I grinned at her. “I wouldn’t dare.”

* * *

An hour later, I sat cross-legged on the living room floor poring over a yellowing photo album and drinking a flat Orangina someone had left in the fridge, hopefully from this decade. The album consisted of family photos from Osborne House, the Isle of Wight residence where the royals had summered for yonks before it fell out of favor. Most of the pictures were from Georgina’s girlhood, well before her father became king. There were several of Queen Victoria II, Marta, and Eleanor being very solemn, while Georgina pulled a silly face, or flashed a smile that looked sweetly like Nick’s. Even in her more lighthearted snaps, Eleanor was a petite version of her current self: stern and serious and a little intense. But the sisters did seem close. They often clasped hands, and there were some in which Georgina clearly had elicited a rare giggle, or was hugging Eleanor enthusiastically while she tried and failed to hide her pleasure. In the years since I’d met Nick, his great-aunt’s name had come up exactly zero times. But now we’d been instructed to live in her house and, per the memo that came with the key, “preserve the building’s historical importance and value while modernizing the interior to suit a young royal family,” and I felt a responsibility to at least learn who she was before we swept her aside.

The door slammed, and an exhausted Nick padded into the room and flopped facedown onto the couch. Dust flew everywhere.

“Nmmgsllyphas,” he said into the cushions.

“Say what?”

He turned his face. “This couch is not as soft as it looks.” He reached under his head and pulled out my nylons. “And this was an unexpected treat.”

He tossed them in my direction. They traveled about six inches before floating gracefully down onto the table, where they formed a soft brown puddle.

“Sorry. I could not keep them on a minute longer,” I said. “How was the Conclave?”

Nick sat up. “I’m parched. Pass the Orangina?”

“No,” I said. “Not because I don’t love you, but because I do. It tastes twenty-five years old. It is a journey.”

He took a swig, then nearly choked on it. “That is murder in a bottle.”

“Stop changing the subject,” I said. “How did it go?”

“The usual,” he said. “Lots of Agatha and Elizabeth gossiping, and Father posturing.”

“You and Freddie must have wanted to beat your heads on the table.”

“That was the one odd bit,” Nick said. “Freddie was being relentlessly agreeable with old Dick. He actually volunteered to do an appearance with him in Wales.”

“Whoa,” I said. “Are the locusts next?”

“Not if it isn’t on Father’s agenda,” Nick said. “And Freddie said nothing to me at all.”

“I think he might be seeing someone on the sly,” I said. “A woman drove in here today and Gaz and Cilla seemed to know who she was, but they clammed up when I asked.”