1

Beatrice

Six weeks later

Beatrice had never heard the palace so silent.

Normally its halls echoed with noise: butlers giving orders to footmen; tour guides lecturing groups of students; ambassadors or ministers chasing after the Lord Chamberlain, begging for an audience with the king.

Today everything was still. Dust sheets hung over the furniture, emitting a ghostly glow in the half-­light. Even the crowds that usually thronged the main gates had melted away, leaving the palace stranded, an island in a sea of empty sidewalks and trampled grass.

Behind her, Beatrice heard her mom getting out of the car. Sam and Jeff had elected to stay at the country house another night. When they were younger, the three siblings used to go there together—­in a dark SUV, watching movies on its drop-­down TV—­but Beatrice could no longer ride in the same car as her sister. The monarch and the first in line for the throne weren’t permitted to travel together, for security reasons.

She’d only made it halfway across the entrance hall when her heel snagged on an antique carpet. She stumbled—­and a firm hand reached out to steady her.

Beatrice looked up into the cool gray eyes of her Revere Guard, Connor Markham.

“You okay, Bee?”

She knew she should reprimand him for using her nickname instead of her title, especially in public, where anyone might overhear. But Beatrice couldn’t think properly with Connor’s hand on hers. After all these weeks of distance, the feel of his touch sparked wildly through her veins.

Voices echoed down the hallway. Connor frowned but took a swift step back, just as two footmen turned the corner, accompanied by a man with grim features and salt-­and-­pepper hair: Robert Standish, who’d worked as Lord Chamberlain for Beatrice’s father, and now for her.

He swept a formal bow. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

Beatrice tried not to flinch at the title. She still wasn’t used to Your Majesty being directed at her.

The footmen began moving from room to room, whipping away dust sheets and tossing them in a pile. The palace sprang to life as ornate side tables and delicate brass lamps were hurriedly uncovered.

“I decided to come back early. I just . . .” Beatrice trailed off before saying I just needed to get away. This past month at Sulgrave, the Washingtons’ country estate, was supposed to have been a getaway. But even surrounded by family, she’d felt alone. And exhausted.

Each night Beatrice tried to stay awake as long as she could, because once she fell asleep the dreams would come. Horrible, twisted dreams where she had to watch her father die, over and over again, and know that it was her fault.

She had caused her dad’s death. If she hadn’t shouted at him that night—­hadn’t threatened to marry her Revere Guard and renounce her position as queen—­then King George might still be alive.

Beatrice bit back a sigh. She knew better than to let herself think like this. If she did, her mind would sink like a stone, deeper and deeper into a well of grief without ever touching bottom.

“Your Majesty.” Robert glanced down at the tablet he carried with him at all times. “There are a few things I’d like to discuss. Should we head up to your office?”

It took a moment for Beatrice to realize that he meant her father’s office. Which belonged to her...