“What if later we decide we really need an inkwell?”

Nick rolled up Nick Nolte into a megaphone. “Rebecca,” he boomed. “If you change your mind, someone will go into storage and fetch you the inkwell.”

“Antiques Roadshow has given me anxiety that I’ll trash something priceless,” I told him. “What’s this about a job?”

“It might not help your anxiety,” Nick said, “but it seems we’re on the docket for an engagement with Freddie. Our first as a trio. We’re going to Hampton Court to unveil a new tapestry. Or, I guess, technically an old tapestry that they found in a hole and restored.”

“Of course. Nothing says, ‘Behold our marital bliss!’ like Henry the Eighth,” I said.

“Does it make you feel better that this tapestry was commissioned for the wife he liked best?” Nick asked. “Although nine days later she died. Maybe that’s why it got chucked in a hole.” He sighed. “I haven’t been to Hampton Court in ages. Mum took us as kids and I pretended to roast Freddie on the giant spit in the kitchen.”

“Gee, I wonder who’ll get roasted at this one,” I muttered.

I wasn’t kidding. We were going to be scrutinized within an inch of our lives, from our body language to whether or not the boys’ ties held some kind of hidden message, to how many times I smiled and at whom; I couldn’t cling to Nick, but neither could I keep my distance, and I had to maintain a paradoxical friendly disinterest in Freddie—all while pretending the reporters trailing us hadn’t just spent weeks calling me Duchess Degenerate. It was a high-wire act with no room for mistakes, especially with suspicion of me and my motives at an all-time high. Everyone knew that we knew that they knew that we knew that they knew what was at stake. To get through it, I had to believe in it. I had to put my faith in the notion that the sooner Nick and Freddie and I convinced the public that everything was fine—there was that word again—the sooner it actually would be.

* * *

The morning of the event, my nervousness had taken root and sprouted thorns. I had meant to stop reading the blogs devoted to covering me, but they’re as easy to quit as smoking (and about as hazardous to my health). People mostly fell into two camps: betrayed by my duplicity, or fiercely certain that every word Clive wrote was a lie. Those in the middle—even and often especially the ones with well-reasoned theories skating close to the truth—got shouted down and chased away. And every single one of them was itching to see what I would wear for my first public event since my disastrous wedding. Donna had been making pulls for weeks in anticipation of this exact eventuality, and would later be tasked with passing that information to the Palace’s social media director. Someone had to make sure reporters found out that my beige suede shoes were Jimmy Choos (pricey, to indicate that I wasn’t half-assing this) and my simple pink day dress was from Boden (a high-street brand, to communicate that I hadn’t been blowing all The Firm’s money).