The Heir Affair

floors. After the disastrous procession out of Westminster Abbey on my wedding day, we had tumbled out of our carriages and hustled to the Balcony Room, per the schedule—which of course had not included a clause for what to do if a sex scandal broke during the ceremony. We’d huddled like cornered prey and listened as Eleanor’s steps grew louder, faster, closer. Unbidden, the Jaws theme had popped into my head.
And then she had appeared, resplendent in cerulean, her simple cake-shaped hat still pinned immaculately in place despite the fury on her face underneath it. My nervous laugh had died in my throat.
Everyone else filed in behind her: Nick’s father, Richard, his jaw so clenched and angular, you could use it to file metal; my ashen mother, arm in arm with Nick’s aunt Agatha; his uncle Edwin guiding his wife, Elizabeth, five months pregnant but moving like it was five years (which in a way it had been; this was their third child in about that much time), and Nick’s centenarian great-grandmother Marta. Nick’s wretched cousin Nigel was nowhere to be found, which was a relief. If anyone was likely to broadcast the fallout live on Instagram, it was him.
“Bex, my God. I had no idea,” murmured Elizabeth, drifting past to take a heavy seat in one of the silk-upholstered love seats. “Aren’t you a minx.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Isn’t it?” This was Eleanor. “Perhaps you should educate me on what it is that I think.”
The contempt on her face was so complete, so hard and fast. If it wasn’t pure hatred, it was incestuously close. Fresh shame pounded my chest.
“It’s rich that you’re trusting the Mail, when it’s printed rubbish about every single person in this room,” Nick said. “We were duped. Clive lay in wait for years until he found a lie that was plausible.”
“A lie,” Eleanor echoed. “Frederick did not, then, make a pass at Rebecca.”
“Well…” Freddie began.
“And Rebecca’s sister did not provide voice recordings detailing what she saw of the affair, and Frederick’s infatuation, and there is no proof of her calling Rebecca—what was the catchy little phrase, dear?”
Lacey’s mouth opened but no sound came out.
“The exact wording was ‘She is a cheating trashbag sex addict who won’t be happy unless she gets all the attention.’” Our heads swiveled toward the Queen Mother, who waggled her phone. “It’s all over Twitter.”
“What a charming new way you’ve found to make a mockery of the monarchy, Rebecca,” Eleanor said. “I’m thrilled to be shepherding us through the lowest point in our history.”
“Hardly in history,” Freddie said.
“Didn’t one of your lot die by a hot poker thrust up his bum?” piped up Elizabeth.
“Not to mention all the questionable Henrys,” Edwin added.
“Arthur the Second was a massive prat,” Marta said plainly.
“It’s not as black and white as Clive makes it sound,” Nick added. “It was a misunderstanding.”
“No,” Eleanor said.
Lacey took a stab. “Clive drugged me. He—”
“No,” Eleanor thundered. “No excuses.”
“They’re not excuses,” Nick spat back, his voice jumping an octave. “It is complicated. Clive didn’t get it exactly wrong, but he also didn’t get it right. You cannot lay blame at any one person’s feet, certainly not without bloody listening.”
“Nick, don’t yell,” I said. “You’ll make it worse.”
“Worse?” Eleanor trilled with a frosty, mirthless laugh. “How could it be worse? The entire world saw those meaningless vows. We are a laughingstock.”
Richard glowered. “It seems to me that the common denominator in every embarrassment of the last few years is Rebecca,” he said. “Eliminate her from the equation and none of this happens.”
“And that’s exactly what we’re going to do,” Eleanor concluded.
“You can’t,” Nick said. “We saw to that.”
Eleanor cocked her head, as if unclear whether her ears were working.
“This wedding was for ceremony,” Nick said. “Everything’s already been signed and sealed and witnessed, and, yes—er, cover your ears, Nancy—it’s been consummated. You can’t undo it without making it worse. It’s done.”
Eleanor’s eyes hardened into sapphires. “You knew this was coming?”
“Er, yes, but only barely,” Nick said, flustered. “Clive sneaked into the rehearsal dinner to torture us. After that confrontation, the plan just sort of came together.”
“And then you were simply too busy consummating to warn me that an unprecedented fiasco was about to drop in my lap?”
“Ooh, The Sun called her the Whore of Bexylon,” Marta said, poking at her phone. “That’s clever.”
“Shush, Granny,” whispered Edwin. “Although, can I just see?”
“‘The Princess Is a Porter-stitute’ is a bit of a reach,” Marta said, turning the screen to Edwin. “She’s not an actual princess.”
“Your Majesty, we didn’t intend to disrespect you,” I told Eleanor. “We just…didn’t think he’d go through with it.”
Eleanor snapped her head toward me. “Lies. Your secret little wedding was because you knew he very well might. You may be an absolute idiot, Rebecca, but I am not.”
Mom put her hand on my shoulder. “Do not speak to my daughter that way.”
“The audacity!” Eleanor scoffed. “You come in here with your squalid furniture company and your loud husband and your unruly offspring, and trample the dignity of this institution, and then you show no remorse for having raised an unrepentant trollop.”
My mother marched right up into Eleanor’s face. “I said not to speak to, or about, my daughter that way,” she said in a low staccato. “Earl Porter was worth ten times you people. He loved his children for who they are, not for what they could do for him. I haven’t heard you say the word family once. Monarchy, institution, history—never family. But this is a family, or it’s supposed to be. Stop acting like a mob boss, and start acting like a grandmother.”
Every living being in the room, and possibly some of the painted ones, seemed gobsmacked by this outburst—Mom included. Her confidence visibly ebbed the longer Eleanor remained mute, and she backed away until she was standing between me and Lacey, taking each of our hands. Eleanor’s were clenched, her body all but quaking from the effort it took to retain her composure.
“I have reigned