Page 8 of The Unlikely Spare
Instead, I shall devote my life to the monarchy while accepting that it’s my destiny to fade into obscurity as my nieces and nephews grow up and take over the reins.
A discreet cough from behind me breaks my brooding session.
“Your Royal Highness, the Dowager Duchess requests your presence in the Grand Hall. The pre-dinner reception is beginning shortly.”
I turn to find Simmons, who has worked for my mother’s family as a butler for thirty-odd years.
“Thank you, Simmons. I’ll come right down.” I straighten my cuffs, a reflex action drilled into me since childhood, then follow Simmons as he leads me out the door and along the corridor.
“Will you be returning to London after the weekend as planned?” he asks.
“Sunday evening, yes, I’ll head back to Kensington Palace. Can’t neglect my royal duties for too long, or the tabloids will have me ‘shirking responsibilities’ again.” I pause, noticing the slight stiffness in his gait. “How’s the arthritis, Simmons? Still giving you trouble?”
“Manageable, sir. Though the November damp doesn’t help matters.”
“I’ve got that CBD cream my physio recommended in my luggage. I’ll leave it on your desk. The one from Switzerland. Don’t argue,” I add when I see him about to protest. “Consider it an early Christmas bonus. Can’t have you creaking about the place like the floorboards.”
A genuine smile creases his weathered face. “Very kind of you, sir.”
“Nonsense. You’ve been putting up with the Preston-Alexanders since before I was born. That deserves hazard pay.”
Rosemere Hall always feels like stepping into a time capsule—albeit one furnished with an obscene amount of antiques my ancestors almost certainly acquired through less than scrupulous means. The main corridor alone boasts enough marble to make an Italian quarry weep. It’s lined with portraits of stern-faced Alexanders who look like they had their image captured during an unfortunate bout of constipation.
I adjust my dinner jacket as I descend the grand staircase. At the foot of the stairs, Aunt Lavinia waylays me, clutching a glass of sherry with bejeweled fingers that resemble arthritic talons.
“Nicholas, darling!” She air-kisses somewhere near my left ear. “We were beginning to think you’d absconded with one of the parlor maids.”
I switch on my charming smile. “I’m afraid my life isn’t that exciting.”
“Speaking of which, Cordelia is absolutely determined to introduce you to the Montclare girl tonight. Ghastly creature, all teeth and horse talk, but her grandfather does own half of Northumberland.”
Marvelous. Another dinner, another eligible aristocrat. The aristocratic matchmaking machine never rests.
“I’ll be sure to discuss proper bridling techniques over dessert,” I say.
Aunt Lavinia misses my sarcasm entirely. “That’s the spirit, dear. The monarchy isn’t going to continue itself, is it? And I daresay your brother isn’t going to help the cause with his…inclinations.”
Actually, the monarchy is about to expand soon due to Callum. But I can imagine how Aunt Lavinia would react to the news that the newest royal will be the result of a surrogacy arrangement. There has already been quite the kerfuffle about the new Succession Act amendments, where Parliament voted to allow heirs “not born of the body,” clearing the way for Callum and Oliver to have a child via surrogate.
This is my mother’s side of the family, and the Preston-Alexanders maintain genealogical records dating back to the Norman Conquest and consider “new money” to mean anything acquired after the Industrial Revolution.
Therefore, the fact that Callum is the result of the union between our father, the son of the Queen, and Callum’s mother,an American actress, registers in their aristocratic brains as something akin to discovering the Crown Jewels were replaced with plastic replicas from a Christmas cracker.
Add to that the fact that Callum married Oliver, the former prime minister who’d grown up in a council estate in East London, and the English nobility’s horror was complete. I’m sure Mother’s family considers Oliver’s rise from council estate to Downing Street less a triumph of meritocracy and more a worrying sign of societal collapse.
But I’m not sharing Callum’s news with anyone, let alone my perpetually disapproving aunt, whose idea of progression is switching from sherry to gin after six o’clock.
I straighten my shoulders. “I believe my brother is doing exactly what he should, bringing the monarchy into the modern world with grace and authenticity,” I say, keeping my voice light. “Rather brilliant of him, actually.”
Aunt Lavinia’s lips press into a thin line. “You know, Nicholas, you remind me more of your father every day. You really are the spitting image of him at the same age.”
The comment lands like it always does, with something cold slithering down my spine.
I force my smile to stay in place. My father was the party prince, the charming rogue. He was also dead at thirty-eight. I touch the signet ring on my finger, my father’s one possession I chose to keep rather than inherit by default.
Sometimes the comparison with my father feels less like a reflection and more like a prophecy hanging over my head.
“I’ll take that as high praise, given how handsome my father was,” I reply, pressing a kiss to Lavinia’s powdered cheek and stepping away before she can protest. “Save me some of those petit fours, won’t you?”
