Behind me, Paula Brooks, my Deputy Chief of Mission and unofficial hand-holder, read from a clipboard.Paula was brisk, unflappable, and terrifyingly efficient.She could probably organize a G7 summit blindfolded with one hand tied behind her back.
“Ambassador Xi from China, Ambassador Patel from India, Ambassador Sato from Japan,” she ticked off smoothly.“Ambassador Durand from France—you’ll like him, charming man, fluent in sarcasm.The High Commissioner from Canada, obviously, and the German ambassador, Baroness Vogel.”
I tried to commit the list to memory, but it was like trying to cram for an exam when you already knew you were going to fail.Too many names, too many faces, too many chances to screw up.
“And then there’s Nigel Thorne,” Paula continued.She didn’t even need to check her notes for him.“Head of the North America Department at the Foreign Office.He’ll be your chief point of contact.Think Tommy Lascelles fromThe Crown—same era, same attitude, same talent for making you feel inadequate without raising his voice.”
I winced.“Terrific.Can’t wait.”
“Oh, and one more thing,” Paula said, glancing up from the clipboard with the merest flicker of amusement.“Princess Anne’s son, Prince Arthur Phillip, Duke of Clarence, may attend on her behalf.She’s unwell.He’s not a working royal—runs a fashion house, Clarence Atelier.Sustainable luxury.Very modern, very chic.”
“A prince who makes clothes,” I said flatly.
Paula’s lips twitched.“Welcome to Britain.”
The assistant gave my hair one final, decisive pass.“There,” he said, stepping back like a sculptor admiring his work.“Very distinguished, sir.”
“Thank you, both of you.That’ll be all for now.”Paula escorted the two assistants out, thanking them with a diplomatic smile before shutting the door.
I exhaled.“Sorry.I know I was difficult.But my head isn’t a topiary.”
“You’re under pressure,” Paula said simply, setting the clipboard down on the vanity.
Before I could reply, her phone rang.She glanced at the screen, then frowned.“It’s…your father.On my phone.I have no idea how he got my number.”
I groaned.“That’s Dad for you.”
She handed it over, and I pressed it to my ear reluctantly.“Hi, Dad.”
“Bryce!”came his booming voice, far too awake for what had to be three in the morning back in Virginia.“I hope you’re remembering everything I told you.Stand tall, shoulders back, don’t slouch.This is your big night.Don’t embarrass the family.”
I rolled my eyes at my reflection.“Dad, isn’t it literally three a.m.there?And how the hell did you even know about this reception?”
“I have my sources,” he said grandly, as though the CIA was reporting directly to him.“The point is, don’t screw it up.First impressions matter.”
“Right.Thanks, Dad.Very helpful.”
He was still mid-lecture when I muttered, “Love you, bye,” and hung up.I did love him—deeply—but sometimes the man was too much.
I set the phone down and looked back at Paula.My reflection in the mirror stared back at me: hair tamed, jaw clean-shaven, tuxedo immaculate.Everything said ambassador, but inside I felt like the kid who’d once stolen his father’s cufflinks and tried to play grown-up.
“How do I look?”I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.“Because I feel like an imposter.”
* * *
If there was a hell designed specifically for diplomats, it would look exactly like this: a gilded ballroom at Winfield House, chandeliers blazing, champagne flutes tinkling, and me at the head of a goddamn receiving line.
I smiled until my cheeks ached, shook hands until my palm was slick, and nodded sagely as if I’d been doing this my whole life.Which, technically, I hadn’t—but growing up a Lewis in Virginia had given me enough practice in cocktail chatter to fake it.Church socials, horse shows, Hunt Club dinners—different setting, same dance.Smile, nod, say something polite.Don’t spill champagne on your shirt.
The German ambassador’s husband leaned in, complimented my tuxedo, and for half a second my brain went blank as a snowfield.“Thank you,” I managed, praying he couldn’t see the panic in my eyes.Next came the Canadian High Commissioner, then the French ambassador—Durand, Paula had said, fluent in sarcasm.He quipped about American football being “a sport for men in armour,” and I laughed a beat too late.Smooth, Lewis.Very smooth.
Everyone seemed perfectly content, though, as if my awkward pauses were charming rather than catastrophic.Maybe that was the trick: people saw what they wanted to see.
And then—him.
“Nigel Thorne,” he announced, with the clipped precision of a man who’d had elocution lessons beaten into him as a child.“Head of the North America Department.I look forward to working with you, Mr.Ambassador.”
I forced my smile not to falter.The man radiated chill like an open freezer.His posture was ramrod straight, his eyes like polished slate, and his handshake was so brief I wondered if he thought my skin contagious.Every nerve in me screamed that he was the sort who’d rather scold me than assist me.
