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“I didn’t arrange it. Fitz did, ages ago, and I’ll happily let him take the blame for any perceived blunder.”
I finally climb out of bed and carefully start one of the morning stretches my physical therapist recommended. “This isn’t going to steal headlines away from Helene, you know.”
“Darling,” says Tibby in a dry tone that’s much more her usual style, “you and Maisie could walk into the middle of Piccadilly Circus and stab someone, and it still wouldn’t steal headlines from Helene right now. But Doyle’s desperate.”
“Clearly,” I say. “And you never know—maybe he’ll get lucky, and whoever shot me will try again. That would probably make a few front pages.”
As Tibby goes ashen once more, my phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I glance at the screen. This early, I shouldn’t have any messages, but there’s a single text from an unknown number I don’t recognize. And as I open up the conversation, my finger already hovering over the delete icon, I freeze, and every single cell in my body goes cold.
Good luck in London today. I’ll be watching.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
You are a member of the British royal family. We are never tired, and we all love hospitals.
—Mary of Teck (1867–1953)
THE CROWD WAITING FOR MAISIE and me in front of the Royal London Children’s Hospital is enormous.
It’s not just the usual group of fans and photographers. A clamoring mass of tabloid journalists is there, too, held back by a single line of police, and I can hear the questions they hurl at my sister and me as we greet well-wishers behind the metal barricade on the opposite side.
“Mary! Are your parents getting divorced?”
“How do you feel about your mother shagging your uncle?”
“Evangeline! Is it true the affair started after you arrived?”
“Is your mother sleeping with the King?”
“Mary! Do you have anything to say about your father’s mistress?”
“Evangeline!”
“Mary!”
“Evangeline!”
“Mary!”
The fans aren’t much better, with their worried looks and sympathetic words of support—some for Helene, some for us. A few want to know how I’m feeling, and more than one dares to ask Maisie directly about the Switzerland photos. But her dazzling smile never falters, and I follow her lead, not wanting to be the weak link.
At last a frazzled-looking Fitz and a steely Tibby usher us through the front doors, and we’re greeted by an official photographer, members of the Royal Rota, and nearly two dozen hospital employees and board members. Doctors, nurses, administrative assistants, charity representatives—their names and positions all blur together, and my face starts to hurt from all the smiling. Maisie is a consummate professional, though, and she more than makes up for what I lack in grace and charm, asking questions, offering compliments, and laughing at every terrible joke. The photographer mercifully spends much more time focusing on her, and I take advantage of his inattention to find my footing.
I start to relax halfway down the line, and my interest is genuine as I ask about the hospital and the role each person plays. It’s one of the things I’ve learned from Maisie over the past six months—my job here isn’t to be the center of attention, but to make our hosts feel like the most important people in the world. My sister does it flawlessly, and while I’m still learning, it helps that I feel like I have to earn the welcome that’s always given toher.
Finally we reach the end of the line, where the well-dressed head of the hospital charity greets Maisie like she’s known her for years. They exchange kisses on the cheeks, and Maisie turns toward me with a flourish.
“And this is my sister, Evangeline,” she says warmly. “Evangeline, this is my godmother, Lady Peggy Merrit, director of the Children’s Trust.”
Suddenly it makes sense that Alexander felt comfortable sending us here, and I take her offered hand. “It’s really nice to meet you.”
“And you, Evangeline,” says Peggy—or Lady Merrit, I suppose, but I’m still stubbornly adverse to titles. “We’ve all been so very worried about you.”
I smile graciously. “I feel great, and I’m honored to have the opportunity to learn more about the incredible things you do here,” I say, which is the line Tibby’s fed me in case anyone asks about the supposed hunting accident. It’s not a lie, exactly, and it swiftly turns the conversation back to our visit.
“We’ve certainly been looking forward to it,” says Peggy. “Come—we have a wonderful tour planned, and the children are so very excited to see you both.”
Maisie takes the lead, as she always does, and I end up a step behind. But as we move through the lobby, I spot a collection of flower arrangements lining the front desk, and a chill runs down my spine.
