Nick—just behind his father, who stood at a podium on one of the angular atrium staircase’s landings—remained serene and impassive, despite the hot-button polo issue. I’d become fluent enough in Nick’s facial expressions to recognize this veneer as Advanced Pleasantness. It meant he was annoyed.
“We’re delighted to christen the new Ashmolean with never-before-seen private writings of our Lyons ancestors,” Richard continued. “The Princess of Wales wishes she could have been here. She’d have been immensely proud to see Nicholas contributing to Oxford’s history and culture. Especially as she once practically had to drag him through the Louvre.”
Nick gave a hearty belly laugh, as did the crowd, and Richard preened. I knew he and his staff had swept Nick out of Pembroke for Official Princely Duties at bang on ten o’clock that morning—I woke up at the sound, then passed out again—but he seemed as rested as if he’d gotten ten hours. Lean and handsome in his navy suit, Nick had worked the crowd like a pro, shaking hands, chatting up old ladies, posing for photographs with museum dignitaries, and making merry with his father. It was like he’d been born to do it, and of course that’s exactly what he was; this Nick was utterly in command, with none of the jagged edges and endearing goofiness that I was used to, and it made him a bit alien to me.
Richard finally yielded him the microphone.
“I’ll have you know my mother never dragged me through the Louvre,” Nick said, practically twinkling. “Because I wouldn’t let her get me past the entryway. She had to sit there and play cards with me while Freddie and the others got a private look at the Mona Lisa.” The crowd roared. “It was worth it. I won,” he added, cheekily, as Richard reached out to squeeze his son on the shoulder. It was a warm moment in complete opposition to the frosty one in the paper a few weeks back—the news would later call it an affectionate father-son volley, presenting a united front in the face of rumors of friction—and the elderly, wealthy benefactors loved it.
For different reasons, so did our friends.
“Better laugh than his father got. Take that, Prince Dick,” grumbled Bea from behind me. I turned to look at her, surprised. “May I help you?” she asked haughtily.
“I hope you’ll take the time to enjoy the exhibit tonight before it opens tomorrow,” Nick was saying. “I know I must, because during term—”
“Blah, blah, blah.” Clive whispered into my ear, giving it a nip.
“Shh.”
“No one’s paying attention to us,” Clive said. “They’ll never notice if we sneak off and find a dark corner. Everyone’s too busy gossiping about him and India.”
“Look at her down there,” Bea grumbled. “The cat that got the cream. The cat that got several pints of cream.”
Even from up high, I could see the glowing face of India Bolingbroke, who had not arrived on Nick’s arm but whom the rumor mill—so, Clive—insisted had been placed specially in the front row on the ground floor, along with a clutch of Richard-approved luminaries. The appearance caused reporters to use words like adoring and ladylike and exceedingly well matched in the papers the next day. I couldn’t imagine she and Nick were actually that tight. Nick had shortened or rescheduled several outings with her in favor of hanging out with me, and I never saw her on our floor at all. I assumed she’d been inside his room, but I couldn’t have guessed when, and although I’d seen them holding hands surreptitiously in a dark bar, he’d never so much as given her a peck on the cheek in public. But that night I had witnessed him guiding her gently through the throng, leaning in attentively, drawing her into conversations. If she was besotted, he was at the very least protective.
“Richard loves her,” Clive said, in reporter mode, as we watched India applaud exuberantly. “Fancy parents, rich enough not to be grasping, not a whiff of scandal.”
“Nor a whiff of personality,” Bea said. “I’ve known Nick since we were tots”—Gaz mouthed along at this behind her back—“and she’ll bore him to tears in a week.”
But unquestionably, India looked like the sort of person who ought to be dating a prince: model-gorgeous with a megawatt smile, wearing a dress that easily cost two thousand pounds. Given that nearly everything I owned at this time was from Old Navy, I’d greeted Nick’s group invitation to the gala with a panicked phone call to Lacey, who pointed out that I had a clothing designer living next door. This turned out to be a mistake: Joss had insisted I wear her favorite new design, a stretchy crushed-velvet-and-leather dress that twisted strangely across my torso, in which I resembled nothing so much as a lampshade at a biker bar. Cilla had taken one look at it and lent me a very large coat.
We drank flute upon flute of free Champagne while Nick made the rounds, introducing India to a series of elaborately bearded lords. She certainly seemed to charm Nick’s father. To the outsider and even to many insiders, Richard seems like a relic, a man meant to rule five hundred years ago when a mere flash of his sword could vanquish his enemies and oppress the peasants. But with India that night, Richard laughed and was as solicitous as Nick, which the news claimed was tantamount to him anointing her as his future daughter-in-law.
It was two hours before we got anywhere near them.
“Thank God,” Nick said, excusing himself from whomever Richard was speaking to; Richard never abandoned the conversation, yet kept a firm eye on Nick’s back. “I have answered the same two questions forty-five times.” He eyed my massive coat. “Are you cold?”