime supporter of gay rights, his promises of loyalty were both expected and trustworthy. Still, James was relieved.

That relief had faded as he’d come out to find Ben already gone. Why hadn’t he waited? Probably it was because he had so much to do at his flat, James told himself. With that consolation he had managed to turn back to his own tasks at hand.

Now he was alone in his suite, Glo asleep near his feet as he worked on yet another draft of his speech. Between him, Kimberley, and the consultants they’d brought in, this thing was already on about its eighth version—and he imagined they’d have another few rounds of edits before the press conference tomorrow.

Dear God, this is happening
tomorrow
.

James leaned forward, head in his hands, all the exhaustion of the past three days catching up with him at once. As afraid as he was about the coming storm, he realized he would be relieved when the press conference was done. Even if he were facing public fury, he’d at least get a chance to sleep.

The kitchen phone rang.

He sat upright. The only people who called that line were Indigo, Ben, and Nicholas. Quickly he went to the phone—a remnant of an earlier era, shiny black and satisfyingly heavy—and answered. “Hello.”

“Hello yourself.”

“
Ben.
It’s like you knew I needed to hear your voice. How are you calling me?” Ben never had got a landline put in at home.

“I went to my office. It’s not far.”

“But you should be packing.” Oh, no, would that sound like he was pressuring Ben? Or maybe Ben was calling to say he didn’t need to pack, because he wouldn’t be moving in after all . . .

“I can be ready to go in thirty minutes,” Ben said. “I’m a pro, remember? Even my chess set is ready to travel.”

In other words, Ben hadn’t even started packing. Should he worry about that? Or was he being ridiculous? At this point, exhausted and fearful, James knew he was in no shape to judge. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to tell you good-bye today.”

“It’s all right. How are you holding up?”

“I feel like Richard Dreyfuss is about to look down at what’s left of me and say this was no boating accident.”

Ben laughed long and hard, but there was no disguising his own weariness. “That’s about the size of it.”

“Kimberley didn’t pry too much, did she?” Honestly, he wished he could have been there. James didn’t think he’d heard three hours’ worth of information from Ben about his past, ever.

“She pried like a crowbar, because that’s her job and she’s good at it. I still passed muster.”

“Of course you did.” James hesitated, but knew it was a foolish impulse. If he couldn’t ask Ben this, he had no business asking so much of him; their relationship had to leap forward, fast. “How are you feeling?”

The long pause that followed made James’s heart sink, but he forced himself to just listen. If Ben was having trouble, he needed to hear that.

“It’s tough,” Ben finally said. “I feel fatuous saying that to you, knowing what you have to deal with.”

“We’re talking about you right now. How I’m doing doesn’t come into it at the moment.”

Ben sighed. “The whole time I was going through the vetting process, I was thinking—so much of my life could be turned or twisted to hurt you.”

Oh, God, was he going to back out for James’s “own good”? James didn’t care if that was the right thing to do or not. He only knew that he didn’t want it to happen. “It can’t be that bad,” he said, far too airily. Would he never stop sounding posh and odious today? “Not if Kimberley approves.”

“And I guess I got attached to my flat,” Ben continued. “Never found it hard to leave a place before. Especially only for a few weeks. But—I don’t know.”

“I can see how that would be difficult,” James managed to reply. But he didn’t. He had never had a home besides one of the royal residences, save for his university and gap-year housing, which had of course been merely temporary. All he could hear from Ben now was that he didn’t want to move in.

Then he pulled himself together.
In just one day you’ve gone from understanding that this is the biggest sacrifice Ben could ever make for you to expecting it of him. Demanding it of him. Stop being so fucking scared and talk this through.

James said, very gently, “You know it’s not too late to back out.”

“I never said I was backing out.”

“No, you didn’t. But—if today was too much, if you realize now that this is something you’re not willing to take on, you can tell me. You don’t have to go through with this, not if you don’t want to. I’ll understand. I won’t love you any less. Okay?”

Ben only sounded annoyed. “I’m not abandoning you. It takes more than your family and a few hours with a woman in PR to scare me off.”

“All right,” James said. He felt sure that Ben ought to be . . . happier, more afraid, both at the same time, rather than grimly determined.

Then again, could he say anything more for his own frame of mind? Maybe that was how you got through days like this: trusting your heart to come back to life later, when it was safe. Maybe Ben was only doing what he had to do.

But he
doesn’t
have to do this.

“I love you,” James said.

“I love you too. And I’ll see you tomorrow.” With that, Ben rang off. It had been a statement of defiance as much as an avowal of love.

Tomorrow
, James thought as he leaned against the counter.
Tomorrow.

Chapter 2

Birthright

Ben stood in his flat, staring at the two wall hangings. They were the lone personal items left.

His other belongings had all gone into his two larger suitcases, brought up from the storage unit in the basement. Even his perishable food had been tossed in the incinerator. He stood in a flat as empty and pristine as when he’d talked into it—except for the hangings, vibrant silk and wholly out of place.

He’d bought them in Thailand, a few weeks after Warner had taken off again. Ben had just learned how foolish it was to think of permanence, and yet his shabby rented room had seemed so sad, inviting depression he didn’t want to feel. Textiles were portable, he’d reasoned, and so the wall hangings had entered the very short list of things Ben allowed himself to keep.

Obviously he didn’t need to bring them to Clarence House. He’d be back here within three weeks or so. Besides, it wasn’t as though James needed any help decorating a suite that already contained a Renoir.

But they were visible from the window. Ben understood tabloids well enough to know a photographer would be on his fire escape within a few hours, hoping to shoot something saleable. The wall hangings didn’t qualify; not even the most fevered media coverage would include home decor. Still, Ben found he didn’t like the idea of strangers seeing these.

He took them down, rolled them up, and tucked them into the outer pocket of his larger bag.
Done.
At Clarence House he could fold them in a drawer, where they could await their return to the flat.

The intercom buzzed. Ben tensed. Those would be members of James’s security service, here to collect his things before he went to work.

Even though he’d been expecting them, even though he was now entirely packed and prepped, his brain froze.
Oh shit oh shit are you doing this crazy thing are you seriously doing this what the fuck are you doing?

His hand reached out, seemingly of its own accord, and buzzed the security guys in.

They wore black suits and expressionless faces. One said, “Are you ready, sir?”

“Yes,” Ben lied as he pulled on his coat. “The satchel comes with me. Those two suitcases go with you guys.”

The security team paused. The same man said, “Is this all, sir?”

“That’s all.”

And then he heard the sound overhead, just as he did every morning:
roll roll roll roll THUD.

As one, the security guys went into a crouch, peering upward, hands inside their jackets in case they needed to get to their guns. “What’s that?”

“I—I don’t know.” It took all Ben’s self-control not to laugh. For the moment at least, he was steadied by the memory of listening to that sound in bed beside James. “Um. It’s nothing.”

The security force didn’t look wholly convinced. But they took his bags and left.

Ben went out soon after them. He paid attention to every aspect of his regular morning commute. He didn’t plan to walk this way again for a few weeks, and it would be even longer before he could expect to do so alone and untroubled by photographers or gawkers. Yes, he planned to outlast them, but that would take a while.

So he saw every moment of it as though from the outside, or perhaps like an alien observing human activity for the first time. It was all strange and yet important too: the newsstands with their magazines and gum, the crowds of half-asleep people clutching briefcases or shouldering backpacks, the Oyster card in his hand. By some luck there were seats available on his car, and he took one. Now that he’d gone three nights in a row without sleeping more than a couple of hours, Ben felt like the proverbial dead man walking.

As he sat there, his mind kept asking,
Are you really doing this? Are you really about to fuck up your whole life?

***

“I can’t believe I’m really doing this,” James said.

His listeners—the corgis—looked up at him, tilting their heads that way and this. They just wanted him to spoon out their breakfast already. But he had to say it to
someone
.

He stood there, heavy pan of dog food in his hands, bathrobe still on. “I shouldn’t have let Ben go public with me. I could still stop him, and I probably should.”

Happy whined.

“Ben says it’s his decision. And it is. But I think someday he’ll hate me for it.” James swallowed hard.

Then the phone rang, and he quickly gave the dogs their breakfast before going to answer. “Hello?”

It wasn’t Ben calling to back out. “James?” Indigo said. “It’s me. How are you?”

“I’m a walking advert for acid indigestion.”

“You’re joking about it, but I know this must be—beyond awful.”

James took a deep breath. “Really, it’s not. Don’t misunderstand me; I’ve never been so nervous in all my life. Still, once the truth is out, I’ll feel better. Not just better than now. Better than ever before.”

“I hope so.” Indigo sounded unconvinced. After a long pause she said, “You didn’t break up with Ben.”

“I did, actually. But he refused to accept it. That was a surprise.”

Indigo hesitated again, and James expected her to echo the darker doubts in his own mind, to say that he shouldn’t do it to Ben no matter what. Instead she ventured, very quietly, “He must love you very much.”

Emotion again flooded James’s heart, pricked at his eyes so that they wanted to tear up. “Looks like he does.”

“Do you love him too?”

“Tremendously.”

“Then I hope it’s all right. For both of you.”

James cleared his throat. “He’d like to get to know you, you know. Obviously too much was going on at the House for you to really talk to each other, but maybe you and Ben could share a dinner here sometime.”

“Sometime,” Indigo said.

She sounded doubtful, and James realized she too doubted whether Ben would stay the course.

Kimberley had suggested that James not name Ben in his press conference, so that the focus would remain on his reasons for coming out, rather than the details of his relationship. Ben was writing his own statement, which he would release after James was done speaking.

Would Ben really do it? Could he?

James would have felt bad for doubting Ben’s resolve if he hadn’t also been doubting his own.

Telling himself he asked only for his sister’s sake, he said, “Are you absolutely sure you’re all right with this? You know that all you have to do to stop me is say the word.”

Indigo made a small sound in the back of her throat, and James felt a dip in his gut as he thought she was actually about to take back her consent and close the closet door again. He didn’t know whether he felt more hope or dread.

But she said only, “Good luck.”

***

“There you are, Ben,” Fiona de Winter said as she strode through the Global Media office, amber beads bright around her neck. “About time you finally showed up.” Then she stopped in her tracks, right by Ben’s desk. “Are you sick? You don’t look good.”

“I’m just tired,” Ben said. “Are we on for 2 p.m.?”

Fiona frowned. By now she had to understand that he wanted to talk with her about something important. “Are you about to quit?”

“No.”

“Then sure, we’re on.”

As she walked along, Ben wanted to resume work—but almost immediately, his phone chimed with a text. He picked it up to see that the text was from an unnamed number he already recognized as Kimberley Tseng’s. It consisted of one word:
Negative.

He’d known what his HIV test results would be all along, yet, it always came as something as an irrational relief to have it confirmed. Once again he turned to his keyboard, but then Roberto leaned around the wall that separated their cubicles. “Hey, Ben. Sorry I couldn’t say hi when you walked in. Phoner was in progress.”

“I get it. No worries.”

“You all right?” Roberto looked more worried than Fiona had. Then again, he was the one who knew Ben had been on the verge of a breakup.

“I’m okay.” He might as well come out with this much of the truth now. “Mr. Dog Owner? That’s what you called him, I think.”

“Yeah?”

“We patched it up.”

Roberto grinned. “Really? Fantastic.”

“Listen, about the other night—thanks.” Ben wasn’t sure he’d have made the same decisions if he hadn’t talked with Roberto. Which was weird to think about.

“No problem. Glad it’s good between you two again. Copacetic. All of that.” Roberto turned back to his work. “You know you owe me a drink now, right?”

“I’m good for it,” Ben said, as he created a new file and named it STATEMENT.DOCX.

From behind his cubicle wall, Roberto called, “And I get invited to your wedding!”

Wedding? Fuck. FUCK.

Ben closed his eyes and tried not to panic.

***

In the end James skipped lunch. He couldn’t have kept anything down, he suspected, and all this press conference needed was for him to get sick in the middle of it.

As the press began filing into the Cornwall Room of St. James’s Palace, James sat in a small side room, allowing a makeup woman to powder his face. He declined anything else for most TV appearances and photoshoots, but he wouldn’t help his case walking out with an oily sheen. Kimberley paced in front of him, tapping away on her iPad. “All right, Your Royal Highness, we’re nearly there. I tipped the BBC and the
Guardian
that this is bigger than just you giving Lady Cassandra the heave-ho.”

Every news source in the United Kingdom seemed certain the press conference could be about nothing else, though that would have been a disgracefully petty reason for a royal to personally make a public statement. James found the assumption absurd, but convenient.

Kimberley continued, “No doubt they still don’t appreciate the enormity of what’s about to hit, but they’ll be prepared, and they’ll be grateful for the heads up, Your Royal Highness.”

“Why those two?” James asked. Heave-ho: That was probably what the
Sun
had dummied up for tomorrow’s cover line, believing he was only about to break with Cass. He’d have to tell her that later. She’d laugh.

“The
Guardian
is the most likely to give us immediate and unqualified support, sir, and the BBC is the most important. But we’ll share the wealth later on, with a few careful leaks.” She glanced up from her iPad, looked at his face, and frowned. “People always think we put lipstick on you. Nobody believes your mouth actually looks like that.”

James wasn’t exactly sure how to respond. “Thank you?”

Kimberley turned to the makeup artist. “Is there anything you can do to make his lips less red? This is the absolute worst time for him to look tarted up. I beg your pardon, Your Royal Highness.”

“Quite all right.” At the moment, he needed the laugh.

They settled for a little powder on his lips as well. Anything else was likely to make him look waxy and dead. Paulson had outdone himself this morning, choosing a charcoal gray suit and sapphire-blue tie that played to James’s coloring. He knew he cut a good figure today.

Now, if only his substance could match his style.

“Are you delivering the full announcement?” Kimberley said. This, James realized, was her way of asking whether he would deliver the lines about his “partner.” Really she was asking whether Ben was still in.

“I plan to,” James said, instead of
yes
, which was his way of admitting he wasn’t 100 percent sure. He thought she understood.

As the press murmurs rose to a crescendo, then fell to an expectant hush, Kimberley said, “It’s a fine statement, sir. I know you’ll deliver it well.”

“I hope so. And Kimberley?”

“Yes?”

“Remind me to give you a pay rise.”

“Let’s make sure you keep your job first, sir.”

James managed a smile for her, then walked into the Cornwall Room.

It looked like every press conference ever: The seemingly vast space he had to walk to in order to reach the lectern; the glare of TV lights, the popping of flashbulbs, and the cameras looking at him like a hundred blank staring eyes; the way he had to keep his smile warm and natural; the loudness of his shoes against the floor. But he got there, set his cards on the lectern in case he needed them, and began.

“Good afternoon. As you may have anticipated, this press conference has been called in response to the news coverage this week of Lady Cassandra Roxburgh’s relationship with Mr. Spencer Kennedy. However, I have not come here to discuss Lady Cassandra’s behavior so much as I have come to explain my own.”

Shifting and murmuring from the press corps: They weren’t sure what to make of this. They’d see soon enough. James plowed on.

“Lady Cassandra is indeed seeing Mr. Kennedy, as she has for some time. But at no point has she been unfaithful to me, not with Mr. Kennedy, nor with any of the other men she has been linked with in the news over the years. It would be impossible, as she has never been my romantic partner, only my friend. From the beginning, Lady Cassandra has known what I now wish to tell the people of the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth—I am a gay man.”

One moment of dead silence was followed with camera flashes so numerous and brilliant that it took all James’s effort not to squint. His mind only repeated,
It’s done, it’s done, it’s done.

“This news will come as a surprise to most. For this I must apologize—not for being gay, which is a fact of my life like any other. But I owe the British people an apology for concealing this, for not trusting in your decency, loyalty, and tolerance. My faith in you has been too late in coming, but I rely on that faith now.” James realized he hadn’t even looked at the cards in his hands. No matter. He knew every word by heart. “I also owe an apology to Lady Cassandra. For years she has faced public slander and conducted her own romantic life largely in secret, only to protect me. I cannot thank her enough for the sacrifices she has made, or for her enduring friendship.”

He’d wanted to apologize to Spencer as well, but Kimberley had said too many apologies would sink him. Cassandra had to have one—James had stood firm on that—but now he had to move on.

“My family is fully informed of the situation and stand behind me as I make this announcement.” That was as tactfully as he could put it without outright lying, and today of all days he would not lie. “Above all, I am thankful for the support of my sister, who will throughout my life remain second in line to the throne, and whose children I expect to succeed me as monarch. My commitment to my duty and to the British people has never wavered, and never shall. It is my firm belief that the nature of my personal life need not interfere with my position as head of state, and someday as king.”