Edgar had a tuxedo custom made for me, explaining, “It’s not for special occasions; it’s a uniform.” I’d always loved the suave, man-of-destiny notion of myself in a tux, but I’d made do with rentals and thrift-store bargains. With a tux draped, cut and sewn to my exact dimensions, I was a roguish financier lighting a cigarette atop the Eiffel Tower or 007 tossing his diamond cuff links onto a blackjack table at Monte Carlo. I was someone who made out with Edgar, both of us in our tuxes, in a side room during a ball at the Australian embassy.

I found that the secret to holding my own at, say, a country house dinner party was to never obscure or lie about my background; as an American interloper, I could ask the other guests questions and be bad at croquet and glance at Edgar across the room, especially his ass in riding clothes.

The key to defeating Queen Catherine’s nightly surveillance was to face her down and say, “Your Majesty, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go and perform fellatio on His Highness. Someone has to do it.” The first time I did this she was speechless, then threw up her hands, hissed, “Charming,” and let me pass.

Touring the Chelsea Flower Show was actually fun; the displays of enormous dahlias and wisteria and fuchsias, micro-calculated to arrive at their peaks, were like horticultural musical comedies. I like fanatics, and if you mess with their succulents, English gardeners are capable of using trowels as switchblades.

Edgar and I could make a political statement just by showing up, and especially by dancing. We practiced, and two men in white tie waltzing in a ballroom at an event to promote international human rights can make an impression on a snide Russian oil baron who wants to cultivate foreign investors. I checked with Louise and she approved, calling our waltz “a subliminal protest action and a decent start.”

My renewed campaign confused Gerald and especially Maureen. She’d expected me to be persuaded by her admonitions at the Jubileee and flee the country and any future with Edgar. She’d meant well, but she’d also wanted to clear a path, for Gerald’s ascension to the throne. Whenever I’d run into her, at a formal dinner or a charitable tea, she’d say things like “Still at it?” or “We’re praying for you,” which weren’t precisely votes of confidence. While Maureen could be congenial and almost an ally, at heart she was a political spouse, plotting Gerald’s rise. I was careful around her; being cheerful and polite were my own tactical maneuvers, for safeguarding Edgar.