I stared out the window but saw none of the scenery. My heart pounded, echoing the memory of Eleanor’s heels clacking on the Buckingham Palace floors. After the disastrous procession out of Westminster Abbey on my wedding day, we had tumbled out of our carriages and hustled to the Balcony Room, per the schedule—which of course had not included a clause for what to do if a sex scandal broke during the ceremony. We’d huddled like cornered prey and listened as Eleanor’s steps grew louder, faster, closer. Unbidden, the Jaws theme had popped into my head.

And then she had appeared, resplendent in cerulean, her simple cake-shaped hat still pinned immaculately in place despite the fury on her face underneath it. My nervous laugh had died in my throat.

Everyone else filed in behind her: Nick’s father, Richard, his jaw so clenched and angular, you could use it to file metal; my ashen mother, arm in arm with Nick’s aunt Agatha; his uncle Edwin guiding his wife, Elizabeth, five months pregnant but moving like it was five years (which in a way it had been; this was their third child in about that much time), and Nick’s centenarian great-grandmother Marta. Nick’s wretched cousin Nigel was nowhere to be found, which was a relief. If anyone was likely to broadcast the fallout live on Instagram, it was him.

“Bex, my God. I had no idea,” murmured Elizabeth, drifting past to take a heavy seat in one of the silk-upholstered love seats. “Aren’t you a minx.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“Isn’t it?” This was Eleanor. “Perhaps you should educate me on what it is that I think.”

The contempt on her face was so complete, so hard and fast. If it wasn’t pure hatred, it was incestuously close. Fresh shame pounded my chest.

“It’s rich that you’re trusting the Mail, when it’s printed rubbish about every single person in this room,” Nick said. “We were duped. Clive lay in wait for years until he found a lie that was plausible.”

“A lie,” Eleanor echoed. “Frederick did not, then, make a pass at Rebecca.”

“Well…” Freddie began.

“And Rebecca’s sister did not provide voice recordings detailing what she saw of the affair, and Frederick’s infatuation, and there is no proof of her calling Rebecca—what was the catchy little phrase, dear?”

Lacey’s mouth opened but no sound came out.

“The exact wording was ‘She is a cheating trashbag sex addict who won’t be happy unless she gets all the attention.’” Our heads swiveled toward the Queen Mother, who waggled her phone. “It’s all over Twitter.”

“What a charming new way you’ve found to make a mockery of the monarchy, Rebecca,” Eleanor said. “I’m thrilled to be shepherding us through the lowest point in our history.”

“Hardly in history,” Freddie said.

“Didn’t one of your lot die by a hot poker thrust up his bum?” piped up Elizabeth.

“Not to mention all the questionable Henrys,” Edwin added.

“Arthur the Second was a massive prat,” Marta said plainly.