“Eddie, please,” he said.“Lovely to meet you.”
A server in black appeared, notebook at the ready.
“Martini,” I said.“Gin.Icy cold, with a twist.”
“White wine,” Arthur said.“Dry.”
“Champagne,” Chris declared.“Why be shy?”
“Negroni,” Eddie added.“Stirred.”
The server vanished.I placed my phone face down on the table.The day—drone incursions, terse cables, Nigel Thorne’s veiled commentary about my weekend—receded by a few inches.
Arthur angled toward me, his knee finding mine under the table, resting there.“Do you want to talk about your day?”he asked softly.“Or shall we do our best to forget it?”
“Forgetfulness,” I said.“Hence the martini.”
“Excellent.”Chris leaned back.“We’ll supply distraction.”
Eddie gave a small smile.“I had a fitting this afternoon.Chris asked whether I preferred to breathe or to look extraordinary.”
“What did you choose?”I asked.
“I’m attempting both,” he said wryly.“Compromise is fashionable.”
“It is,” Chris said.“Especially where seams meet egos.”
Arthur’s mouth tilted.“He says after negotiating with six egos before lunch.”
“Seven,” Chris corrected, arching a brow.“One was mine.”
The drinks arrived on a tray that caught a net of light from the disco ball.My martini stem was icy; the lemon twist unfurled its sharp perfume.One sip, and the day loosened another notch.
“To forgetting,” Arthur said, touching his glass to mine.
“To excellent designs,” Chris offered.
“To cameras,” Eddie added.
We drank.
Turning to Eddie, my curiosity slipped through my reserve.“I should confess,” I said.“I’ve roped Chris and Arthur into making several suits for me.Mostly for embassy functions.Palaces demand a different wardrobe than what I brought from Washington.What is Chris making for you?”
Eddie’s eyes sparkled.“A tuxedo for the Emmys,” he said, smiling.“I’m nominated this year.Best Actor in a Drama—The Violet Houron Hulu.”He gave a practised shrug, the kind that looked casual only on people used to red carpets.“It’s all absurd, really.But I suppose that’s the game.”
“Absolutely deserved,” Chris said.
Eddie tilted his head, studying me, then glanced at Arthur.“You know, Arthur once stayed a week with me in Los Angeles.Endured kale smoothies, the paparazzi, and one of my premieres without strangling anyone.He was very devoted back in the day.”
Arthur flushed, setting his glass down carefully.“Eddie and I were involved once,” he said, voice steady but quieter.“A long time ago.”
A sharp, unbidden pang hit me, and I prayed it didn’t show.
Jealousy.Ridiculous, but real.Why would a prince who had dated someone like Eddie Gray—glittering, celebrated, adored—want to kiss me?Perhaps Strathmore had been nothing more than my imagination, an indulgent dream.
Eddie seemed to catch the shift in me.He leaned forward.“What’s it like being an ambassador?”
I hesitated, fumbling for words.“Mostly cutting ribbons.Smoothing ruffled egos.But here—at the Court of St.James’s—it’s more complicated.The so-called Special Relationship means every word, and every gesture, weighs more than it would anywhere else.It’s political theatre as much as diplomacy.”
