The Spare

Chapter 1

April 2015

A string quartet played Vivaldi. His Royal Highness Prince Edward Nicholas William Desmond of Wales, second son of Her Majesty Queen Victoria II of England and the Commonwealth, steadied himself against a marble counter. The afterimages of a hundred flashbulbs burned neon in his vision. Those were a fact of life. He could blink them away with the lazy affect he had learned as a child. But the questions shouted by the reporters outside rattled like pinballs in his skull.

“Talk to any old boyfriends lately?”

“D’you know who leaked the photos?”

“Who’s the mystery man?”

“Over here, Eddie! How’d Mum take the news you’re into boys?”

“Top or bottom, Eddie? The world wants to know!”

The royal family walked red carpets alone, or in pairs, for security reasons. He had arrived separately from the rest of the circus tonight, which left no cover for him. Nothing to do except pretend he didn’t hear, even knowing the photographs in tomorrow’s papers would broadcast the tension in his body and the lie in his smile all over the world. They were probably being posted online at this very moment, while he hid in a public toilet at the Royal Opera House guarded by two seething close protection officers, with no choice but to carry on.

“All right.” He swung around, fully expecting to be addressing himself in the mirror when he opened his eyes. Instead, he was talking to a large arrangement of delphinium and calla lilies. A sudden memory of his grandmother pointing flowers out to him in the botanical gardens jolted painfully in his chest. Mary would have been incensed by this. “She would tell you to pull yourself together. You aren’t a disgrace. Your privacy was invaded. You haven’t done anything wrong. You will go out there and be a prince. You know how to do that. This doesn’t change anything.” He turned the doorknob with a harsh, quick flourish.

The wealthiest and best-connected of London society were packed into the opera house like jewel-encrusted sardines, in anticipation of the Royal Ballet’s gala premiere of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The Queen’s attendance ensured a glamorous turnout, especially now that she had a freshly outed son. Every glance carried an edge, from sympathetic and curious to cold and appraising. Royal protocol demanded that no one speak to him unless he initiated conversation, but whispers always carried.

“Surprised he’s here—”

“Ladies’ man, isn’t he?”

“Both at once, probably.”

“Should have guessed…”

The cocktail hour crowd parted as he strolled through the lobby and up the stairs, hands thrust casually into the pockets of his bespoke tuxedo. Its clean, modern lines set off his great-grandfather’s lacy, silver and gold shirt studs and cuff links, much like his attempt at nonchalant sartorial excellence provided contrast to his desire to smash every wineglass in sight and then run. Tossing back the untamed curls brushing his jacket collar was a meager distraction from hostile, pitying, disappointed stares. This does not make me shameful, he wanted to snarl at the disapproving society matrons and their scandalized husbands. And I am not yours to judge.

Eddie headed for the champagne bar in the center of Paul Hamlyn Hall as if he didn’t have a care in the world, though he felt like a castaway swimming for a life raft. On any other night, he would have been enchanted by the setting. The hall, its vaulted glass ceiling three stories high, had been turned into fairyland for the gala. Live ivy wound with strings of twinkling lights climbed the balcony supports. Each small high-top table and seating arrangement had an arch of flower-laden branches. The walls were covered in fine cloth screened with vines and forest scenes, giving the impression of unending depth.

He was barely managing his usual studied bonhomie. Royals did not worry. They were not anxious. They never had anywhere else they were supposed to be. They were relaxed and attentive at all times. Some amount of self-deprecating discomfort might be written off as humility, but too much of that and they risked tacitly admitting modern royalty was at best extremely silly, and at worst an utter fraud.

Eddie had walked that line with adroit precision for years—there was a reason the press nicknamed him “Prince Charming.” But tonight, he had no idea where to put himself. Being in the United States when the story broke, and for the two weeks thereafter, had given him a buffer and room to think. Royalty was a curiosity there, and his appearances were more tightly controlled. In London, drifting among the people who made up his family’s social, charitable, and political lives? His panic tasted like a mouthful of coins. He signaled for a glass of champagne at the bar.

Eddie glanced at the perimeter of the room as he took a sip. Here and there, prowling like wolves at the edges of deep woods, were expressionless men and women in sober black suits. Seeking them out was a coping mechanism of his since childhood. Eddie had grown up with a team of armed minders at the periphery of his awareness. Several barely foiled kidnapping attempts had seen to that. The updates and code names, itineraries and check-ins that bounded his life were a comfort rather than an imposition.

Too old to hide behind his detail, Eddie imagined the radio chatter instead. In the mix would be the voice of the man at his back nearly every day for eight years. Even the dread of his first public social appearance in England since the story broke had been tempered by anticipation. Isaac Cole was somewhere in the building. Eddie hadn’t seen him in weeks. Other members of his team had told him that the head of the entire royal protection detail forced his bodyguard to take a holiday while Eddie was in the States. But now they were in the same place again. Eddie long ago stopped trying to convince himself he wasn’t thrilled to know that.

“Eddie!” One of only three people here allowed to call his name crashed into his side in a skid of blush silk and fluttering cutouts designed to give the impression of butterflies. He steadied his younger sister with an arm around her waist. They hadn’t seen each other since before the pictures came out. She held on to his wrist. He wasn’t sure if she meant it as supportive or needed support to stay upright. With Alex, it could be both.

“Sorry, it’s these fucking shoes.” Princess Alexandra of Wales smiled at him. “I didn’t break them in.”

“Why not?”

“No time, and I hate scratching up Louboutins.”

“Is a pristine red sole worth cracking your head open?”

“Depends on the day. Are you all right?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? Questions about my sexual history and orientation yelled at top volume are an extremely pleasant way to begin an evening out.” He spoke low enough that only Alex and the hovering bartender heard. He froze, wondering if she’d sell the comment for a few hundred pounds. Or a few thousand, this week. But he caught sight of the tiny rainbow stud in her right ear, and the woman, in her pristine white shirt and black brocade vest, only winced in solidarity as she passed him another flute of champagne. The recognition and the anonymous sympathy were easier to accept than he thought. Not your fault, he reminded himself.

“I’ll kill them.” The force in Alex’s voice both buoyed and worried him.

 “Please don’t. I’d rather not talk about it here.”

Alex nodded, hitched herself onto a bar stool. She kept hold of his arm, ostensibly for balance, but he knew better. She wanted to protect him, keep him near her. He pressed his cheek to the portion of her elaborate hairstyle that looked like it might survive the affection, and handed her a glass of her own.

“Then what a pleasure it is to see you, Your Royal Highness. And how are things in our favorite ex-colonies?” She sparkled, violence turned to vivacity in a blink of the eye.

“I think we should take them back. At this point, they’d probably greet us as liberators. Tell Mum, she listens to you.”

Alex laughed. It carried, inviting onlookers to enjoy their usual, carefree double act. But she didn’t let go of him. They had been close since they were children, despite a five-year age difference. With family, Alex was unwilling to compromise or leave anyone behind. Physically, she took after their mother, with effortlessly creamy skin Eddie only pretended to and an oval face made for stamps and currency. Honey-blonde hair, thick and straight, a hairdresser’s dream. Only their unsettling, pale blue-green eyes gave away that they were sister and brother. Their father’s eyes. They made her look like a painting. They made him look like a ghost.

Eddie bore an uncanny resemblance to Malcolm Varre, his infamous father. It was one of the many things he wished to ignore tonight. When his parents divorced, he spent a lot of time wishing away his high cheekbones, angular jaw, and widow’s peak. Not to mention his indecently pink lips, curling hair, and out of place, clotheshorse body. All hell on a boy trying to live through secondary school, prince or not.

“Mum doesn’t listen to anyone but Mum,” Alex said. “Sometimes Arthur, probably.”

“Well, he is the heir. Where is the daring young man in his flying machine, anyway? Too busy being a hero to attend the ballet?”

“Didn’t you get the memo yesterday morning?” Their private secretaries circulated memos among the family whenever something of note occurred, instead of troubling many busy and over-scheduled people with talking to one another. Their grandmother used to call it Coronation Bleat.

“Jenny’s had her hands full trying to keep me from reading my mail. Come on,” he said. “What about Arthur?”

A commotion at the hall’s entrance interrupted them. Sophia, Duchess of York, the Queen’s sister, stalked in wearing a tuxedo of her very own, short hair slicked back, crimson velvet scarf with a deep fringe looped around her neck. A stir went through the assembled as she shunned them all in favor of heading straight for her niece and nephew, kissing them each firmly on both cheeks.

“Children.” She took the seat next to Alex and leaned back, one elbow propped on the bar. Her stare was hard as she looked past them, over Eddie’s shoulder. “How are we tonight?”

“Been worse.” Eddie’s lopsided smile was in danger of slipping off his face and crashing to the floor.

“I heard what went on out there. It’s disgraceful.” She hissed the final word.

“We’re trying not to dwell,” Alex said.

“Why would we dwell?” Sophie’s voice was flat. “Who could have predicted that the press would respond in such an appalling fashion? Why should we mind?”

“Is that why you’re dressed like Julie Andrews’ understudy in the national tour of Victor/Victoria? Don’t look at me that way. I’m publicly bisexual now, I’ll make all the musical theatre references I please. I’ll belt Cole Porter songs prancing on top of this bar if I want to.”

Sophie snorted into her champagne flute. “Do that, Edward. But let me get my phone out first. I’ll sell the footage to the Daily Mail for fifty thousand pounds and leave this tawdry life behind. Now cheer up. The pictures were hardly your idea. What were you talking about?”

“Alex was about to tell me why Arthur isn’t here tonight.”

“Oh, that will lighten the mood.” She snagged an hors d’oeuvre off the tray of a passing waiter, gesturing in a magnanimous fashion for them to carry on. Sophie’s role as public ringleader was one she took seriously.

“His Group Captain’s died,” Alex said, in an undertone. “The funeral is tomorrow, but he’s gone up today to be with his unit.”

“God. Was he sick? Did anyone know?”

“It was quite a shock.” Alex accepted Sophie’s offer of a second glass of champagne; Eddie waved her off.

“Dreadful business,” Sophie said. “Arthur won’t have long now. There’s been pressure to ground him for years. Every time your mother gets a cold they all start braying about how irresponsible it is for Arthur to be in active service. If word ever got out—”

She cut herself off. They might have insulated themselves in a cone of protocol at the end of the bar, but the Prince of Wales flying combat missions in the Middle East was a state secret. It only went on because of the Queen’s approval, and the refusal of Group Captain Willoughby Miles to give anyone under his command preferential treatment. Arthur was an exceptional pilot, so he had his missions like all the rest, and promotion on merit to Squadron Leader when he qualified for it. Eddie remembered how proud his normally reticent brother had been to earn that extra stripe.

“It’s past time for him to hang up his flight harness,” Sophie went on. “He’s thirty-one years old. The RAF was never supposed to be his career.”

“He loves it.” Alex had an edge in her voice, and Eddie touched her elbow. She leaned against him for a second, only the hint of a flounce in the motion. Message received, then. “He can’t sit around the palace his whole life, waiting for The Inevitable.” Most children probably didn’t learn inflected euphemisms for their mother’s death and the line of succession from birth, but the Kensingtons couldn’t afford to ignore the ramifications. Ever.

“Of course not,” Sophie said, in her impatient way. “But there are activities better suited to a future king in this day and age, and he should acquaint himself with them.”

“Come on.” Eddie became aware of the growing number of people, as they waited for the true main event of the evening to occur. “We can’t do anything for or about Arthur right now.”

Sophie finally got around to giving him a once-over.

“We’re practically twins, Eddie.”

“Oh, nearly. And the red scarf is symbolic of…?”

Sophie fiddled with the heavy, fringed velvet. “Rob will be here tonight.”

“Your ancient mating rituals mean nothing to me, thank god,” he said. Sophie wagged a finger at him.

“Do you think it’ll work?” she asked, ironic smile only imperfectly masking an insecurity she never seemed to shake about Admiral Robert Helmsley. “We’ve hardly spoken in months.” The solid, quiet Navy man was Sophie’s opposite, dedicated and somber. Eddie had never known him to laugh without Sophie there. Their decades-long, on again-off again relationship would be a running joke in the family as well as the tabloids if the two of them weren’t so serious about it.

“It’s unfair of you to bait him with a tuxedo. He’ll be a hopeless case.”

“Maleficent at twelve o’clock,” Alex whispered, with real pain. Her hand tightened on his forearm.

“And she’s dressing the part.” Sophie’s expression soured. Eddie shifted so that his back was no longer to the room.

Helena Wallace wore a black silk gown, tight on top, with an undulating hem, calling to mind any number of animated villainesses. But Eddie knew the comparison was faulty. She couldn’t be defeated by a trident or a sword. If only.

As always, a dull ache spread through Eddie at the sight of her. Helena had been his mother’s best friend, their welcome guest on family holidays, often found at their weekend breakfasts, back when that was something they did. She was ever up for a chat or a horseback ride. She was in the inner circle—was the inner circle. Her career in society journalism had been assured from the very beginning, with her unparalleled, informal access to the royal family. But that hadn’t been enough for her. Investigative work was her real passion, uncovering scandal and punishing corruption. Capable of pretending legendary sympathy, she got movie stars and politicians to admit things in front of BBC cameras that they would never tell their mothers.

And as for the Kensingtons? They all relied on her. Loved her. She took Alex shopping. Made Eddie smile. Listened to Arthur. Glamorous, polished, and still up for stretching out on the rug in front of the fireplace and playing a board game, Helena filled the gaps Victoria’s schedule left in her children’s lives. And, as it turned out, in Victoria’s marriage as well.

Eddie caught Sophie’s eye and tilted his head at Alex, whose knuckles were now white on the sleeve of his tuxedo. Sophie linked her arm through Alex’s. “I think I see Rob, dearest. Come along. He’s sure to have brought some likely lieutenants with him for seasoning, you can scare the wits out of them.”

Alex hung on to Eddie for the briefest moment, then went with Sophie and didn’t look back. Alex took Helena and Malcolm’s twin betrayals hard. She had been only ten years old when both of them disappeared from Buckingham Palace.

Helena’s relationship with the disgraced former husband of the Queen of England might have tarnished her household name, but in London’s rarefied social and professional worlds, the power players were far too afraid of what she might know about them to blackball her. If any of them cared in the first place.

Her chandelier earrings and matching bracelets caught the light. Eddie wondered bitterly if his father had picked them out for her himself, or merely paid for them. Royal observers speculated—not loudly, but loudly enough—that perhaps Malcolm had been allowed to keep the title and holdings of the Duke of Edinburgh as long as he never made Helena the Duchess. But in the twelve years since the Queen’s former husband and former confidante were photographed arriving at the opera together in public, Malcolm’s hand at the small of Helena’s back, neither one of them seemed inclined to get married.

Eddie didn’t put it past his mother’s lawyers to slide something like that into the innumerable agreements, both official and not, that governed the dissolution of his parents’ marriage. It had been the first divorce of a reigning monarch since Henry VIII and Anne of Cleves. The world was riveted, then frustrated, by how amicable it appeared to be. Eddie sometimes thought they would have been better off to break the shell and leave nothing to the imagination. It had been unthinkable then, and impossible now. Nothing to gain by causing a scene.

Tonight, with camera flashes still burning the insides of his eyelids, all Eddie wanted was a scene.

Rage followed Eddie’s sorrow when he saw her. It broadened his shoulders, put steel in his spine. At least with Helena he knew where he stood—on quicksand. Especially with the suspicions he couldn’t shake clamoring for attention in his head.

She drew up alongside him and motioned to the bartender. The tilt of her head, the way she leaned that slight bit towards him, she was baiting him into conversation. Eddie knew he should walk away, that this was reckless, and stupid, and probably futile. But he had to know.

“Here for a quote, then?” Such a foolish opening gambit with a player like Helena. She gave him a pitying smile, as if to say Why would you try something so clumsy?

“Good evening, Your Royal Highness. Cozy this evening, isn’t it?”

“Us and two thousand of our closest friends.”

“And how is Britain’s favorite prince?”

“Arthur is quite well. And you? Still doing a dishonest day’s work, raking in the muck?”

“I prefer to think of myself as providing a valuable public service.” Her diamonds shimmered as she accepted a glass of champagne over the polished gold and black bar. “Unlike those bottom feeders who invaded your privacy so disgustingly.”

He didn’t move, didn’t even narrow his eyes. “I didn’t know you cared.”

“The situation is abominable. I’ve said so in print.” The calculating glitter in her eyes matched her earrings.

“A few column inches reminding people how you used to be part of the family, combined with the vague implication that my sexuality was ‘obvious’ from childhood, heaped with a healthy dose of disapproval for my mother’s parenting techniques. You’ve been quite generous.” Eddie’s personal assistant had not been wholly successful in shielding him from the news.

“You should be thanking me.”

“As if I ever would.”

“Any port in a storm, Edward.”

“I’d rather drown.”

“Then you’re getting your wish. Lucky little Prince. But I could help you, if you were to sit down with me. Give you an out.”

The sensation of helplessness didn’t ease, but now he felt raw and white-hot inside. “I think you’ve done more than enough outing of me.”

Helena’s veneer cracked as soon as the words were out of his mouth. He saw the surprise, the admiration bending into approval in her expression. With a sickening lurch in his gut, he knew his suspicions were right. She’d done it. She had been the one to dig out and release the photos of him cuddled up tight to a university boyfriend, adoration plain on his face. To expose a vulnerable moment in a way that invited criticism and the worst kind of public speculation when she knew how much harm it would do.

“I will never, ever understand you. It wasn’t enough that you were family? We loved you, and you capitalized on anguish you helped cause to sell newspapers, at the expense of children. And you’re still doing it.”

“You’re not a child now. And you should thank me,” she repeated. “You don’t have to hide any more.”

“That was my decision.” Eddie could hardly breathe through the haze of shame and his own stupidity. Desperate for safety he could never have and hardly believed in. As if, by wishing, he could make the past a terrible dream.

A tall shadow appeared at his elbow. “Your presence is required upstairs, sir.” Rafael Harris regarded Helena with a barely professional chill in his eyes.

“Mummy’s calling?” Helena’s voice was purposefully light, but it had thorns in it. “And you, surrounded by all these beautiful men. How have you managed without compromising yourself?” Her tone was too knowing. Eddie went hot all over except for the icicle of fear inserting itself between his ribs. She doesn’t know anything about your feelings, he reminded himself. She’s fishing, that’s all. He lurched back into the moment, the chatter and the perfume reasserting themselves. He was a prince. He was a Kensington. He had to believe that mattered more than his own pain.

“I don’t know, Helena. Compromising oneself is more your style. Enjoy the ballet.”

Eddie turned to go, and saw his father. Malcolm wasn’t supposed to be here tonight. But there he stood, in conversation with an acquaintance, glancing at Eddie. Malcolm’s pleasant expression sharpened into a grin when their eyes met, and for half a second Eddie wanted to return it. But something about insults and injuries stopped him. Harris spoke quietly into his wrist mic and interposed his body between Eddie and the crowd.

“We’ll go up Victoria’s Stairs,” Harris said. Eddie let the hand on his back guide him to the private staircase built for his great-great-great-great-grandmother, so that none of her subjects would see her laboring in all her finery on her way to the royal box. Friezes of operatic scenes decorated the walls, and a succession of crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceilings.

Eddie stopped on the first landing, gripping one of the velvet-covered banisters.

“You need to tell Mother he’s here,” he said. “I don’t want her to be surprised, or, god, Alex.”

“It’s been done, sir.”

Eddie swallowed, trying to breathe calmly. “May I ask a question?”

“Of course.”

“Have I ever made you feel uncomfortable?” He forced himself to meet Harris’s gaze. Attractive yet forgettable, Harris often took point at these gatherings. He looked like James Bond’s kid brother in a tux, more like a social secretary than a trained killer with his open face and easy, quiet manner. Harris specialized in knives. Now he looked like he wanted to use them.

“Not for a single minute.” Harris glanced left and right, then held his hand out, as if they were going to shake on it. Eddie tentatively fit his long, knobbly fingers around Harris’s palm. Harris pressed them, hard. “I’ve been on your team for the last two years. You have never done or said anything that made me feel the least bit uneasy for any reason. You are a joy to protect. Never try to duck us, never cause trouble. I think if anyone fired on us you would probably try to jump in front of me.”

“She leaked the photos,” Eddie whispered. “I’m not sure how, or if it even matters. But she had it done.”

“It’s not your fault.” Harris let go of his hand. “If there were anything to do, we would do it. Unfortunately, we’re only allowed to kill for you under very specific circumstances.”

“Thank you.” Eddie tried to smile. “Everything feels utterly pointless at this moment. And I know I should be going up those stairs, but…”

“Please don’t let that woman poison you against yourself.” Harris clasped Eddie’s shoulder. “Would you like me to get Cole off the roof?”

Eddie rubbed his forehead. He wanted Isaac more than anything. But he also didn’t want to need him. “No. Thank you.”

Harris waited a beat, then raised his wrist to his mouth. “Harris here, coming up with Curly.”

Eddie winced, wrinkled his nose, getting himself back to normal with a well-worn complaint.

“Can’t I have a code name that sounds even halfway interesting? Like Viper. Or Sex Bomb.” Harris blew air through his nose in his on-duty laugh. Eddie preferred his off-duty laugh, which sounded like a barking seal.

“That might prove confusing in a tactical situation.” Harris kept his fingertips in the small of Eddie’s back as they climbed the second flight of stairs. Two close protection officers from Victoria’s detail guarded the entrance to the Royal Box and its adjoining suite, where a cocktail party was going on. Eddie nodded to them. Gunny Jones, the head of Victoria’s security detail, poked her head out of the suite to confirm his presence with her own eyes.

“Good to see you at last, sir,” she said. There was deep sympathy in her eyes, the same as he’d been getting from most people who worked for his family since his return home. It made him feel wildly ill at ease. Usually they ignored everything that went on, and the Kensingtons relied on that veneer of normality to remind themselves of their responsibilities. But there were situations, Sir Anthony Pritchard—his mother’s Private Secretary and one of the most powerful men in England—once told him during the divorce, that transcended discretion, and must be acknowledged with grace. Not your fault, not your fault, not your fault. “Will you be joining us? Princess Alex and the Duchess of York are already here.”

Eddie wrapped himself in the thickest, strongest, most impenetrable layer of Prince of the Realm he could conjure. Two dozen or so luminaries of society and the theatre world, basking in the reflected glow of their sovereign’s—his mother’s—approval were hardly going to be his most difficult room. Gunny ushered him through the door, into the flow of ever-so-polite conversation.

The looks he received from men and women were more openly flirtatious and appraising than usual, which set him back nearly as much as scorn would have. Alex tucked her hand into his elbow and stayed glued to his side, clearly feeling guilty for abandoning him earlier. Eddie was nervous for a different reason now.

Victoria, deep in conversation with the directors of the Royal Opera and the Royal Ballet, was resplendent in a pale blue column of a gown that delicately brushed her figure. The neckline, while not too low, still left plenty of room for her sparkling teardrop diamond-and-sapphire jewelry. Her hair was pulled off her face into a gentle style around a matching tiara. She was the most elegant woman in the room without ever seeking to dazzle. He had the oddest urge to run up and ask for a hug. When their eyes met, she didn’t react at all. It gutted him, but he knew his insides were made of gaps where his mother was concerned. He tried to wear it lightly, especially now that he knew for a fact that he had been compromised by her former best friend. It would cut her to the core if she knew. He resolved that she wouldn’t find out from him.

The house lights dimmed. The Queen’s guests went to find their seats, giving the family time to collect themselves before their official appearance in the royal box.

Usually Victoria liked to center herself silently, no matter how much fuss Sophie and Alex created between them before an entrance, but tonight she reached out and took Eddie’s hand. “It’s good to see you.”

“Dad’s here,” he blurted out. In case she didn’t know. In case there hadn’t been time to inform her. A flicker in her smooth expression, and she inclined her head.

“I know, dear. Gunny told me. It’s all right. You’re looking very well.” The last statement, almost a question, carried the weight of a command.

“As well as can be expected.”

“You’ll come through it,” she said, and he didn’t know which of them she was trying to convince. The rumble of the audience subsided, reminding the royal family that they had a job to do. Victoria only let go of his hand when the orchestra struck up “God Save the Queen.”

“They’re playing my song,” she murmured. It might have been his own frazzled mental state, but he thought he heard an apology buried in the words. The door to the box was opened for her by an attendant. Victoria faced the roaring applause of over two thousand people alone.

Eddie looked around at his family, taking in Alex’s determination, Sophie’s impatience. Arthur’s absence. His own nauseated terror of disappointing everyone gave way in the face of knowing there was no escape. The thought of Isaac somewhere nearby made it easier to breathe. He took his sister’s arm and they went together into the spotlight and the storm of noise.