Page 27 of Revenge

The entire room was abuzz with excitement. Yet again a small crowd formed around a beaming Duncan’s table, who shouted out the headline, “Simpson-West plots Prince of Wales’ demise!”

The paper had printed a transcript of Blake’s speech, along with a link online where anyone could listen and verify that he’d actually spoken about how he would benefit from the death of a senior royal. A fourth year visiting his older sister pulled out his phone and broadcasted the recording to the room.

Charlotte trotted in with her two remaining doppelgängers. I guessed with the attention now on Blake, she felt safe enough to show her face in the dining room.

I reached for a pot, poured myself a cup of tea, and shook my head. “Someone’s embellished this. I don’t remember Blake saying that much. How’s he taking the news?”

“He’s left to see his mother,” replied Henry.

“Is she in the palace?”

“One of them,” he replied.

“Who could have done this to him?” I asked.

“I have an idea,” Edward’s gaze fixed on Charlotte, who stared back.

My brows rose. I picked up the milk jug and added a splash into my tea. Charlotte hadn’t even been holding a camera on that evening. But if this stunt earned her the animosity of the triumvirate, I would consider it a bonus.

“You could be right,” said Henry. “This is revenge for the time Blake posted that blow job on the projector.”

I winced at the remembered pain of Charlotte kicking me in the diaphragm. That had been almost as bad as the mugful of hot cocoa in the face. “What about the photo? She couldn’t have taken that.”

“If she set up her camera on the mantelpiece and waited for Blake to come in, she would have recorded the entire event.” One side of Henry’s lips quirked into a smile. “He could never resist fellatio.”

Edward snorted. “Good old Blake."

I raised the teacup to my lips and scowled. They needed to stop talking about Blake’s blow job escapades.

By the next day, news spread to the Sunday papers, who reprinted the article with a cropped picture featuring just Blake and the joint, and on Monday morning, Buckingham Palace issued a statement that Blake had been under the influence of drugs when he had made those boasts, and that they had not come from his stepfather as Blake had claimed. The statement concluded that he would receive counseling for his addiction.

At lunchtime, someone posted a video clip on the Mercia-Net of Blake’s stepfather, the prince, issuing a statement denying that he had discussed his brother’s death as Blake had claimed. Blake’s mother stood at his side, clad in vintage Chanel, exuding elegance and silent dignity. Her black hair was swept up in a chignon, highlighting similar, prominent cheekbones and eyes as dark as Blake’s. I chewed on my bottom lip, hiding my amusement. When Blake returned to the academy, he would be a pariah and too occupied with his own social ostracism to bother harassing the likes of Rita.

“The comments Blake made were his and his alone?” Henry spat. “Lying bastard! Do you remember that Easter we all spent in Scotland?”

Edward sipped his orange juice. “It’s etched in my mind. Didn’t His Highness say it the day after he caught Mrs. Simpson-West with the chauffeur?”

I gasped. “What?”

Edward pursed his lips. “The prince was so desperate to keep Mrs. Simpson-West in line, he blurted out that promise in front of us all, hoping she’d stay.”

I held my breath and stared into my plate of kippers. It was one thing to get Blake into trouble, but I didn’t want the royal family to fall into complete disgrace.

Blake didn’t turn up for school the next day. As I took a stroll through the grounds, I pulled out my phone and sent him another text asking how he was coping with the scandal. I held it in my hands for a few minutes, waiting for his reply, but none came.

I moved to search the internet to see if the papers had any update on the story and soon found a report of Blake being escorted by his mother into a rehab facility.

My throat dried, so I went to the tuck shop and ordered a service of orange juice before gulping it down in one. My fingers trembled as I held the glass. I hadn’t expected things to go that far. A bit of public humiliation and a harsh reprimanding from his parents was all I’d wanted from Blake, and now he was in some sort of institution.

I shuddered at the thought of the doctors giving him methadone or some other drug he didn’t need. Apart from that photo, I’d never even seen Blake take drugs, and the boys assured me he wasn’t an addict.

After returning to my room, I locked myself in the bathroom to call Jackie. “Emilia!” she slurred, sounding like she’d had too much to drink. “Do you know how much money we made from syndicating that photo and article?” Before I could answer, she said, “Enough to keep us afloat for a very long time, even if the Press Standards Organization decides to fine us for posting a lewd picture!”

“About that,” I asked. “Did you take it from the camera?”

“It was from the night you went out with Edward Mercia. Why didn’t you probe him on the dodgy goings-on at International House? Nobody but him seems to know what’s happening.”

I rubbed the back of my neck. “I’m working on it.”