His Royal Secret (14 page)

James took another sip of his coffee, though by now it had to be cold. “You were being a shit because you stayed over for the first time and got scared that I’d want to turn this into a proper love affair. Didn’t you?”

Ben hesitated. “Yes.”

“No need to panic,” James said dryly. “We have a nice clean arrangement. I’m not going to push the boundaries any more than you are. But that doesn’t mean we have to behave like strangers, does it?”

“Of course not. I’ve been childish.” By now Ben felt thoroughly stupid. Why should James turn him out in the night like a trick who’d paid off a hooker? They were both rational adults. Staying until morning had been both practical and pleasant. They could be friendly with each other without worrying about complications. “Forgive my rudeness.”

James’s eyes glinted with repressed laughter—or was that wild energy something else? “Now, why should I forgive you?”

By the time Ben had dragged James back to bed and shown him precisely why, it was very nearly lunchtime. Ben wound up walking out of the network of palaces well after 11 a.m., a spring in his step and a smile on his face as he merged into the pedestrians bustling along the sidewalks. His ideal arrangement had only become better.

But he glanced back over his shoulder once at the palaces, and thought that, from a great distance, they could be mistaken for a fortress. Ben thought the fortress was better at keeping people inside than keeping out the world beyond.

“Hey there!”

Ben stopped short, startled; in front of him stood Roberto Santiesteban from work, in track pants and a fleece hoodie. Sweat shone upon Roberto’s skin; no doubt he was mid-run. “Oh. Hi. Hi! How are you?”

“Been better. Why I decided to train for a half-marathon—you know, at the moment, it’s beyond me.” Roberto wiped his forearm across his forehead. “What the heck are you doing in this part of the city on a Saturday?”

James’s paranoia paid off, because Ben could say, without a pause, “I got permission to work with the historical archives in St. James’s Palace. For the book.”

“Oh, yeah? Cool. I didn’t even know they had that kind of stuff there.”

“Sure. You know, charters for the East India Company, that sort of thing.” Best not to play it up too much, because then Roberto might become curious, which would be deadly. “I was going to grab a coffee. Want to join me?”

“Right now if I had coffee my heart would probably explode.” But Roberto grinned. “Go someplace where I can grab a bottle of water, though, and you’re on.”

They actually had a good time. Ben made sure to concentrate on drawing Roberto out—talking about him rather than about himself—lest more awkward questions arise.

But the whole time he couldn’t stop thinking about how, in a city of eight and a half million people, he’d still run into somebody he knew at the most inconvenient time. If Roberto could catch him here, so could an observant tabloid reporter.

Ben thought he’d been so careful. Now he knew he’d have to redouble his efforts. One careless moment: That was all it would take to bring James down.

Collar and Leash

Ben had never been one for superhero comics.

It was the dual identities that annoyed him—the idea that anyone with Superman’s powers or Batman’s gadgetry would feel the need to hide, to pretend they were dull and ordinary. As a sullen teenage boy in Berlin, flipping idly through American comics that belonged to his friends, he’d thought that if
he
had powers, he would make sure the entire world knew it.

Now that he was actually leading a double life, however, Ben had begun to see the appeal.

By day, not-so-mild-mannered reporter Benjamin Dahan worked at Global Media Services, taking on the rich and powerful by unearthing their dirty financial secrets. His friend Roberto sometimes went out with him for a couple of beers. In his solitary hours he usually worked on his book. Writing it was proving to be a formidable challenge, but one he relished. London was having an unusually warm autumn, one that invited him to run in the various parks, or just wander along the South Bank to drink in his new city. No one suspected anything out of the ordinary, not even his editor, who sometimes fished for hints about the love affair he’d only ever mentioned once. Ben was his usual self: quiet but aggressive. Confident. On the go. Unencumbered and unshakable.

But by night—

—by night he crept into the palace and became someone else entirely.

Ben’s other self lived for pleasure, and gave as much as he got. He was sensual. Languid. Able to talk for hours . . . at least, after sex. His other self only came to life at James’s touch.

(The only cost he paid during his day-to-day life was shaving every morning instead of sporting his more usual stubble. Couldn’t have the Prince Regent appear in public with beard burn, could they?)

Now that Ben knew he could set aside that other self so easily, he felt freer to indulge it.

“Let me make sure I’ve got this straight,” Ben said late one night, as James pillowed his head on Ben’s shoulder. “I’m a Cat.”

“A Lion,” James clarified. “That’s your breed.”

“And everyone’s either a Cat or a Dog?”

“Not everyone. Most people, but not everyone.” James snuggled closer. “Every once in a while you run into a Turtle—someone so terrified by all the public attention that it completely outweighs whatever they feel about meeting you. They’re so shy that a royal audience is their worst nightmare. They’d rather just duck back in their shells. Indigo always says she’d be a Turtle, and I suspect she’s right. Oh, and there are Goldfish, too.”

“Goldfish?”

“The ones who have no idea who the hell you are. Sometimes they just gawp like this.” James did such a good impression of a goldfish—bugged eyes and gaping mouth—that Ben began laughing. “That nickname’s a bit awful, really. Most of the Goldfish you meet are either mentally disabled or people in non-Western nations who don’t have the slightest reason to know you from Adam. But we named the types as children, and back then the only Goldfish we ever came into contact with were just completely daft.”

Ben kept trying to get this down pat. “With Dogs and Cats, there are Panthers, Siamese, Corgis—of course Corgis—” By now Happy and Glorious sometimes came in to sleep on the floor by the foot of the bed, though Ben drew the line at having them in the room during sex; it was too weird, their little eyes avidly watching. “What other breeds are there?”

“Let’s see. Tigers are Cats who dislike you, but must pretend to like you for political reasons. Beagles are Dogs who like you, but must pretend to dislike you for political reasons.” James smiled. “And Hounds want to have sex with a royal.”

“Maybe I’m not a Lion after all, then.” Ben rolled James onto his back. “Maybe I’m a Hound.”

“We’ll have to make sure,” James whispered against Ben’s lips.

The good mood lasted all through that very steamy night and well into the next morning, when—without any warning—they suddenly had a visitor.

The woman strode through the door of the sitting area as if she lived there, not an hour after breakfast, while James and Ben were lounging on the sofa in sweatpants and T-shirts, with a dog in each lap and half the
FT Weekend
apiece. She said, “Hello hello, thought we might want to put in some face time before our big trip north, and don’t think you’re getting out of—” Then she stopped in her tracks as she saw Ben; in his shock, it took him a moment to recognize this redheaded stranger in jeans and a man’s Oxford shirt as Lady Cassandra Roxburgh. Cassandra stared right back and pointed at him. “Who the hell is
that
?”

“Oh! Of course.” James shifted Happy aside and put down the newspaper. “Cass, darling, this is Ben. Ben, this is Cassandra, my best friend.”

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed. “Ben as in Benjamin Dahan? The reporter from Kenya?”

Ben nodded. “Yes. Pleased to—”

Then he had to stop talking and duck, but too late, because Cassandra had already grabbed the nearest throw pillow and was now bashing him with it.

“You utter
shite
!” she yelled as Ben scrambled backward on the sofa and the corgis started barking. “Do you have any idea how badly you scared James? And James, what are you thinking?” Cassandra’s rage turned on her “best friend” in an instant. “This man lied to you, and you’ve taken him back in your bed? How do you know this isn’t just a longer con?”

“Cass, calm down!” James managed to get the pillow from her, so Ben could again sit upright. “Ben didn’t expose me, remember? And he’s not going to. We had a serious misunderstanding, yes, but that’s in the past.”

“Serious misunderstanding, my arse.” Cassandra tossed her pixie-short hair; she looked a bit like Tinker Bell gone mad. “Or have you secretly been a
novelist
all this time, Mr. Dahan?”

It embarrassed Ben to recall his early deception; that seemed like such a cheap trick, now. “James and I have settled this between ourselves. Do you mind telling me when it became any of your goddamned business?”

That went over about as well as insulting Bruce Banner’s mother. “When you hurt someone I love very dearly—someone who is vulnerable to being manipulated. I’m sorry, James, but you know it’s true, you haven’t forgotten what happened with Niall any more than I have—”

“Please, Cass. Deep breaths.” James put his hands on Cassandra’s shoulders. “Ben’s not going to tell. He really isn’t. The past is past. Okay?”

“Not okay by a long shot,” Cassandra said, but she no longer seemed likely to resort to violence. She straightened herself, exhaled sharply, and settled into pretending Ben wasn’t even there. “We can talk about this later. Could we go ahead and discuss our schedule for the next few weeks?”

James took her by the arm and began hustling her out of the room. “Of course. Come along.” They went upstairs, leaving Ben behind.

He couldn’t decide whether to be more embarrassed by his own past behavior or outraged by her attack. Nor was he thrilled that James had instantly walked off with Cassandra, friendly as ever—though James had defended him, and getting Cassandra out of striking range was no doubt a good thing. But as the minutes went on, Ben no longer thought as much about the altercation itself as something Cassandra had said during it.

When James returned, he was alone. “Sorry about that. Cass is a devoted friend, but she’s got a temper on her, and she protects anyone she loves.”

“Thank God she only got her hands on a pillow. If she’d gone after that bronze lamp, she might have killed me.”

James frowned. “Don’t exaggerate. If Cassandra had actually wanted to kill you, she would’ve used her bare hands. Anyway, she’ll be spending most of the next week with me, in her suite upstairs.”

“She has a suite?”

“Of course. It would be hard to make this whole ruse work if she didn’t.” After a moment, James continued, “She’ll probably slip out to Spencer’s some evening, so we can still get together if you have time. Trust me, she won’t make any more trouble.”

Spencer Kennedy? So that was still going on, and with James’s full consent. Ben felt foolish for not realizing it before. “Listen. About Lady Cassandra—”

“She endures a great deal for my sake,” James said quietly. “Please try to appreciate that.”

Ben didn’t allow himself to be distracted. “What did she mean, when she said something had happened with ‘Niall’? Who is he?”

James flinched, as if from a cut—no, not a cut. The pain in James’s eyes went deeper than that. “Niall Edgerton was my last lover. Before you.”

“Three years ago,” Ben said. He hadn’t forgotten how very long James had gone without.

Slowly James took his seat on the sofa; the pink pages of the
FT
lay forgotten on the floor. “Well. When I broke off the relationship, Niall blackmailed me.” He tried to smile, but the attempt was crooked and pained. “I felt like such a fool. He’d used me, and then he threatened me unless I paid him more and more. Once—once when I tried to call his bluff, he played an audio recording he’d made of us together. It was from one of the first nights we’d ever had sex. That was when I knew he’d never cared for me at all, not even in the beginning. The whole time he’d just been thinking how he could use me best.”

Finally Ben realized why James had been so quick to assume the very worst in Kenya. “Are you still paying him off?”

“No. Niall’s dead. He was killed two years ago.”

Ben went very still.

“Oh, for God’s sake.” James gave him a disgusted look. “This isn’t a thriller novel, Ben. His Majesty’s Secret Service wouldn’t have a man murdered just to hide my sexual history.”

“I didn’t seriously think they would. But you have to admit that sounded odd.”

With a shrug, James continued, “Niall died in a roadway accident. He bought his motorcycle with the money I gave him. Top of the line, he said. He was gloating. Niall would never have been able to afford that motorcycle if I hadn’t paid him off so richly, which means he wouldn’t have been going 140 kilometers per hour on the roadway, which means maybe he wouldn’t have died. Does that mean I killed him after all?”

They sat in silence for a few moments, James looking pale and drawn. Gently Ben laid his hand on James’s shoulder. “You cared for him, didn’t you?”

“I cared for the man I thought Niall was. Which is not the man Niall actually was. I spent the last year hating him. And yet, still, when I learned he was dead—”

James shook his head, and Ben drew him close. They lay together on the long velvet sofa for a while in silence. Ben waited for James’s breaths to steady, for his body to relax, before he asked about the newspaper as though nothing had ever happened.

But moments like that—which seemed so natural within Clarence House—nagged at Ben later, like a shirt that was too scratchy, or shoes that were too tight. There was no reason for he and James not to be kind to each other, or enjoy each other’s company. Still, hearing confessions, comforting old pain: That came dangerously close to entanglement. Ben wondered whether James, so sheltered and so lonely, might not cling to such moments and come to believe that their connection meant more than it really did.

That night, for the first time since his initial weeks in London, Ben decided he might like to go out. Another great thing about London: The gay scene was spectacular.

It had been years since Ben had made himself up for the clubs, but snug jeans and a form-fitting T-shirt would work. Around 11 p.m., he headed toward the nightclub he remembered having the best DJ. Memory served. The drumbeat thumped so powerfully, so seductively, that Ben could feel it vibrating through him when he was still half a block away.

A couple of shots and then he was out on the dance floor, not with anybody in particular, but part of the group writhing beneath multicolored spinning lights. More than one guy bumped against him, ground their bodies on his, locked eyes. Ben felt free to let his hands wander and to let hands wander along his body in return.

I could have any of them
, Ben thought as he took in the four handsome men dancing closest to him.
If I played my cards right, I could probably have a couple of them at once
. Group sex wasn’t something he’d ever indulged in before, but there was a first time for everything, wasn’t there?

Even as a firm hand caressed his groin, though, Ben didn’t get hard. That was probably only because he’d gotten off twice this morning.

James’s hand around his cock, James’s mouth against his neck, both of them twining together in the broad bed as if they were two parts of one being—

The colors and the lights and the drink blended together, and yet Ben couldn’t quite blind himself.

•   •   •

“Are you sure?” James couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

Indigo nodded. She looked as well as he’d seen her in months, and there was even a smile on her face. “Grandmother said Prince Zale was happy to visit me here. As long as I don’t have to go out, how bad can it be?”

It was true that Indigo managed reasonably well in spaces she knew and felt safe in. And Indigo had done well over the past month. Sometimes her ups lasted a good while before the downs returned. James dared to hope she was finally becoming stronger.

Still, how would she deal with a stranger? They hadn’t tested her capacity for dealing with that within the palace very much, for the obvious reason that strangers never got in without being expressly invited, but if Indigo felt up to it, James wouldn’t object. “Very well. I’ll invite him immediately.”

“Good.” Indigo laughed and tossed her hair. “Besides, if the prince gets out of hand, I have Hartley here to defend me. Don’t I, Hartley?”

“I should take a horsewhip to him immediately,” Hartley said as he tottered about adding milk to their tea. He was rewarded with Indigo’s most radiant smile.

“You aren’t doing this just to get Grandmother off my back, are you?” James asked. “Oh, no. She’s not on your back too, is she? I told her to leave this to me.”

“It’s not that. Grandmother hasn’t spoken to me in weeks. I just thought, you know, it might be interesting.”

James knew that, despite Indigo’s deep need for solitude and her desperation to keep out the rest of the world, sometimes she was lonely. One preoccupied brother, one cousin away in the RAF, and one elderly butler: That wasn’t much companionship for a young woman in her early twenties. The online pals who only knew her as Indigo no doubt added fun to her life, but surely she needed more, especially since there were limits on how much she could safely share. And while James knew little else about Prince Zale, a quick Internet search had made it clear that he was a very handsome man: black-haired, tan, wiry in a whip-sharp way that was extraordinarily sexy. At least, James thought so—but was that the kind of thing his sister found appealing? Had she ever been free to define that for herself?