So yes, maybe I had seen a ghost. Just maybe not the one they meant.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A NEW HEIR-A?

Clive Fitzwilliam on Britain’s Tricky Trio

It was meant to be a pretty picture of sibling stability, and the casual observer may have been happily hoodwinked. But take it from me: Yesterday’s Hampton Court farce proved the opposite.

The Duke of Clarence takes dynastic precedence, but once again his brother showed nobody can dazzle like he does. Prince Frederick was quick with his quips, charming the crowd and making the future King look dull as dishwater by comparison. Even the darling Duchess, his erstwhile lover, appeared to go weak at the knees just from standing near the magnetic majesty that is Flashy Freddie. The photo outside the palace was as palpably pained as Prince Nicholas’s pride, knowing his brother is the spark that lights the fire, and he’s the sand that snuffs it.

Perhaps, in the wake of Queen Eleanor’s unprecedented passing over of Nicholas to make his younger brother a Counsellor of State, the Duchess of Clarence believes she gambled on the wrong brother.

Reviews of the Great Tapestry Unveiling were not all as negative as Clive’s. The American’t—the most critical of the blogs chronicling my every move—miraculously didn’t hate my dress (though the author did write, “Her shoes are the most boring thing to come out of Kensington Palace since her face”), and the Mirror gave me a solid three and a half stars, docking marks because I looked peaky in the group photo, which it cited as proof of my romantic indecision about the two brothers. Heat debuted a feature called “The Heat Index,” in which a motley panel of comics and psychologists analyzed the photos and decided whether Nick and I were still banging. (The verdict: maybe.) In general, it seemed expectations for decorum were so low—and for gossip, so high—that the press was either relieved or disappointed that Freddie hadn’t tried to mount me right there on Henry VIII’s dining table. But Clive was the worst of it, and he was brutal.

Annabelle Farthing had overseen the press passes and confirmed to Nick that none had been produced in his name. Then again, every detail in his piece could have come from video and wire photos, with the lone exception of Freddie aiding me when I felt faint. But any number of spies could’ve fed that to him, including whomever The Sun did send. We had to accept that Clive was free to hear whatever he liked, and draw whatever conclusions he could, from the comfort of his desk. And if Marj had her way, he’d be doing so all summer long: Her plan was to load us up on group outings to bludgeon Great Britain into believing that there was nothing to believe. Freddie, Nick, and Bex were officially open for business.

“I’ll be glad when this crisis management stuff is over,” I grumbled to Lacey over the phone. “It’s stressful. Let’s skip ahead to actual work.”