His Royal Favorite (8 page)

Ignoring the farewells at the door, Ben started up the news clips, hitting pause so James could watch with him. When James took his place beside Ben, Ben went for the remote, but James put a hand out, stopping him. “You think I’m being awfully silly, don’t you?”

“I think you’re letting off steam. Which you absolutely have the right to do.”

“But it’s not how you handle these things.” James’s cheeks were rosy from the champagne, but his gaze remained sharp. “This isn’t the first time I’ve had to go through this. It’s not even the hundredth. It’s just the biggest. Cass and I fell into the habit of bracing ourselves so we could laugh about it. You have to laugh, sometimes. Otherwise it will kill you.”

Now that Lady Cassandra was gone, Ben found himself feeling more generous about the whole thing. “Of course you do. I don’t mean to be humorless about it. But I’m not at the point of laughing yet.”

“Just wait.” James kissed Ben; his lips tasted like orange juice and champagne. “This isn’t the worst.”

“Are you sure?”

“I expect it to take a nastier turn in a few days. A more ridiculous turn too. And—you realize they haven’t even started in on you yet, don’t you?”

“I expected it to take them a little longer to work around to me.” Ben knew precisely what he would have done as a journalist, if he were assigned to report on the unknown man in the Prince Regent’s life. He would have started calling neighbors, e-mailing coworkers, and searching school alumni databases for potential sources. Ben’s peripatetic existence meant that the press would have to work a lot harder for those details of his past. Furthermore, he knew Global Media Services wouldn’t like it if any of his coworkers blabbed, because that would be helping the competition, so they’d keep their mouths shut. But even this would only buy him so much time.

James snuggled next to Ben. “We won’t really know all the fallout for another few weeks, at least. Months, probably. Right now we can only watch it unfold. What do you think so far?”

“That this sort of thing ought to be outlawed by the Geneva Convention.”

Although James chuckled, he said, “No, really. Seriously. Tell me, as a professional journalist, if you were looking at all this from the outside, merely as an observer, what would you say?”

“I’d say it was ridiculous.” Ben hesitated, considered. “And I’d say it wasn’t that bad. Not really.”

A slow smile spread across James’s face. “I think so too. It could have been lots worse.”

“Much worse,” Ben agreed.

“It’s like watching the national subconscious unfold in front of us. Watching the mind of the nation work this out, bit by bit.” James turned back to the screen. “So let’s see Sky News’s piece of the puzzle.”

***

Monday morning required an early start. Ben’s commute to work would now be even shorter—and by luxury sedan instead of the Underground—but he had to allow time to get through the crush. There was of course no hope of avoiding the photographers; probably they’d been camped out in front of the Global Media offices since Friday night.

Also, it turned out James had to leave early too.

“Breakfast with the leader of His Majesty’s Loyal Opposition,” James said between sips of coffee. “Shoehorned that in last minute, mostly so he gets the chance to be as supportive as the prime minister was. Then I meet with senior members of UK and Commonwealth armed forces who are retiring. Medals, medals, medals. Lunch with Nicholas, which will be reported on; we have to prove he’s not attempting to steal the throne out from under me. Afterward, up to Peterborough to visit what must be their last remaining brick factory and finally a hostel for the homeless. Back to London, evening free.”

“It’s really like that every day?” Ben said.

James shrugged. “More or less. Except my evenings aren’t always free.”

“I thought being privileged would come with more privileges.”

“It comes with enough.”

The landline rang, Glover checking whether it was yet all right to allow others into the suite. This proved to be only Paulson, ready to get James into his suit, and Kimberley Tseng. To Ben’s surprise, she was there to talk to him rather than to James.

“Your turn,” she said, putting down a copy of the
Daily Mail
. On the cover was a photo of Ben—a low-quality candid, probably from someone’s Facebook, in which he was glancing to the side and looked positively dodgy. The headline read:
HE’S A KRAUT! New Details About Jamie’s Secret Loverboy!
The typeface for KRAUT was enormous. Each letter was bigger than Ben’s face.

“That’s it?” Ben had to laugh. “They’re upset that I hold a German passport?”

“You haven’t lived in the UK that long, have you?” Ms. Tseng gave him a sidelong look. “Trust me, that’s enough to get them started.”

To Ben the xenophobia seemed like something out of that episode of
Fawlty Towers
. Still, he got her point: The story was meant to be negative, which in turn meant the press was ready to turn on him. Well, he’d been expecting that. Let them turn. “What other ‘secret details’ do they claim to have?”

“Thus far, precious little,” Kimberley said. “Which they’re attempting to spin as something ominous.”

That wasn’t the sort of thing that could stick. Ben felt better already. “Okay. Thanks for letting me know.”

Her eyes searched his. “You’re certain you’re prepared for this morning?”

Ben shrugged. “James ran me through it. Walk past the photographers. Try to keep a pleasantly neutral expression. What else is there to know?”

“His Royal Highness is shielded from the worst sort of paparazzi behavior by his title.”

“The paparazzi actually respect royalty?”

“To whatever limited degree they respect anyone, and certainly more than they respect you.” Ms. Tseng stepped closer. “They’ll shout insults at you. Obscenities. Homophobic, anti-Semitic—the worst you can imagine. all in hopes of making you angry. A photo of you furious makes a man rich; if you snap, strike at him, damage his camera or injure him, well, then he’s a millionaire and you’re a liability to the Prince Regent. You
must not
react. No matter what. Do you understand me?”

“Don’t worry, Ms. Tseng. I’ve heard what they do to Justin Bieber. Honestly, if that kid can take it, I can take it. Trust me.”

“We’ll have to,” she said crisply, and with that she took herself off downstairs.

As she did so, James emerged from the back, dapper in gray tweed. Once again that mysterious change had occurred—the shift from man to prince. Everything from James’s posture to the shine of his shoes suggested elegance, confidence, ease, and grace. Ben, who like most print journalists had never paid much attention to his workday attire, felt shabby in his old sweater and brown trousers. But that didn’t matter much, not compared to Ben’s realization that the whole prince thing was an
incredible
turn-on.

James said, “I should be home for dinner, assuming you’re all right with eating a bit late, but if you get hungry before that, you should feel free to ring Glover and tell him what you’d like.”

Like he was about to start ringing bells and summoning servants like someone out of
Downton Abbey
. Ben had more interesting things to think about. He stepped closer, into James’s personal space; James’s green eyes flickered up toward him, surprised and pleased.

Softly Ben murmured, “Seeing you like this—so sleek—it makes me want to tear you apart all over again.” His fingertip brushed the perfect knot in James’s tie, just beneath his Adam’s apple.

“Mmmm.” James inhaled deeply, as though he were taking in Ben’s scent. “I’d like that.”

“Tonight,” Ben promised. “It’s a date.”

James smiled. “Tonight.”

For a moment he hesitated. Ben could see how nervous James was. Soon he’d step out of the safety of the palace and try to live out his role as Prince Regent for the first time as an openly gay man. He had to have worried about this moment his entire life. Although he wished he could somehow go with James—put himself between him and any of the insults or problems he’d have to face—he knew that was impossible. At least Ben could demonstrate that James didn’t have to be afraid on his behalf. “I’m going to be okay, and so are you.”

“We will,” James said. He put one hand to Ben’s cheek and added, very softly, “Have a nice day at work, honey.”

That made them both laugh. Ben said, “You too,” and kissed James good-bye.

So he was in fairly good spirits as the car took him out of the palace gates—only a few cameras there, not that they could get anything much through the tinted windows—and toward the Global Media offices. But as they rounded onto that street, Ben’s eyes widened.

He had never seen that many photographers in one place in his life, not after a long career spent at press conferences and news events. Around the dark-clad photog horde were several dozen other people wearing more brightly colored clothing—tourists and other gawkers, here to catch a glimpse of “Jamie’s Secret Loverboy.”

Fine
, he told himself.
Let them look.
But he tucked his coat more carefully around him, to better hide the old sweater. Why on earth had he worn this thing today?

Ben opened his own door before the driver could even think about getting out. Instantly the paparazzi rushed forward, not blocking his path but narrowing it to the point where he had to shoulder by them. Flashes popped so brightly around him that he was nearly blinded, and Ben kept a firm grip on his satchel as he strode forward.

“Ben! Ben! Benji! Come on, give us a smile!”

“Do you intend to marry the Prince Regent?”

“Faggot! Hey, faggot!”

“Benji! Over here! Over here and I can send my kids to a better school, just one shot!”

“You suck dick to get yourself in the palace? Huh?”

With a push of one shoulder, he was able to get himself into the revolving door of the office building; apparently building security had managed to keep them out of the lobby. Ben had to stand still for a moment once he was inside before he could fish out his security pass and go inside. Behind him he could hear fists hammering on the glass, a thunderous sound that didn’t stop until the lift doors shut behind him. Even then, though, he didn’t have a chance to catch his breath; four other people had caught the same lift, and although none of them spoke or openly gawped, he could feel their heated attention like spotlights aimed directly at his face. So he kept his expression carefully neutral and gazed straight ahead.

This isn’t so bad
, he told himself. The only part of that he hadn’t been prepared for was being called “Benji.”

He walked into the Global Media newsroom with a sense of relief—at least, until virtually everyone stopped whatever they’d been doing to stare at him, as though they hadn’t seen him every single workday of the past five months. The only person who didn’t fall silent was Roberto, who simply flipped Ben a wave while continuing to talk on the phone.

Fortunately, Fiona walked up to him at that moment, her floral-patterned wrap dress the only splash of color in the drab newsroom. “Come on, guys, get it together. Back to work,” she announced. As the newsroom slowly went back into motion, she put a hand on Ben’s shoulder. “Mob scene out there, huh?”

“It won’t last.”

Fiona arched an eyebrow. “You think? Well, let’s hope not. Building security already complained twice.”

He hadn’t even thought about security being overwhelmed, but he should have, given that the security force consisted of only four or five guys.

“So, once you’ve pulled yourself together, how about getting me that copy about the South American metals speculation?” Fiona said over her shoulder as she sauntered off. “Hope you recover before deadline.”

Of
course
Fiona de Winter wouldn’t cut him a break today. At the moment, even editorial nagging was welcome, proof that the universe hadn’t completely changed around him overnight. Ben went to his desk and settled in. “I read your story,” he said after Roberto hung up from his phoner. “Nice work.”

“Thanks,” Roberto said. “How’s it going?”

“It’s—strange. But okay.”

“Glad to hear it. For what it’s worth, the BBC poll says fifty-nine percent of Britons think James should keep his crown.”

“Excellent to know.”

He said this coolly, but on the inside, Ben exulted. Fifty-nine percent! That had to be a strong showing. Of course it was ridiculous for the remaining forty-one percent of Britons to object, but this was a very early poll. Over time, that number would only increase . . . wouldn’t it?

It’s Kimberley Tseng’s job to worry about that, not yours. Your job is to corral the head of Deronda Mining and get the last quote you need to finish this story.

He pulled up the copy and gave it a once-over: looked good, though he’d have to go over it all once he’d obtained the last information he needed. Quickly Ben pulled up the number for the CEO’s office and dialed.

“Deronda Mining, Mr. Crispin’s office.”

“Yes, this is Ben Dahan of Global Media calling back for—”

The secretary gasped. “Did you say Ben Dahan? As in
Benjamin Dahan
?”

Shit.
“Yes.”

He heard the unmistakable sound of fingers being closed around a receiver, and a not-muffled-enough voice say, “It’s the Prince Regent’s boy toy! On the phone! Right now!”

Boy toy?

“I last called on Wednesday,” Ben said, hoping to remind her that he had a job other than being with James, namely the job of running her boss to ground for rampantly abusing the international market in silver. “About the efforts to artificially dampen prices in Argentina?”

“Please hold,” she said.

Ben thumped his fingers on the desk, trying to decide whether being considered James’s “boy toy” was more offensive or hilarious. On the balance, he was going with hilarious. It hardly mattered as long as he got through to his potential sources, and it looked like he was about to.

See, this is all you have to do. Keep doing your job, and sooner or later, they’ll have to play ball.

A few clicks on the other end of the line, and a man’s voice said, “Ronald Crispin.”