Lex smacked his hand away.
“Oi.” Lex pulled the stand closer to his own knees. “Get your own. There’s a whole tray over there.”
“That tray is twelve feet away, and I’ve just been physically assaulted.”
“There’s cucumber sandwiches on that tray. The little ones with the crusts cut off.”
“I don’t want those. I want the smoked salmon.”
“Tough.” Lex ate a smoked salmon triangle while maintaining eye contact. “These are mine. I claimed them. Benton’s my witness.”
James laughed. It was short and bright and full of surprised pleasure. Barnaby stood in the middle of the sitting room watching the two of them bicker over sandwiches. They’d found a frequency between them that had nothing to do with Barnaby, and everything to do with two men who recognised something in each other that they liked.
James leaned back against the sofa, conceding the sandwich battle, and turned to Lex. “How does it feel, then? Being a pop culture phenomenon?”
Lex snorted. “Mate, I was a pop culture phenomenon before BLEX was even a thing. Two Olympic golds, a Nike deal. I was on the cover of GQ in nothing but boxing shorts and baby oil a few months back.” He jerked his chin toward Barnaby. “It’s Barns who’s new to it all.”
“I am notnewto it.” Barnaby crossed back to the armchair and sat down. “I’ve been in the public eye my entire life. I was photographed at Royal Ascot when I was four.”
James’s mouth curved. “So you think there was fanfiction about you before the BLEX phenomenon, then?”
Barnaby opened his mouth to respond, and then closed it, because there was no version of that answer that ended well.
James was already on his mobile. His thumb moved across the screen with a fluency that belied the fact that he had threeseparate private secretaries whose entire job was to manage his digital existence. His eyes widened.
“Barnaby.” His voice had gone very quiet. “There’s fiction about you and me.”
Barnaby made a sound. It came from somewhere deep in his diaphragm, a noise of soul-deep anguish that bypassed language entirely and expressed, in a single exhalation, the full weight of his suffering at the hands of the internet, the Crown, and every person who had ever owned a laptop and a romantic imagination. He crossed the room and collapsed onto the sofa beside Lex, folding forward until his forehead rested on Lex’s thigh.
Lex’s hand found his hair. His blunt fingers pushed his fringe aside, slow and easy, and Barnaby closed his eyes and let the touch settle over him.
“Punch him,” Barnaby said into Lex’s leg. “I want you to punch him right in the mouth.”
“Can’t punch the King, Barns. Pretty sure that’s treason.”
“You have enough money to see you through a lawsuit.”
“Eat something.” Lex lifted a smoked salmon sandwich and held it against Barnaby’s mouth. Barnaby bit into it without raising his head, chewing sideways against Lex’s thigh, which was undignified and uncomfortable and he did not care. The salmon was good. Lex’s hand was still in his hair, his fingers massaging his scalp.
The room quieted. James set his mobile aside and watched as Barnaby sat up, brushing crumbs from his lip with the back of his hand. “I’m getting it from every side,” Barnaby said. He leaned back against the sofa, his shoulder pressed to Lex’s arm. “The public. You. My parents. Perry’s sent me a twenty-page social media strategy with a monetisation framework.”
James’s expression shifted. The amusement drained from it, leaving something careful and still. He leaned forward, hiselbows on his knees, his hands clasped between them. “What did your parents say to you about Lex?”
The question was gentle, but it had edges. James knew the Duke and Duchess. He knew how they communicated, and the oblique architecture of their affection.
“They told me to ring Tarquin Acaster,” Barnaby said. “Lord Ickworth’s eldest. He’s had a baby with his partner David, through surrogacy. My mother wanted me to know that David has settled in marvellously.” He paused. “In spite of his Australianness.”
James’s eyes went soft. “That’s basically a seal of approval, Bash.”
“I know what it is.”
Lex grunted beside him. Barnaby glanced sideways. There was a smear of cream on Lex’s cheek, a pale crescent caught in the hollow beneath his cheekbone from the scone he’d demolished three minutes ago. Barnaby wiped it away with his thumb, his hand steady.
“Your father gave me a flat cap,” Lex said. “From the cloakroom. Said it was his spare. And that there’s a walking stick waiting for me at Chatham House.”
“A walking stick,” Barnaby repeated.
“Blackthorn. From the hedge where he gets the sloes.” Lex stretched his arm along the back of the sofa, behind Barnaby’s shoulders. “He said every man who walks the estate needs a proper stick.”
