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—Text message exchange between two prepaid mobile numbers, 13 January 2024
WHILE THERE ARE MORE THAN two dozen people crammed around the long conference table, no one says a word as Maisie takes a menacing step toward Ben, her fists clenched like she actually knows how to use them.
“Did you hit your head?” she says nastily. “Or have you conveniently forgotten what His Majesty told you before we left for Klosters?”
Ben leans back in his chair and surveys her with the arrogance of someone who thinks he’s untouchable. “I believe the word ‘banished’ may have been batted around once or twice,” he says. “By all means, if Uncle Alexander feels the need to remind me, he’s more than welcome to do so.”
“That is enough,” says Constance sharply from the seat across from him, while Maisie looks like she’s about to burst into flames. The Queen Mother sits beside an expressionless Helene, who, to her credit, seems like she’s only barely managed to pull herself together for this meeting, with her hair limp, the cords of her neck strained, and the circles beneath her eyes so dark they’re purple.
Ben’s smirk is unmistakable now as he looks at us one by one, and while it may be my imagination, I swear his searing gaze lingers on me for a beat longer than the others. “I can’t be the only one who’s actually read the Regency Act of 2005,” he says. “That is why we’re all here, is it not?”
I barely have time to wonder how he knows that before Maisie speaks up again. “It has nothing to do with you, Benedict—”
“I think you’ll find that it does,” he says. “I don’t have the exact wording in front of me, so forgive me if I’m paraphrasing, but I do believe it states that should the heir to the throne be eighteen at the time of ascension or regency, then the four most senior members of the royal family shall gather to advise her, and to rule by council until she turns twenty-one. Am I wrong?”
Maisie slowly turns a shade of red I’ve never actually seen on a human face before. “It doesn’t mean you.”
“As I said before, dear cousin, I think you’ll find that it does,” says Ben, and there’s a hint of victory in his voice that makes me want to wring his neck.
My sister narrows her eyes. “Then I suppose we’ll just have to remove you, won’t we?” she says. “It should be a simple vote. Four to one, I think—”
“You aren’t Queen yet, Your Royal Highness,” says Ben. “And even if Uncle Alexander dies today, I believe you’ll find that you won’t have the power to get rid of me for another two and a half years. The act is ironclad. Uncle Alexander’s rather clever that way, isn’t he? Or…wasn’t he?” He drums his fingers against the mahogany table. “I’m afraid I’ve been remiss in asking how our beloved King is doing. Or not doing, so to speak.”
It’s only Kit’s tightening grip on my elbow that stops me from launching myself at Ben, and Maisie actually takes a step toward him. But whether it’s the dozens of curious eyes on her, or the very real possibility that Ben does in fact know what he’s talking about, she stops herself from getting too close and instead turns to Helene.
“Mummy,” she demands, “he can’t be here. He can’t be part of this.”
Helene exchanges a look with Nicholas, who’s leaning slightly away from his son. “I’m afraid Benedict is correct,” she says, her honeyed voice brittle. “Alexander was…very specific about the requirements in the event of his incapacitation, and unfortunately we’re all bound to them. Any change would require an act of Parliament, which would surely take time, and it would, I fear, also require an explanation. A public explanation.”
Ben pushes a lock of hair out of his eyes, practically basking in the glory of his win. “Would you like to be the one to explain to Parliament and the entire world why you don’t want me here, Maisie? Or would you prefer I elaborate for you?”
For a split second, she tenses in a way that makes it seem like she really is about to knock him upside the head. But Jenkins clears his throat, and he pointedly positions himself between them, heading off the fight that Ben is so gleefully stoking.
“If I may, Your Royal Highness,” he says to Maisie. She nods stiffly, still glaring at Ben with the heat of a thousand suns, and Jenkins turns toward him. “Your recollection of the Regency Act of 2005 is mostly correct, Your Royal Highness. But I fear there is one point in particular that you have misinterpreted.”
Ben goes very still. “Is that so?” he says, an edge to his voice.
“Indeed,” says Jenkins. “The act asks that the four blood relatives closest to His Majesty and the heir to the throne, including the Counsellors of State, step up to advise Her Royal Highness. It never specifies that they must be designated senior royals—or even royalty at all.”
In an instant, all eyes are on me, and with sharp horror, I realize why I’m here. “Wait,” I say suddenly. “Wait—”
“Is this a joke?” says Ben, leaning forward in his chair so quickly that he nearly leaps out of it. “Evangeline isn’t any older than Maisie—”
“She meets the age requirement of eighteen,” says Jenkins mildly. “And forgive me, Your Royal Highness, but you yourself are only nineteen.”
Ben sputters. “But—she’s American. That alone invalidates her eligibility—”
A peal of laughter escapes from Maisie, so unexpected that even Ben looks taken aback. “Evan has a British passport,” she manages. “And I’m fairly certain that as far as close relatives go, daughter trumps estranged nephew by a bloody mile.”
I’m still reeling, trying to absorb what no one has actually said out loud, but Ben stands rigidly, fixing his glare on me. “A matter of interpretation,” he says, like this is somehow my fault. “And I’m certain the palace lawyers will see it my way.”
Jenkins clears his throat again. “I fear it is not a matter of interpretation,” he says. “I helped His Majesty draft the clause in question, and he was exceptionally clear about his intention. He worded it in such a way to specifically ensure that Her Royal Highness would have the support of the three Counsellors of State—Her Majesty the Queen, Her Majesty the Queen Mother, and His Royal Highness the Duke of York—and her only sibling, Evangeline Bright, once they both turned eighteen. There was, in fact, no discussion regarding your involvement in any potential regency. Sir.”
Jenkins says this last word with just a hint of bite, though his posture is straight and his expression unmoving. And I’m absolutely sure that even if Ben enlists half the lawyers in the UK to fight him on this, Jenkins will stand his ground until the bitter end.
Someone knocks on the doorjamb, and Kit and I turn to find two members of the palace security team standing directly behind us. They don’t say a word, but they don’t have to, and when I look at Ben again, he’s turned an unhealthy shade of puce.
“I see,” says Ben through his clenched jaw, and yet again, he eyes us one by one until his stare falls on me. There’s a new layer to his hatred now—a malevolence so intense that it chills me to the bone. “Then I suppose that settles it. Though I wouldn’t be terribly surprised if the public were…less than enthusiastic about Evangeline playing a role in this, all things considered.”
