Page 6 of Handle Me

I suspected it would cost me another lecture, but I didn’t mind. At least the last place I would find Lola Bishop was at the bottom of a beer glass.

A couple of hours later, I was four pints down. Most of the crew were congregated at the Dark Horse, taking up a half dozen tables between the lot of us. I’d been stuck listening to Wilkes disseminate advice on women for the better part of my time here. This was hilarious because not only had he never been married, I couldn’t remember the last successful relationship he’d been in. After another pint, I told him that.

“I think that’s my cue to take you home, Your Highness,” he muttered.

I grimaced at the thought of going home. “I don’t even have keys, remember?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how to climb through a window.” Wilkes tilted his head knowingly. “I seem to recall catching you here many a night in the last ten years.”

“Mum’s house was a bit easier to break in and out of,” I said. He had a point. My own house, the bachelor pad I’d bought with my racing winnings, came with the annoyances of nosy neighbors, who disapproved of a single bloke living in the family enclave. One wrong move, and I wouldn’t need my keys at all. I’d be spending the night in the company of the local police inspector.

“Why would she take your keys?” Wilkes asked. “Or your wallet?”

“She probably went shopping.” Lola struck me as the high-maintenance type. I’d gotten to know her sister fairly well over the last year, but Clara, despite being the Queen, was down-to-earth and kind. Lola acted like she was the one wearing the crown.

“Well, some of us need our beauty sleep. I should get going.”

I shrugged. I could always sleep on a bench in the garden. The weather in early May could be unpredictable, but it wouldn’t kill me. Wilkes settled the tab. I leaned by a wall, catching snippets of conversation from a nearby table.

“He’s not the same since the accident. It’s screwing with his head.”

I really hoped they weren’t talking about me. Yeah, I’d had a bad crash earlier this season, but I was back behind the wheel. My lap time would get better. The important thing was that I hadn’t let the crash keep me away from the track. They might not believe it, but I would show them.

“That’s not it.” His friend shook his head. “He hasn’t been the same since he found out. He’s probably waiting to move into Buckingham.”

Anger surged through me, and the world seemed to fade to black as I digested his words. This was exactly what I was afraid would happen. It was why I had told Alexander I didn’t want anything to do with him or his family. I’d been naive to think it would be that easy to ignore my past. How could I when everyone was more interested in it than I was?

“You ready?” Wilkes asked as he met me by the door.

“Yeah.” I shoved my hands in my jeans and followed him into the spring evening.

“Everything alright?”

“Define alright?” I shrugged. It was the best answer I could come up with. “I mean, my older brother sent a nanny to keep an eye on me, my lap time is shit, and apparently, I’m angling to move into Buckingham Palace.”

Wilkes slowed his pace and then stopped altogether. “You are?”

“Just according to some idiots in the pub.” I didn’t bother to fill him in on the details. There wasn’t much, if anything, Wilkes could do about it for me. The only thing I could do was prove them wrong.

“Look, that’s why they sent her, right? To teach you how to be a…prince?” This time Wilkes wasn’t teasing me. He was completely serious.

“A prince? They don’t give bastards titles, remember?” He should know that. If Albert had legitimized me before his death, it might have been a possibility. Personally, I was glad that he hadn’t.

“Doesn’t change the facts,” he said meaningfully. “Maybe she can help you. I see the crowds hanging around, trying to catch a glimpse of the Royal–”

“Bastard,” I interjected.

“Family,” he finished, ignoring my interruption. I couldn’t blame him.

“They’d have better luck in London.” Or wherever they were off to now.

“They don’t want London,” Wilkes said with a sigh. “They want the fairytale. You’re the fairytale.”

“I’m the bastard.” Maybe I was feeling sorry for myself, but I hadn’t asked for any of this. I had a life incompatible with duty or obligation. “I mean, aren’t bastards shipped out to the country to lead quiet, anonymous lives?”

His laughter bellowed in the oversized cabin. “I think that’s exactly what happened, except we have the tabloids and the Internet. You’re goddamn lucky it took them this long to find out.”

Luck had nothing to do with it. I’d been buried alive by a father who didn’t want anyone to know I existed, and unearthed by a brother who wished he’d never picked up the shovel. “I don’t know what they want with me,” I finally said. “I’m not cut out to be one of them, and even if I was, I’m not legitimate.”