But Bea’s hands had been full in our absence. Several crews had swarmed Apartment 1A and done large-scale renovations—putting in new floors, pulling down wallpaper, putting up wallpaper, and doing wiring and plumbing upgrades, most of which had been her suggestion in the first place. Marj, as her last act, shuffled the decks at a few of the royal households and cherry-picked some experienced staff for us, including—to Bea’s massive relief—a fiftyish butler named Greevey whose presence meant I would no longer open my own front door, at least during the week.

I had insisted we keep a few major relics from Georgina’s life. My new office used her heavy oak desk as its centerpiece. We’d snagged a beautiful dark wood bedframe for our master, and of course we’d made it clear that no one was to touch the wardrobe that was the access point to our Narnia sex den, on pain of death. I’d also put my foot down and insisted we keep the G monogram in the entryway, as a tribute. But everything else was spruced up and reorganized and minimized to a few key pieces that stood out instead of getting buried underneath seventy-five weird trinkets. I missed 1A’s flea-market uniqueness, but it was undeniably better this way. A fresh start, for our fresh start.

But we had a Conclave in an hour, and I was nervous to face Richard. He had been incommunicado since we returned to London, and in the absence of compliments on our performance, I was concerned he was waiting to lay out a scolding in person. Which would complicate Nick’s and my own plan for the meeting, for which we arrived early and immaculately pressed, carrying a repurposed tour binder—Saskatchewan: Just In Case—full of press clippings and printouts and notes.

“Duchess of Clarence: Conclave, July 2016,” Nick read as I dropped it onto Richard’s conference table. “Bea is going to have notes on that title.”

“Welcome back, darlings! A gondola. Who knew you two had the nerve!” Lady Elizabeth trilled, sailing into the room gaily, smelling like jasmine. If Bea’s every movement was like a dire weather forecast—thunderous, storming—then Lady Elizabeth’s felt more like a yacht gliding off the Saint-Tropez shore.

Nick and I exchanged glances. “That bit was perhaps not our finest hour,” he said.

“It could’ve happened to any of us,” Elizabeth said, dumping her Chanel bag onto the ground and heading straight for the gleaming chrome coffeepot on a carved side table. “Do you know how many times Eddybear and I might have been caught out? One of our children was conceived at the Windsor Horse Show. I feel pregnant again even thinking about that day.”