“Nicholas needed a reminder that being born first may not always mean coming first,” Eleanor said sharply. “A title is not entitlement. Frederick erred, but at least he knows it. If your husband would like to be treated as someone who can handle the responsibility of his position, he needs to act like a responsible person.”

“I believe in Nick,” I said.

“As did I, once. I should like to again,” she said. “I have grave concerns about your ability to stabilize him after all the ugliness. But what is it you Americans say? You break it, you buy it? Well, you broke it, and you’ve bought it, so it must be you who mends it. You will either make or ruin those boys, and it had better be the former, Rebecca. Soon.” Her glare ran through me like a knife. “Do not disappoint me again.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER EIGHT

That woman is a conniving genius,” Bea announced, stomping into Cilla’s postage-stamp-size back garden and dropping her briefcase right into a surprised Cilla’s lap.

“The Queen, I presume?” Cilla asked, pointedly putting the bag on the ground.

“No, Bitsy Armbrister-Shayles. Yes, the Queen.” Bea crossed her arms. “But in point of fact, also Bitsy Armbrister-Shayles. She ran a bidding war for her stallion’s sperm knowing full well she’d already sired him out six other places. I’ve half a mind to neuter him.”

She sank hard into one of Cilla’s white metal chairs and teetered precariously to one side. She shrieked and struggled to collect herself. It was the first time I’d ever seen Lady Bollocks off-kilter.

“Right, meant to tell you, that one’s the wonky one,” Cilla said impassively, pouring a cup of tea.

“I thought this was the wonky one,” I said, wriggling and feeling my chair clunk unevenly.

“They’re all the wonky one,” said Gaz as he bustled out with a purple frilly apron around his waist and a plate of petits fours. “Now, get stuck in and tell me what you think. Be kind. But truthful. But mostly kind?” He twiddled his fingers hopefully and then disappeared back into the kitchen.

Bea ignored him. “The sheer nerve of making you try that hard for a crumb of attention,” she marveled. “And now she’s made you so grateful to be speaking that you’ll do whatever she asks. Stay at her knee as long as you can, Bex. You’ll be a master manipulator in no time.”

“I don’t want to be a master manipulator,” I protested. “Literally nothing has ever sounded less appealing to me.”

“Then you suffer from a shocking lack of imagination,” Bea said, pointing firmly at me and then letting that finger fall onto one of Gaz’s petits fours. It was beige with a little green ball on top. She studied it suspiciously.