Page 77 of American Royals II: Majesty
Except…she couldn’t, not this time. There was no way she could go up against Himari again without help. Daphne needed an ally, and not just any ally. Someone strong. Someone so powerful that even Himari would be forced to back down.
Suddenly, a memory crashed into Daphne’s mind, of something Samantha had said in their first training session.Beatrice is pretending most of all! She doesn’t even love Teddy; she loves—
And Samantha had broken off, to rapidly change tack.
Daphne’s breath caught. Did Samantha mean what Daphne thought she meant—that Beatrice was involved with someone else, someone who wasnotTeddy Eaton?
Whoever it was, it must be someone highly off-limits: a commoner, perhaps, or someone who worked for the royal family. Otherwise, why wasn’t the queen engaged tothatperson instead of Teddy?
Daphne reached for her phone again, and typed a quick email to Lord Robert Standish, requesting an appointment with Her Majesty. She held her breath and pressed Send.
If she was right, Daphne had just stumbled across the most valuable secret she’d uncovered in a lifetime of scheming. And she knew just what to do with it.
If she was wrong, then she would lose everything.
When Daphne arrived at the palace for her meeting with Beatrice, the footman directed her not to the queen’s office, but to her personal suite. Daphne tried to conceal her surprise. Despite all her years of knowing the royal family, all the countless times she’d been in the prince’s bedroom, she’d never actually set foot in here. But then, she and Beatrice had never exactly been close.
As Daphne stepped through the door, she gasped.
The furniture had been pushed aside so that the queen could stand at the center of the room in her wedding gown. A portable mirror was unfolded before her; a seamstress crouched at her feet, making a series of minute stitches on the delicate hem.
The gown was timeless and elegant and so veryBeatrice.It had long sleeves, with a narrow V-neck and dropped waist that disguised the queen’s small chest. But the real showstopper was the enormous full skirt, its ivory silk faille overlaid with delicate embroidery.
Beatrice was standing there with impossible stillness, almost as if she wasn’t breathing. Daphne remembered hearing that the late king used to make her do her homework standing up, so that she would grow accustomed to long hours of being on her feet. So much of being the monarch was a job done while standing—attending receptions, meeting people at a walkabout, conducting long ceremonies—that he’d thought it was never too young to start practicing.
“Robert wants you to sign an NDA, but I told him it wasn’t necessary. So please don’t post anything about the dress,” Beatrice said, a smile playing around her lips. Daphne wondered, startled, if the queen wasteasingher.
“Of course I won’t say anything. You can trust me,” she said, though the words felt false in her mouth. “It really is beautiful. The embroidery…”
“If you look closely, you’ll see a flower for every state. Roses and thistles, poppies and bluebonnets, and, of course, cherry blossoms,” the queen explained.
Daphne ventured a step closer, and saw that each of the flowers had been painstakingly picked out in diamantés and seed pearls, adding an ethereal shimmer to the gown.
The seamstress finally looked up, and Daphne realized that she wasn’t a seamstress at all, but Wendy Tsu—the most famous designer of bridal gowns in probably the entire world. Who, apparently, was lifting the hem of Beatrice’s wedding gownherself.
“That embroidery took my team over three thousand hours of labor,” the designer stated, with no small amount of pride.
Daphne wondered whether her gown would be this intricate, when—or rather, if—she married Jefferson.
“Your Majesty,” she began. “There’s something I was hoping to ask you. In private, if you don’t mind.”
She saw Beatrice exchange a look with Wendy. The designer, whose needle had been flying in and out of the fabric with near-impossible speed, stabbed it through the hem to mark her place. She retreated with a quick curtsy, shutting the door behind her.
“What can I do for you?” Beatrice offered, in a curious but good-natured tone.
“I wanted to ask a favor,” Daphne said carefully. “I saw that there’s a recent opening for an ambassador to the Japanese Imperial Court at Kyoto. I was hoping you would appoint Kenji and Aika Mariko, the Earl and Countess of Hana.”
She felt an odd, lonely pang at the thought of sending Himari so far away. It wasn’t fair that Himari should wake up from her coma, only for Daphne to lose her all over again.
But what other choice did she have?
“I’m sure the Marikos would be wonderful representatives,” Beatrice agreed. “But Leanna Santos has asked me for that position, and I mean to give it to her.”
“Please,” Daphne said haltingly, her stomach plummeting.
“It was nice of you to lobby me on your friends’ behalf. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
Daphne braced herself. Here she was, about to play her very last card. To throw everything she had into what might be the most reckless gamble of her life.
