“All right,” he began. “Carter, when we started seeing each other, I asked for only one promise, one absolute assurance. That I be able to trust you.”

“Understandable,” murmured Caroline supportively. “Crucial.”

“And now . . .” Edgar said, although he was fighting it, “and now I’m not convinced that I can.”

“Edgar?” I said.

“I believe what His Highness means is . . .” interjected Caroline.

“I know what he means!” I howled at her.

“Mr. Ogden,” she replied, every bit the offended sparrow, “I will request that you modulate your volume.”

“What I mean,” said Edgar, “is that I may have done something I swore to myself I’d never do ever again—for the sake of my own mental health, and my service to this country. But now I . . . I’ve allowed myself, and this is entirely my doing, and I take full responsibility, but I’ve let myself be compromised. To be placed in a position of, I believe the word is, vulnerability.”

“Which is a good thing!” I insisted. “You need to be vulnerable! Everyone does! Even princes! Especially princes!”

“Why?” asked Edgar.

“So you don’t shut down,” I pleaded. “So you don’t cut yourself off, so you don’t condemn yourself to being suspicious of everyone you meet, and eliminating them, and ending up alone.”

“Your Highness,” said Caroline, “If I might suggest an alternative bridge to personal fulfillment, based on my recent bestseller, Rewiring Your Love Clock . . .”

“Shut the hell up!” I yelled.

“I beg your pardon!” she said. “But many fine people, millions of readers worldwide, have found my book to be miraculously helpful. Adrienne Lestercroft, a bank manager from Leeds, posted a five-star review on Amazon just this morning, terming the book, and I’m quoting Adrienne’s own tribute, ‘a masterwork of reenvisioning one’s own inner loveways . . . ’”

“I DON’T GIVE A DAMN!” I rasped, as if a fire-fueled demon had entered my larynx. Caroline was hijacking my life to sell her book, and Edgar was growing smaller and smaller, huddling in the corner of his chair as if he could will himself to disappear.

“Mr. Ogden!” cried Caroline. “Are you threatening me and my devoted readership?”

“No! And I’m sorry for yelling, but Edgar, please, we need to talk, somewhere private, we can get through this, it’s really not a problem at all . . .”

“It’s not?” asked Edgar, sitting up straighter.

“Your Highness?” said Caroline, her nose all but twitching from the scent of blood.

“Carter,” said Edgar, “I have told you things and formed an intimacy . . . that I may be regretting. I have no idea what the truth of this Callum Turner situation, and these charges, may be, and that’s the dilemma. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to sit beside you and question everything. I don’t want to leave myself open to any further heartache and disgrace and—pancakes!”