They act as if these royal rules and regulations are inviolable, he thought, smiling crookedly. But the minute they don't like where those rules lead, it all changes in an instant.
Did that mean James's pessimism about coming out was ill-founded? Or was this centuries-long chain of descent proof of James's absolute responsibility to continue the line?
Ben stopped lying to himself and started digging around in more immediate royal family history. Before long he had reached the royals he most remembered, the ones who had been more reported on than any others: Edmund, Prince of Wales, and Princess Rose, James's parents.
They had been the golden couple of the late 1970s, a real-life fairy tale. Their first photo together--the match that had lit the paparazzi flame--showed them strolling in the flower garden of some country estate or other: Edmund, even more handsome than his son, in a chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, clearly in thrall. Rose, fawnlike in her graceful fragility, smiling shyly as the breeze stirred her long brown hair and pink cotton skirt. The sunset behind them made it seem as if they actually glowed. In a movie, Ben would have scoffed at such a picture-perfect ideal. Now, however, as he studied the photograph, he found himself smiling as he recognized both halves of James in their faces.
No wonder the world had fallen for them. After years of the grayest, stodgiest Hanoverians in that house's history, Edmund and Rose must have seemed like a shaft of sunlight through the clouds.
They appeared just as naturally happy and beautiful through their wedding (Edmund in a red military uniform, Rose in a billowy silk concoction), their early marriage, and that first pregnancy. To Ben's astonishment, the heir presumptive began appearing in photos even before his birth. There, reproduced on newspaper and magazine pages from around the world, was the blurry smudge on a sonogram that had become James.
What kind of nurse sold a prenatal sonogram? Surely Princess Rose had to have felt profoundly violated. How must it have felt for James the first time he was old enough to understand that the press had started sneaking around for photos of him while he was still in the womb?
Ben realized he had clenched his hands into fists and forced himself to relax. No doubt he was drinking too much coffee these days.
He flipped more quickly through the more recent photos, refusing to be charmed by the sight of tiny James toddling in a park, being held in his mother's arms, or waving from the Buckingham Palace balcony with both arms, an enormous smile on his chubby-cheeked face. (Well. Maybe Ben was charmed a little.) Soon Amelia, or "Indigo," joined the family, and the sweetness of it all became dull, almost cloying--
And then finally, horrifyingly, came one of the most condemned tabloid photos in the world: a sodden corpse being dredged from the sea into a retrieval raft. That was all that was left of Prince Edmund after the plane crash. Ben found himself grateful that the image was so blurry. At least James hadn't had to see what a couple of days in the water did to a corpse's face--to see the bloating, the greenish-white cast of the skin, or the places where the fish would have begun consuming him.
"I beg your pardon, sir." Caught off-guard, Ben turned to see one of the librarians standing nearby. She was too polite to point out that a man who had come to investigate an eighteenth-century company was using palace resources to look at a photograph anyone associated with the royals must loathe. "The library will be closing momentarily."
"Of course. I'm sorry. Excuse me." He snapped off the monitor, erasing all record of the images in an instant.
As he hurried out into the street, battered satchel in one hand, Ben found himself startled by the darkness outside. He stood in full night. Some of his surprise was the usual dismay at realizing winter was near, but mostly he was angry at himself for wasting so much time.
A traitorous voice inside his head whispered, Is it really wasting time, if you're trying to understand James better?
Yes. It was. He'd have to pull himself together. That deadline was already uncomfortably close. Ben had to wrap this up soon.
*
James felt as if he had personally congratulated every charity organizer in the whole of Wales by the time he returned to London late on Friday afternoon. Despite the busy few days he'd had, he found himself more energized than he would've expected. Maybe he should call Ben, tell him to come by immediately after work instead of later on, so they could get started having fun right away . . .
Don't call, he admonished himself. You mustn't come to rely on him too much.
He did not question what it was he was relying on Ben for.
"You're quite sure you'll require nothing tomorrow, sir?" Kimberley Tseng said this as if she positively longed to be called in to work on Saturday.
James knew better. "Yes, I'm certain. Enjoy your weekend; God knows you've earned it. You must be shattered."
"No more so than you, sir."
"That settles it, then. You're absolutely shattered." This earned him a laugh--not the dutiful, high-strung giggle even his lamest attempts at humor were granted, but the real thing. Although Kimberley immediately covered her lips with her fingers, as if appalled, James took heart. It was nice, once in a while, to know that something he'd said was actually a little bit funny.
As his car turned toward Clarence House, James's cell phone rang. With a frown, he answered. "Hello?"
"James?" Indigo's voice wavered. "Do you think you could come by?"
It was as if he could feel the crushing weight come down on him, compressing his chest until he could hardly breathe. "Are you having a bad day?"
"Not the way you're thinking. But I need you here, please. Help me talk to Uncle Richard."
James had no idea why Indigo would be in conflict with Richard, at least not why today more than any other day. Regardless, his duty was clear. "I'm coming straight away," he promised, before telling Kimberley, "Inform the equerry. We're heading to Kensington Palace first instead."
When he arrived at the palace, James expected to find Indigo in her room, probably her closet, curled into a ball and trying very hard not to cut. However, he was shown to Indigo's all-but-unused formal stateroom, where he found her sitting in the middle of a long chintz sofa, head bowed, while Richard paced in front of her. James's began catching his words mid-lecture: "--the irresponsibility of your actions seems not to have occurred to you at any point--"
"What actions?" James said, before the hapless footman could even announce him. He shot Kimberley a look, and she began ushering the servants out. As soon as the stateroom door shut, he repeated, "What actions?"
"I'm just posting online," Indigo whispered. Her baggy jeans and old T-shirt contrasted sharply with Richard's and James's fine suits. "That's all."
"That is not all." Richard turned toward James, completely unfazed by the Prince Regent's arrival. "Despite that scare a few years ago, where we thought some hacker or other had discerned your true identity, we've allowed you to continue going on these 'forums' or whatever they are, as you enjoy it so much and it appears to be the only hobby you can conduct from your closet."
"Richard," James said sharply. To his uncle's credit, he actually looked abashed. Richard's temper could be petty and churlish, but he tried to spare Indigo the worst of it. Not even Richard was cold enough to purposely traumatize someone so fragile. James continued, "I take it the issue is about something specific that's been posted? Something identifiable?"
"No!" Indigo protested. "Nobody is going to know that's me."
"They will if you get 'hacked' again." Richard pronounced any technological terms from the past quarter century as though they were from a foreign language. "And then what will they see?"
Indigo looked up at James, and her hazel eyes were bloodshot with unshed tears. "I found an online forum for people who self-harm. I only wanted some advice, don't you see?"
"Today's advice is tomorrow's tabloid headline," Richard insisted, but his tone had changed. Now he was trying to be reasonable. "You've always abhorred the idea of anyone knowing about
your . . . difficulties. So sharing them in an online forum, over a computer network that could be compromised at any time, is pure recklessness."
James sat beside Indigo, putting his arm around her shoulders. He said nothing at first, because this was one of the rare occasions when Richard had a point. How long had he wished for Indigo to take charge, to make a proactive step toward some sort of recovery? But the palace had suffered too many security breaches for him to take lightly any risk of personal information being transmitted via computer.
If the world at large learned of Indigo's self-harm from a braying tabloid headline, James knew the violation would destroy her. Worse, he knew it was one of the few things that might lead her to destroy herself.
Gently he began, "Indigo, did you see other posters there who had experiences like yours? Who did the same things you do?"
She nodded. "It was like--like for the first time in so long, I didn't feel like some sort of freak." Richard opened his mouth to continue his objections but James held up his hand.
"Perhaps we could try a compromise," James offered. "You can read all the answers and advice you wish. But you mustn't post unless--unless it were some sort of emergency, I suppose."
Indigo slumped against him, staring at the floor. "That might help."
He felt filthy, even cowardly. How could he ask Indigo to turn away from the first place she'd ever dared to share her experiences outside the family?
But James knew how. It was because the risk of exposure, and the damage that would cause, was simply too great.
Why not a therapist? he thought miserably. Indigo, why won't you let me bring in someone you could talk to, someone with the power to help you?
Because a therapist could betray her, he supposed. The threat of betrayal online was even greater, but at least felt more remote. Indigo preferred communicating with most people via keyboard and screen because that way she could imagine them as smaller, more distant, and less dangerous.
"A very sensible solution," Richard said. Obviously he felt vindicated, or he would never have allowed himself to praise one of James's ideas.
"I shouldn't have bothered you." Indigo looked at James and tried to smile. "But thanks for coming, just the same."
"Always," he promised as he hugged her tightly.
He meant to sound reassuring, and perhaps to Indigo, he did. Inside, however, James found himself asking, Is that true? Will she always be in this much pain?
Is there any way out, for any of us?
*
After the first few weeks of their arrangement, James and Ben had settled on a "usual time" for Ben to arrive--which was observed more in the breach, but at least gave them a goal to shoot for, a point past which James could issue standing orders for the rest of the staff to be gone. This goal came in particularly useful on days like these, when James's travel meant they had no time to talk in advance.
So Ben arrived at Clarence House at that hour exactly and went through the usual steps, trying hard not to meet the butler's eyes. For his part, Glover guided Ben to the door of the private suite with his usual demeanor, i.e., as stone-faced as Mount Rushmore.
However, for the first time, James wasn't waiting at the door for him. Ben stepped inside the private suite to find himself alone.
"James?" he called, not raising his voice too loudly. "Are you home yet?" Maybe Glover had let him in to wait because James's car had been delayed. Or had he flown this time? Ben had no idea how best to return from Cardiff.
Happy and Glo came running from the back, eager to greet him; for some unfathomable reason, they prized his attention. The patter of their paws made Ben smile, and he ducked down to pet their furry heads. As he did so, though, he realized he heard running water coming from the direction of James's master suite.
"James?" Ben called more loudly now. God forbid he should startle James into hitting a panic button that would send His Majesty's Secret Service crashing through the windows with Uzis blazing. "James, it's me."
"Ben?" James's voice from the bathroom was soft enough to be nearly drowned out by the shower. "Come on in."
Frowning, he walked into the marble-tiled bath, a ridiculously large space that Ben inwardly both mocked and envied. One chamber held toiletries of all kinds, another connected to the main closet, another hid the other royal throne, and still another housed a sumptuous claw-foot tub. But James's voice came from the shower, a sort of interim space between tub and toiletries. The large glass stall, as big as a parking space, had fogged from the steam, so much so that Ben could only make out the vaguest shape of James's naked body.
"This makes a nice surprise," Ben said, already turned on, as he began kicking off his shoes.
"Get in here and make it nicer." Yet James's invitation sounded--stilted, almost forced.
Ben stripped down, neatly folding his clothes and setting them on a teak bench nearby. When he pulled open the glass door, he saw James standing with his face to the wall; he'd braced his hands far apart on the tile, as though he were too weary to stand. "Hey." Ben came closer, ignoring the spray of warm water against his body to slide one hand around James's waist. "Are you all right?"
James shook his head. His slicked-back hair looked darker when wet. "No, I don't think I am."
"What's wrong?" Was he sick, perhaps? Ben had read something in those royal family records about James having a medical exemption from military service. At the time he'd assumed it was a convenient dodge. But then James had mentioned it himself, early on in their relationship. What if the situation were more serious?
But James said, "It's Indigo."
Every other time Ben had heard Princess Amelia called that name before, he'd found it absurd--a juvenile affectation. This time, however, he almost didn't notice it. Indigo had become her name in his mind just as much as it was in James's. "Did something happen?"
"No. Not exactly. I mean, it ought to have been a good thing, but"--James breathed out in frustration--"I'm not making any sense, am I?"
"It's okay. You don't have to make sense."
Ben put his hands on James's shoulders. The tenseness in his muscles made them feel almost like rock beneath his palms. He began kneading the knots, hard enough to make a difference but not hard enough to hurt.
Warner had always said he was good at this.
"Mmmm." The steam cloaked them, blurring the scene. Ben could make out no details farther away than his hands on James's skin. James was so pale, with constellations of freckles dusting his shoulders and cheekbones; although Ben was fair too, his hands looked tan against the expanse of James's back. "Thank you."
"You don't have to thank me for touching you." Ben was giving James permission to forget about whatever Indigo's troubles were and start thinking about exactly what they could do to each other in bed.
But James said, "Not for the massage, though it's lovely. Just for--for not pressing me about Indigo. Letting me talk or not talk."
"You said her secrets weren't yours to tell." Ben had been content with that answer. His journalistic curiosity had been kept in check . . . mostly. But after what he'd seen in the records, he understood more deeply than before what privacy must mean to James. Perhaps it was the only luxury the Prince Regent was denied.
Slowly James said, "I trust you."
Ben's hands stilled, but only for a moment. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, James. It's all right."
"I do want to tell you," James said softly. "I think--I think the correct term for her problem would be an 'anxiety disorder.' Possibly also agoraphobia, but I'm not qualified to say. She behaves so strangely at public events because she's on the verge of a panic attack the whole time. The press judges her cruelly, never knowing how brave she's being. When she makes a misstep, though, the cruelest judge is Indigo herself. She hates herself for it. Sometimes she--Ben, she hurts herself. Cuts herself. Indigo's never attempted suicide, but I live in fear of her accidentally going too far."
Ben swore under his breath, the word al
most lost under the sound of the shower's spray. "Has she seen a therapist?"
"My grandparents won't hear of it. Terrified of family secrets getting out. Right now, while I'm regent, the queen wouldn't have the last word, but Indigo's always resisted. She can't believe a therapist would keep her secrets. Today we learned she'd been posting things online in some forum for people who cut themselves. That's as much as she's ever done to help herself--and I had to tell her to stop. It wasn't safe, because of the press." James stopped himself. "I didn't mean you."
"I know that." Ben had never been much of a tabloid reader, but he'd begun paying more attention now that he was sleeping with someone regularly pictured on their covers. Their rabidity startled him, as did the depths to which they would stoop. Business reporting never turned so ugly. If Ben had ever tried some of those stunts on his corporate subjects, he would have been sued or even prosecuted. But James, head of state, had to take it. "I'm sorry. It's not fair to her or to you."
"No. It's not."
Yet merely speaking those words seemed to release James from the worst of the heaviness dragging him down. He leaned back against Ben, reached up to take Ben's hands.
"You comfort me," James said.
James did not comfort Ben. As far as Ben was concerned, he needed no comforting; he handled his issues on his own. Always had, always would. But even as he mentally recoiled from the idea of relying on James, he realized he didn't mind James relying on him.
They were friends. He could be supportive of a friend.
Ben slipped his hands free to trace his way down James's chest. He kissed the nape of James's neck and murmured, "I can comfort you in other ways too, you know."
"Yes." James reached up to caress the side of Ben's face behind him. "I know."
Now Ben's fingers slipped through the damp curls of pubic hair to grasp James's cock. Although he was completely soft for that first instant, Ben felt James began to harden even before he started working him. James breathed out sharply, almost like a man in pain--but it was just that last moment of letting go.