"How is she?" James said.
"Much the same as when we first called you, sir." Hartley's voice was cracked and rough with age. "No better and no worse."
"She hasn't hurt herself?"
"Not so far as we can tell. But that door's locked tight, sir."
"Understood. Leave me to it."
Hartley acquiesced, accompanying James no farther than the second-floor landing.
James headed toward the suite where Indigo lived. Though technically it no longer belonged to her, even Richard had not been spiteful enough to insist that she move out. Indigo only felt completely safe in the rooms where she'd spent the earliest years of her childhood--and sometimes, like today, not even there.
He went through the formal areas to her bedroom. Their parents had allowed James and Indigo to decorate their rooms however they wished, gently reminding them that they'd have to be more "conservative" once the time came for the family to move to Clarence House. That was only one of the many small deviations from tradition that had so alienated Dad from the king and queen while endearing him to his children. So from a tasteful Georgian parlor, James walked into a sort of ruined splendor. Glossy black paint on the walls looked all the more striking against the scrolling white crown molding; Indigo's bedspread was silver satin, onto which she'd tacked bits and pieces of antique lace. One of her mosaics had a place of pride on the wall, a thousand glittering bits of glass brought together into the image of wilted flowers. Between the tall windows hung some conceptual art from The Corpse Bride, which she'd purchased anonymously. Her laptop sat abandoned on an elaborate, nineteenth-century desk she'd rescued from an upper room in one of the minor palaces. He resisted the urge to see what she'd been reading online and perhaps learn what had set her off. Indigo needed her privacy, even now. Especially now.
The closet door was shut. She'd installed the lock on the inside herself when she was just into her teens, back when she'd first begun talking about hiding.
"Indigo?" James said quietly as he sat on the floor, careful to let one shoulder slide down along the door so she'd hear it. "It's me."
After a few moments' silence, she whispered, "I'm sorry."
"You don't have to apologize for your feelings to me or to anyone." In all honesty, sometimes James wanted to shake her, to say, You're doing all this for attention! But Indigo's problems were both genuine and deep-seated. If she didn't ask for assistance in the ways James wanted her to, he had to remember to help first and worry about the rest later. Attention was exactly what she needed, and that was what he tried to give. "What's wrong?"
"I can't stop thinking about Wednesday."
The previous Wednesday she had made one of her rare public appearances, showing up to applaud yet another official portrait of the king. These events inevitably terrified her, and one of the ways she coped was by taking diazepam. James didn't like that--but the call wasn't his to make now that she was of age. Most of the time, he had to admit, it seemed to help. However, this had been one of the occasions where she'd either eaten too little beforehand or taken too much, because she'd giggled and stumbled and set off another round of tabloid speculation about "Mellie's" drinking.
"Indigo. They're just newspapers. Just stories. Like the stories about me and Cassandra."
"The lies they tell about you aren't awful. They love you. They make fun of me."
"They don't even know you," James said fiercely. "You did your best. I know that. You know that. Nothing else matters."
"My best isn't good enough."
"It doesn't matter. It doesn't. A lot of fuss and bother about a bloody painting on a wall. A painting nowhere near as good as your own work, either. Nothing more than that."
"Shouldn't I be able to get through it, then? If it's so simple?"
James could have cursed himself. He took a deep breath and tried to answer her better. "We're all good at different things. It's a cruel joke that you were born into this family. You have so many gifts, Indigo. You're intelligent, you're creative, you're sensitive to the feelings of others--so many wonderful things. I don't know what I'd do without you in my life."
Silence on the other side of the closet door.
He plowed on. "It's not your fault that you're stuck in a role that doesn't suit you. It's an accident of birth, only that. But it doesn't make you worthless. You're as talented and good as anyone I've ever come across anywhere, and the people who love you, we know that. All the tabloid lies in the world can't take that away. We know who you really are. I just want you to see it too, someday."
Still silence. James glanced around the room, looking for any telltale droplets of blood. He saw none--this time. Indigo had explained to him before, in calmer moments, that sometimes causing herself physical pain was the only thing that numbed the emotional pain inside. The cutting was rare, thank God, but her thighs were still crisscrossed with scars. Just because he hadn't seen blood today didn't mean she hadn't slammed her hand or arm in a door, or thrown herself against a wall, or engaged in some other form of self-torture. It made his heart hurt to think of it.
If only their parents had lived a little longer. James believed if his father had seen how serious Indigo's problems would become, he would have stepped aside out of love for her, and in a way that would cut them all off from the succession. Richard could've had the throne he desired so badly, and the rest of them might've been able to live as a halfway normal family, and certainly a happier one. But it was too late for that now. If James attempted to step aside, or were cast out, the burden of the monarchy would fall on Indigo's shoulders. That was a burden she could not bear.
Indigo's voice was hardly more than a whisper. "If I unlock the door, will you not make me come out? Will you come in here with me?"
"Of course."
Metal clicked against metal as the lock slid free; James pushed himself away from the door so she could open it for him. No light was on inside. Once he could crawl through, he did so. Already Indigo was again lying on the floor, so he spooned himself around his sister and wordlessly held her for what seemed like a long time.
She had several rooms' worth of clothes, but this smaller closet held her most common daily wear. On the left were the modest dresses, demure suits and high heels deemed appropriate for family gatherings; on the right were plaid shirts, jeans, various bizarre T-shirts and Doc Martens. The two of them lay in the middle.
"Sometimes I think I could do it if they just couldn't see my face," Indigo whispered. "If I could wear a mask, or a veil. It's the thought of them seeing my face that kills me."
"I know." He closed his eyes as he rested his forehead against her shoulders.
Her laugh was devoid of any real joy. "Hey, maybe that's the answer. I can start wearing a burqa."
"You are not wearing a burqa," he said, mock-sternly. "Insulting to Muslims, and dear God, if you believed the tabloids were rabid before? You might as well throw raw meat to a tiger."
"Only a joke." Indigo sighed, then stiffened. "Oh, no. Don't you have an event tonight? You do! I'm keeping you from it--"
"Shhh. Not for hours yet. And it's just a charity dinner. All I have to do is change in to a new suit."
"Change. That's what I want to do, James. Change. If I could shift my skin, transform into someone else completely--then I could face anyone."
He hugged her more tightly. "But your face is so beautiful."
"It's not my face itself. It's knowing that if people saw the true me, they wouldn't understand. They wouldn't accept it. You know what that's like."
"Yes," James said. "I do."
*
The Crimson Night Dinner was the kind of thing James could get through in his sleep. He'd come very near it, a time or two.
His formula: Arrive in time to spend a few moments talking with the directors of the charity in question, most of whom he knew well enough to speak to, and if his memory failed him as to names and roles, Kimberley would be there to prompt him. Walk into the dinner, music playing, people appl
auding, cameras flashing; smile. Sit through interminable introductions as though fascinated. Give speech re: worthiness of cause in question. More applause. Chitchat through dinner with VIPs. Chitchat after dinner with other guests for thirty to forty-five minutes. Escape to car. Take antacids. Go home.
Arts education for children: Easy enough to feel good about, and James was happy enough for some of the considerable funds of the Prince of Wales Trust to be channeled in that direction. But sometimes it grated at him, how little he genuinely connected to many of the Trust's causes. They just seemed so . . . safe.
At least this event was one of the prettier ones. James had attended so many dull affairs that he appreciated elegance when it was to be had. The dining hall was old enough that it still had Tudor-era woodwork covering the high ceiling and an intricate pattern laid in marble on the floor. Long banners of rich red fabric hung from various arches, and the women in attendance had all dressed in red as part of the theme.
Probably this will make the news merely because it looks so good, James thought while auto-piloting his way through a conversation with a local MP. Might get a few more donations because of the exposure.
Also, tonight there was some amusement to be had.
A frisson surrounded the person walking toward James, to be presented in his turn. James did his best to look stern. Really it was hard not to laugh.
"Your Royal Highness," said Spencer Kennedy, with appropriate bow. He looked every inch a self-made man: fine suit worn carelessly, silk tie with a slightly off-kilter knot, hair longer than a male royal dared grow, and the ruddy cheeks of an Irishman. Only someone standing as close to him as James was could see the suppressed mirth in his eyes.
"Mr. Kennedy." He kept his tone of voice cool. "I understand Kennedy Telecom took two tables tonight. Most generous."
"It's a good cause, isn't it?"
They were being avidly observed by every person in the room, each of whom believed that Spencer was only the latest man Cassandra had cheated on James with. None of the people watching would guess that the two men had become friends these past few months. Ever since that day at luncheon, when Charles had finally dared to speak the truth to a near-stranger . . .
"Are you kidding?" Spencer had said. "You've got to be."
James hadn't found it a promising beginning. "This would be the worst practical joke of all time. No, I'm entirely serious. I'm gay, and Cass has always known it."
"Please don't think it was easy for me to lie to you." She had reached across the table to take Spencer's hand, though it was slack, apparently from shock. "I'm loyal to the people I love. That meant keeping James's secret, just like it means telling you now."
"But--you said--all that detail about your sex lives!" Spencer had kept looking from Cass to James and back again.
"Detail?" James had stared at Cass too.
She'd shrugged. "I don't do things halfway, James. Not even bearding."
""If you didn't learn about Japanese rope bondage from him," Spencer had said, jabbing his thumb in James's direction, "then where?"
James had held up both hands. "Tell him later. I don't want to hear it."
Flashes at the corner of the room gave away those who were taking phone photos of James and Spencer's meeting in the hopes of selling them to the Sun or the Daily Mail later on; there was a certain comfort in knowing exactly what the next day's tabloid news would be. Spencer leaned slightly closer so that nobody else could hear, scowled as though he were about to take a horsewhip to James, and added, very quietly, "Grr. Growl. I violently dislike you."
"Oh, I violently dislike you too. I can scarcely overcome my wrath."
"Rather than fight you for my woman, I intend to go to Clarence House and mark my territory by urinating on the shrubberies."
Not fair, Spencer! James had to bite on his inner cheek to keep himself from laughing. When he could speak again, he said, "Leave now before I have you beheaded. See you this weekend?"
"Like I'd miss the chance to watch Arsenal turn Man U to dust." Spencer and Cassandra shared football teams. Otherwise, James doubted they'd have made it to the second date.
The mood in the room visibly relaxed as Spencer moved along. Kimberley Tseng leaned over and whispered, "Next up is Ivan Campbell, one of the teachers who works with the program in the Belfast office. Coordinates the music camps in Northern Ireland."
James nodded and did his best to connect with Mr. Campbell (Dog, Labrador retriever) while still absent-mindedly taking in the room. Most of the men had worn red neckties to match the ladies' dresses, though there were a few ties in black and white, and--good heavens, one man had worn purple, though at least it was a tasteful shade--
His eyes went from that man's tie to his face, and it took all James's self-control not to react.
Benjamin Dahan. Ben was here, in this room, right now.
A dozen emotions welled up at once, warring inside him: worry, anger, arousal, bewilderment. James felt as though someone had tightened a massive fist around his chest, crushing his ribs inward, pressing against the rapid beating of his heart. Ben gazed back at him, his dark eyes hotly intent. Had he been watching James like this all night? It seemed impossible that James wouldn't have glimpsed him immediately, or even felt his presence.
James didn't look directly at Ben for more than two seconds.
Smoothly he said, "You do such wonderful work, Mr. Campbell. It's a privilege to meet you." Handshake, good-bye, and then James had his chance to lean over and whisper in Kimberley's ear. "I need you to pull someone aside for me. That man in the purple necktie."
"At the Global Media table?"
He ought to have reviewed the list of who took each table; that would have given him some warning, perhaps. "Yes, him. His name is Benjamin Dahan. If you could get him to a private area and then arrange for a short break--"
"Of course, sir. In the meantime we have Harriet Musgrove, very significant donor, mostly interested in foxhunting."
James managed to get through an entire conversation about the odious practice of foxhunting with Ms. Musgrove (Dog, Corgi) without glancing in Ben's direction even once. He betrayed not one hint that he was anything other than totally interested in the people nearest him until the moment Kimberley reappeared at his side. She said, just loudly enough for the others to hear, "Excuse me, Your Royal Highness, but we need you for about five minutes."
He made his apologies and let Kimberley steer him toward the back, where a small anteroom had already been cleared and secured. The idea was only that if he became ill or fatigued during the night, or had to take a confidential phone call, he would have a place of refuge.
Instead, pulse pounding so hard it seemed to shake him, James walked inside to find Ben standing in the center of the room, waiting.
James hadn't been able to stop thinking about this man. All his righteous anger, all his knowledge that their sensual afternoon had been a trick--none of that had been able to keep him from thinking of Ben. From wanting him. Yet none of it had prepared him to see Ben again: black hair slightly shorter, stubble accenting his square jawline, hands in the pockets of his refined suit as if he didn't give a damn. He looked too rugged for this elegant place, this civilized gathering. Almost unreal.
Slowly James closed the door, heard the latch click. Ben bowed his head slightly, just within the bounds of politeness. "Your Royal Highness. Or is it Your Majesty now that you've become Prince Regent?"
"I don't think you've come all this way to discuss royal protocol."
"No."
How could Ben be so calm, so unruffled? They stood half a room apart, still as statues, and yet James knew his own reserve was only a mask. No doubt Ben knew it too; Ben could see through him, which was how James had gotten into this mess in the first place. Yet Ben was impassive and utterly unreadable. All James could see when he looked at him was the same damnably attractive stranger he'd first glimpsed through the rain.
Maybe he was about to be blackmailed after all.
br /> James said, "How did you get here?"
"Global Media bought a table. I managed to snag a seat."
"Why?"
"I wanted to talk to you again." Ben squared his shoulders--and at that moment, James finally glimpsed that Ben too was uneasy. "To apologize. My behavior in Kenya was inexcusable. I lied to you. That's not how I live my life. Not the kind of person I am. I betrayed my own principles that day. You must have been . . . unnerved, and at what turned out to be a difficult time in your life. I sincerely regret having hurt you."
A thousand internal dialogues with an imaginary Ben, and yet James had never invented so satisfying an apology. It caught him off guard in a way defensiveness or aggressiveness couldn't have. After a moment, James managed to ask, "When did you change your mind?"
"About my behavior?"
"About reporting on me."
Ben paused. "I didn't lie to you to get a story. At least, not after the first few minutes."
"Then why?"
After a moment's pause, Ben said, very slowly, "Because I hoped I could get you into bed."
The thought made James reel. It was dizzying to be betrayed by his body this way--to feel an exhilarating rush of arousal at the mere thought of Ben wanting him, doing whatever it took to get James into his bed.
"You suggested I was a blackmailer." Ben's voice was harder now. A flash of his earlier wrath heated his gaze. "I thought that was outrageous. I still do. But when I deceived you, I gave you reason to think badly of me. So I had no right to object."
"No, you didn't." James felt as though he were on steadier ground. But the way Ben was looking at him--as if he too were surprised by their powerful reaction to each other--no, he couldn't speculate. Couldn't think about it. "I appreciate the apology. More than that, I appreciate your discretion."