The Heir Affair

I had to go through it in public.”
His sad eyes, blue pools so similar to Nick’s, cut me to the quick. Then he dipped his head toward me, the better to speak quietly as his voice cracked. “You were there. You are the only other person who really knows how it was. How low we both were. And then the worst thing I’ve ever done, ever, became public. And you left, Bex. And I had to be the face of it alone.”
The front door opened. Freddie leapt away from me so fast that the railing actually rattled.
“Hello,” said Nick stiffly. His sunglasses made it hard to tell which one of us he was looking at more closely.
“Hello, yes, hi. Bex and I were just catching up,” Freddie said, looking anywhere but at either of us.
Nick took this in for a second, and then pointed at the dossier Freddie was still bookmarking. “Bit late to start cramming now.”
“I don’t need to cram. I read it twice last night,” Freddie said. “I’m excited to hear how they were able to tell that the bloke they found with the tapestry had died by choking on a cheese sandwich.”
“And I hear congratulations are in order,” Nick said. “Father tells me Gran is making you a Counsellor of State. It’s an honor, being one of her official proxies.” Nick’s tone had mounted into one of false joviality. “And to get it before the direct heir does? It’s unheard of.”
“Father has come to respect what I can contribute. I was touched to know Gran agrees,” Freddie said loftily. “I’m sure you’ll get there.”
“Quite,” Nick said coldly. “Well done, you.”
“Yes, it’s nice to have this one thing, at least,” Freddie said.
Both men glanced at me, before we heard the crunch of the Range Rover’s tires on gravel.
“I think I’ll ride up front,” said Freddie, stalking over to the car and disappearing inside.
I reached for Nick’s hand. “At least he didn’t use the word fine?”
Freddie spent the whole ride to Hampton Court chatting with PPO Twiggy about any weightless issue that came to mind—next year’s World Cup favorite, compression socks, whether pistachios were worth the trouble. Nick and I were content to flip through our dossiers in the back seat and occasionally murmur commentary to one another.
“I can’t believe we’ve known each other this long and you never took me to see William the Third’s toilet,” I said.
“And yet you married me anyway,” he said.
Unless I was crazy, he said that part a little bit louder.
The redbrick towers of Hampton Court—Henry VIII’s favorite residence, and accordingly the scene of a lot of questionable behavior—popped against the azure sky, and a breeze coming off the Thames tickled the leaves on the ancient oaks. It was the kind of idyllic British summer day that graced countless postcards, had inspired two thousand poems about flowers, and made everyone forget how much rain they got the rest of the year. Even the swans looked pleased with their lot in life. I wished there was time to explore the grounds, but there was no sightseeing on the agenda: After a walk-through of the exhibit, Nick was meant to give a speech about his undying passion for the woven arts, after which the three of us would pose for photos, put on a display of unbothered family unity in which everyone was only being sexy in the correct directions, and head home to London. In, out, and on our way.
The rule was that we shouldn’t look closely at the press pack, but it was impossible for me not to notice half of the reporters holding up phones, the rest furiously scribbling in notebooks. There was also a sizable pack of civilians, either there solely to eyeball us or gobsmacked to bump into the UK’s most notorious trio on their day out. We all exited the car smoothly and without a flashing incident (Bea would be relieved to know my skills on that front hadn’t rusted), Nick placing a very pointed hand on the small of my back as we moved toward the awaiting historians and dignitaries. Later, People would interpret this to mean our marriage was on solid ground, and the Daily Mail would claim Nick was asserting sexual dominance in front of Freddie and the world. According to me, it was both.
Nick reached our hosts first, but it was Freddie who spoke.
“I’m afraid we’re keeping some of these fine folks from getting lost in the maze,” he quipped to appreciative giggles.
The purpose of the event was to show off our circle of three, but instead, Freddie was dialed in as a solo act. He deployed a well-received joke about sharing ginger genetics with Henry VIII that magically avoided veering into the minefield of how Henry’s first wife originally married his older brother. He remembered one of the Hampton Court tour guides from a previous event at a totally different historic royal palace. He fist-bumped a child, then high-fived its parent. (Nick knew better than to try to outdo any of this, so he simply laughed along and exuded calm warmth, even if inside it had to be killing him.) At one point, Nick fumbled the tapestry’s country of origin and Freddie loudly corrected him; when Nick asked how long it could withstand the projections of light that illustrated its original splendor before sustaining damage, Freddie piped up, “Six minutes at a time, five times a day, if I remember correctly?” I couldn’t ding him for being prepared, but it was disorienting, and disingenuous, because Nick and Freddie both knew Nick was simply asking the second question to engage the computer technicians. The guides moved on to a different subject, oblivious, but I saw Nick angrily tighten his light blue tie as if trying to strangle himself. Freddie’s apparent commitment to upstaging us was complete.
As we gathered in a small break room for a sip of water before Nick’s speech—out of sight of the reporters trailing us—Nick walked straight past Freddie to the tall