Exclusive sources tell me palace insiders are frustrated with the Duke and Duchess of Clarence’s refusal to be seen in public, stemming—they say—from Rebecca’s ego having taken a hit when her tawdry affair was revealed.

“She’s furious,” the source said. “And he does whatever she says, and right now that’s to run away from their jobs. All on the taxpayers’ dime.”

Nick cast a bleary glare at the empty place setting that had been left for Freddie, and then tossed the Mail facedown onto the floor. “Remind me to tell Marj to cancel all our subscriptions,” he said.

The two of us had managed four hours of rock-hard slumber before being awoken by the arrival of a rack of clothing for me, put forth by my stylist Donna so that I could look appropriate for our appearance at the Conclave—and, vitally, the drive over to the palace, which Marj had made sure would be photographed so that our actual faces made the news. We had about ten minutes to wolf down breakfast before getting ready, and the morning papers hadn’t made them especially pleasant. Xandra Deane was the Wizard of Oz of royal reporters: great and powerful, and no one had ever met her. Even before the wedding, she regularly churned out stories that painted me as conniving and unstable, and Nick as my patsy. The twist was in her growing support for Freddie, when most of the country still thought we were shagging in dark corners. There was no mention—from her, or anyone—about the Queen’s heart flutter; The Firm, apparently, still had some things on lockdown.

I muddled through my ablutions as competently as I could, but I was so far out of practice that I burned two fingers and part of my earlobe while flat-ironing my hair. I selected a gray polka-dot belted shirtdress with matching heels and my sartorial nemesis: pantyhose. Nick and I had to look scrupulously appropriate, and even though the paparazzi wouldn’t be able to see my legs, deferring to Eleanor’s nylon preferences was a goodwill gesture with the added benefit of ensuring that my duchess persona—which didn’t fit as neatly after so many weeks on the shelf—wouldn’t slip. I was about to leave when something winked at me from atop the dresser: a pin, in the form of the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes, crossed at the poles. It had been a friendly gift from Nick back when we were pretending we didn’t have feelings for each other, and for years, I’d worn it—often secretly—as a talisman of our love. The last time had been pinned to my underwear on our wedding day. On a whim, I opened the top buttons on my dress and affixed it to the center of my bra. It felt right to have it on again, known only to me, as if to drive home that I was still myself no matter what lay ahead.

Nick had caved to only one of his father’s demands, shaving his mustache but leaving his longish hair on the unruly side. But if he was trying to pick a fight with Richard via his grooming choices, he didn’t get one. When we arrived outside the Chinese Dining Room in the east wing of Buckingham Palace—Richard’s favorite place to have a Conclave outside of Clarence House; Freddie once theorized that his father must identify with the dragon painted on the ceiling—Richard ignored Nick, but held up a hand in front of me, like a posh bouncer at a very uptight nightclub.