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palace, making their way to a closed door on the third floor.
    Richard was waiting alone.
    Where Eleanor was blond and fair-skinned, her brother was dark-haired and olive-hued. They looked little alike, which had sparked speculation that he was the product of some illicit affair early in Victoria’s marriage. But anyone who even remotely knew Victoria Saxe-Coburg realized that would have been impossible. The queen was absolutely devoted to her husband. Richard had simply been bestowed with far more of his father’s Scottish blood than his mother’s German lineage. Photographs of a paternal grandfather bore a striking resemblance. His handsome face was blessed with features that had become easy to caricature. The Roman nose was the cartoonist’s favorite victim, though his wavy hair and deep-set brown eyes were inevitably overplayed in what seemed a nearly daily ritual of ridicule.
    Richard wore one of the snug-fitting, double-breasted suits he’d long popularized. His shirt was a soft shade of pink, the tie red-and-black-striped. A colorful handkerchief puffed from his jacket pocket. He stood in a bay window staring into the room. Eleanor closed the door behind them and stepped toward her brother.
    “What is the rush about?” she asked.
    “Have you seen the afternoon
Globe
?”
    “I don’t read that titillator.”
    “There, on the table. Have a glance.”
    Eleanor grabbed the newspaper.
    The front page blared a bold headline: IS SHE THE NEXT LADY OF THE PALACE? The color photograph was of Lady Bryce open-mouth kissing the Prince of Wales, while a car waited with its door open. The lens was apparently long-range as the photo was blurry. Lady Bryce was wearing an obscenely short skirt, and Richard’s hand was firmly planted on her shapely ass.
    Yourstone had already read the story. Yesterday. After it had been written. He was always provided a preview.
    “I’m about at the end of my tether,” Richard said.
    “You’re just now coming to that conclusion?” Eleanor said. “Dickie, you stay in the papers. One woman after another. One mistake after another.”
    “I want my own life.”
    “To do what?”
    “What I please.”
    There was the defiance Yourstone knew so well. So he twisted the knife. “So you can convert to Catholicism?”
    Richard faced him. “Actually, I have a great fondness for that religion. There is no reason for our alienation from Rome.” The prince sighed, his usual signal of resignation. “Why must I be tormented? What purpose is served from that?”
    Yourstone seized the moment. “You are a married man and heir to the throne. What you do contrary to both is relevant to the nation.”
    “My wife is batty. She sits under pyramids all day and studies the stars. The people cannot expect me to be happy with her.”
    From the monotone he wondered if Richard had taken more antidepressants. The royal doctors had told him to stop.
    “She is still your wife,” Yourstone said. “The Princess of Wales. The one
you
chose to marry, to be the mother of your son.”
    “Good God, man. You of all people know that Mother and Father had more to do with that choice than I.”
    “I don’t recall you publicly voicing any reservations. Your wife is an extremely beautiful woman. You were quite taken with her.”
    “I had no idea she was a nutter.”
    Eleanor tossed the newspaper on the table. “Richard, why do you continue to think you can do as you please? At a minimum, why can’t you at least be discreet?”
    “I do not invite the press to know my business. But I also don’t intend to lurk about.”
    The declaration carried a firm resolution.
    “Then you’ll continue to sail close to the wind, and you mustn’t grumble when the boom slaps you into the water.”
    Richard stepped away from Eleanor, toward the windows, walking with the same perfect posture all royals were taught. His jacket was buttoned, his hands intertwined behind his back. He thrust his chest forward and shook his head as he