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.”

“Hmm, yes, work,” Lacey teased. “What is a duchess’s job, exactly?”

“That’s the problem,” I said. “I have no idea. My main responsibility used to be etiquette training, and now it’s Look, Everyone, We’re Not Acting Awkward. No one has told me what the next phase is.”

“Popping out a kid, I assume,” she said. “That’ll turn the tide. Come to think of it, Marj might also file that under Crisis Management.”

“My brand is crisis,” I sighed. “But hopefully we can keep my uterus out of it for a while. I am nowhere near ready for a baby. Its uncle isn’t even speaking to us.”