Majesty (American Royals, #2)(71)
I have nothing to say to you. You’re a terrible person, and soon enough you’ll get what you deserve.
It was a real text. Not just part of Daphne’s nightmare.
She fell back onto her duvet and closed her eyes. Her body was still shaking with the panicked adrenaline rush of the dream.
Daphne wasn’t safe. She’d made so much progress with Jefferson these past few weeks. But if Himari followed through on her threat, it could all come crashing down.
Her former best friend was going to destroy her, unless Daphne found a way to destroy her first.
She glanced back at her phone, wishing she could text Ethan. She could use his sharp, sarcastic mind right now. But she and Ethan hadn’t spoken since their confrontation outside school a few weeks ago. So many times Daphne had started to call him—he was the only person she could talk to about any of this—but some stubborn impulse held her back. She told herself that she didn’t need Ethan, that she could handle everything alone, just like always.
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 was not Teddy 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 to that person 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 very Beatrice. 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 was teasing her.
“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 gown herself.
“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.”