That was the whole problem, James thought. He'd been born into a role that demanded he take his place in the museum, and would forever deny him a real home.
***
Two Months Later
The Heir Airs His Broken Heart On Safari
AND YOU'RE FOOTING THE BILL!
Benjamin Dahan frowned at the website headline. He wasn't thrilled at this latest assignment, but at least he could write something better than that tabloid rubbish. His editor back in Capetown would be on the alert for any sign of phoning it in, and had said as much when he sent Ben north to Kenya.
"You've got to be kidding. I cover economic policy, Roger. Not inbred aristocrats playing cricket on the veldt."
"You've wanted this London transfer for nearly a year now, right? Well, show me you're a team player, and we can finally put it through. Because that's what a team does when their Nairobi correspondent falls pregnant and has to go on bed rest. A team pulls together to supply the inbred aristocrat news the world so craves. Besides, three days at a luxury safari resort? You've pulled worse duty than that."
Two days in, Ben was inclined to agree, but mostly because the autumn rainy season had hung on a few weeks longer than usual. Instead of watching the Prince of Wales blab inanities at various distinguished visitors, he'd been more or less confined to his suite.
Yes, here, even a lowly reporter got a suite. The resort offered nothing less than this: two rooms furnished with enormous leather sofas, a broad palm-leafed bronze ceiling fan, an antique desk, a king-sized four-poster bed carved of mahogany, and any number of accouterments that made Ben feel vaguely like Hemingway. Which was the whole racket, and more fool him for buying into it on any level, but after two days of unceasing rain, his resistance was wearing down.
Thus far, his entire exposure to his subject had been a faraway glimpse at the initial press conference at Jomo Kenyatta. All Ben had been able to tell at that distance was that Prince James wasn't actually as short as political cartoonists made him out to be. Hardly story material--and circumstances had offered Ben nothing better. With all the planned outdoor activities canceled, apparently the prince was meeting with local dignitaries at private dinners instead. Ben had been peeved until he realized this was an opportunity. Rather than churning out the usual cut-and-paste text about royal appearances, he'd been writing bios of the people who had come to see the prince, summarizing what they thought British royalty could do for them that their own governments couldn't, and rather neatly (in his opinion) pointing out just how many aspects of society had to be broken for Prince bloody James to be someone's best hope.
With that mostly done, he could enjoy the luxurious suite. The sound of the rain.
Oh, what the hell, it was midafternoon, and he had nowhere else to go, nothing else to do. Ben could go full Hemingway and enjoy a glass of rum.
He poured a couple fingers' worth from the lavishly furnished bar and stepped out onto the covered porch, heavy glass tumbler in his hand. From there he ought to have been able to see a few of the other huts in the resort, but silvery sheets of rain made it seem as though the rest of the world were veiled, as if it were there and not there at once. The solitude was both beautiful and lonely.
A breeze blew a shimmer of fine raindrops across his right arm, the side of his face. Ben closed his eyes and relished the coolness against his skin.
There but not there. Alone but not alone.
Then Ben heard splashing--someone dashing through the water in the courtyard, which was apparently deeper than he'd realized. When Ben opened his eyes, he saw a distant, drenched figure holding a broken black umbrella, in water up to his knees. Ben had to laugh, and he shouted, "Get in here before you drown yourself!" The unknown man hesitated one moment before sloshing his way up the steps. Ben called, "I think you need a drink. Hang on, I'll get you a glass."
He went inside, wondering if his new guest was one of the other reporters on the royal tour or simply a resort visitor. In either case, he was half mad for some distraction, and any conversation would do. A quick pour--slightly heavier-handed than Ben had been with his own drink, for hospitality's sake--and then he walked out onto the porch to see the sopping wet Prince of Wales.
"Oh. Oh." Ben straightened. "My apologies, Your, um, Royal Highness." Was that the right protocol? Ben had been given a comprehensive briefing on this when he took on the assignment, but still couldn't recall. He'd never given a damn about that stuff.
To his surprise, the prince winced. "Must we? I liked it so much better when you were just talking to me like anyone else."
So he was going to do the I'm-so-humble routine. Ben knew how to call a bluff. "All right, then. I'm Ben. Drink up."
"I'm James, and don't mind if I do."
Not a bluff, then? Interesting.
Ben took a good hard look at the Prince Regent of the United Kingdom, now he was only a few feet away. No, James wasn't tall, but he stood only an inch or two shorter than the average man. The boyishly floppy hair that gleamed chestnut in photographs had been darkened by the damp, and a few water droplets trickled from strands that stuck to the prince's forehead. He had thick, angular eyebrows that might have made harsher features look threatening, but his flushed lips gentled the effect. And, of course, those famous green eyes--
--which were now taking in the fact that Ben had begun to stare. Quickly Ben said, "What in the world were you doing out there?"
"I've got the rest of the day to myself for once, and thought I might make it to the main lounge and back during a lull in the storm. Talk to a few of the staffers, that kind of thing--everyone likes to know their hard work's been appreciated. Anyway, I made it there, but not back." James took a seat on one of the cane chairs on the porch and gave a sorrowful look to the sodden black heap on the porch that had been his umbrella. "That was a sturdy thing half an hour ago. Rainy season, my God. And I thought London was damp."
Ben very nearly liked the man, but he caught himself just in time. Being charming was the only profession James practiced. No wonder he was good at it. "You don't have to worry about security? Have guards on you every moment?"
"Mercifully, no. This resort is so secluded and secure that I can walk about like a normal person for once. Maybe that tempted me to walk out in this mess." James sipped his drink. He showed no sign of hurry, no awkwardness at all. Was it amiability or arrogance that made him feel he could be at home anywhere? Ben thought it might be both. Certainly he felt no embarrassment whatsoever about his disarray--his damp rumpled hair, or the way his white linen shirt clung wetly to his trim but muscled frame. "So, Ben, what has the wretched weather done to your day?"
"Today? Nothing. I wrote. I watched it rain. Repeat that a few times, and you've got it. Suits me well enough."
"Wrote?" James smiled. "I was thinking you looked a bit like a clean-shaven Hemingway."
Well, that was charming as all hell.
Whatever shock Ben had felt upon finding the Prince of Wales on his porch was quickly giving way to a more complicated set of emotions. This could be an opportunity: Make nice for a bit, ask a few harder hitting questions, and perhaps get an exclusive interview that might be worth reading. Or if James slipped up, said something ludicrously elitist or racist (and surely he would), Ben could write the "gotcha" piece of all time.
On the other hand, he had the sense that James had shown him a certain courtesy by not standing on protocol. Not only courtesy, but also trust. Ben could be aggressive in his reporting, but there are lines he didn't want to cross.
And most surprisingly, James' eyes were just as green in person as they were in all the photographs. Ben had always suspected Photoshop, but no. Every bit as deeply green as emeralds. Lips genuinely, deeply red. Faint freckles dusted across his cheeks and the backs of his hands. The prince was even more handsome face to face.
Maybe Ben could just--relax and enjoy the view for a while.
***
Ben was a Cat.
James and Indigo had named
the "types" together back when they were children, which was why they were mostly named after house pets. Most people were Dogs. This wasn't an insult--James and his sister liked dogs--but a way of categorizing how people behaved toward royalty. Dogs were delighted to meet you, whether out of rapturous adulation (Labrador Retrievers) or merely because it would be a story to tell (Corgis.) Some of them had expected to be unmoved at first, but wound up being thrilled despite themselves (Bulldogs).
However, a few people were Cats. The Cats were not one bit impressed by you. Some cats honestly meant to be polite but could not conceal their boredom (Persians). Other cats would attempt to remain within decorum while still being unmistakably rude, so you would know how very not interested they were in your title and fame (Siamese). Occasionally cats actually had it out for you and would try to trip you up at their next opportunity (Panthers, which were rare, but deadly for PR).
James wasn't yet certain, but he thought Ben was the rarest of the Cats, a Lion. Lions actually wanted to take your measure as an individual.
Usually the best policy for dealing with Lions was to move along swiftly. James didn't have time to be himself with most people he met. Nor did he often have the energy, because being "on" at appearances was far more tiring than it appeared. Lions sometimes struck him as arrogant; you came to public events for the public, after all, and yet Lions believed you ought to be theirs to monopolize.
But today, James thought he'd like to win Ben over. Not many people did, he suspected. It would be a challenge. And whatever was fueling Ben's curiosity, it wasn't arrogance.
Besides, it was a rare treat, getting to go where he wanted, when he wanted. To chat with a total stranger, without his security services in the way. To enjoy Ben's rugged good looks--broad shoulders, beautifully defined muscles, and ink-black hair that matched his dark eyes. In a resort this cloistered and carefully protected, he could act like any other man . . . more or less.
"So, did you come to Africa to get the right atmosphere for your novels?" James said as he settled back in the cane chair.
"I live in Africa, actually, though very far from here. Capetown."
"Really? Your accent doesn't sound South African."
"It's a tricky one," Ben said. Those deep brown eyes glinted with amusement. "Not many people can place it."
James considered. "There's some American in there, I suspect--and is that German?"
"Good work. You got closer than most. I've lived in both the United States and Germany. By birth I'm Israeli, though I moved away in my childhood. I've also worked in Australia and the Far East. The accent's a mix of it all, I suppose."
James had visited about 50 countries so far, but he would never be afforded the chance to actually live abroad. He felt a small twinge of jealousy. What must it be like, to be able to go wherever you wished, whenever you wanted? "I imagine you have some stories to tell."
Ben's grin could be fierce. "Or not to tell, as the case might be."
"You have the advantage over me. I'm not allowed much mystery." Besides the one great secret of his life, James' entire existence had been tabloid fodder since his birth--or really, before it, as one paper had bribed a nurse to release a sonogram of him at eight months.
"There must be something about you that isn't known to the whole world."
"Are we trading?" James said lightly. "Secret for secret?"
"Why not?"
"I suspect your secrets don't come cheap."
To James' surprise, that hit home. Ben glanced downward, as if taken aback. But when Ben looked back up at him again, he smiled, and the smile was warmer now, more real. "I'll trade one if you will."
James was not fool enough to blab anything too personal, but that didn't mean he couldn't share a small confidence. "All right. I'll go first. Though I fully and wholeheartedly embrace my duty as England's future king, et cetera et cetera, I wish I could have another lifetime to spend as a scientist."
"A scientist?"
"I studied biology at Cambridge."
"I remember that," Ben said, which surprised James; he wouldn't have thought this Cat read up on the royal family. Then again, James had heard that people got bored at airports, in hair salons. "But I thought . . ."
"What, that they gave me the degree out of polite deference to the Crown? You've sadly underestimated the Cambridge dons. They're not in the habit of handing out merit badges."
"Then why didn't you just become a scientist?"
"And give up my rights to the throne?" James laughed, as if he hadn't spent most of his Eton years dreaming about doing just that. "I'd just shove the job onto my sister, who . . . well, she'd hate being queen. Also, as I said, I enjoy being Prince of Wales. I expect to enjoy being king. It's the job I've trained for my whole life. But I suppose it makes me wistful, thinking about the road not traveled."
Ben took a sip of his rum, considering that. "I hadn't really thought of that. The fact that the job doesn't go away, even if you do."
"The job is forever. Come on, then. Your turn."
For a few moments Ben considered. James was content to watch him. First of all, the weather was so horrid that it had come around again to being spectacular; the sheets of rain rippling around them seemed like something out of a film rather than real life. Sitting out here, shielded from the storm but able to watch it, felt more luxurious than anything else in this resort.
And second, Ben was delightful to look at. He didn't possess the prettiness of Hollywood film stars; his was a more rough-hewn allure. James liked that quality. He also liked the way Ben's pale blue shirt hung on his shoulders, and his wide, long-fingered hands--
"My turn," Ben said. "I studied to be an economist. At the University of Chicago, where they also aren't in the habit of handing out merit badges. Got top grades, interviewed at the best graduate programs, and then flamed out my last semester. Ditched it all just after graduation. Backpacked around Southeast Asia for a few years and started writing. Never regretted it."
James thought very carefully about what he'd heard, then sipped his rum before he spoke again. "It sounds wonderful to be so free. But I suspect anything you describe as 'flaming out' didn't begin happily."
"The stress. The pressure. You know."
"Academia?"
Ben opened his mouth, clearly to agree, but then he hesitated. "Yes. But not only that."
Instead of asking another question, James allowed the silence to do it for him. For a few moments they were surrounded only by the sound of the rain.
"My parents died when I was fairly young." The words came out awkwardly; Ben didn't tell this story often. "When I was 13. After that, I was adopted by distant relatives in Germany who were professors, and I wanted to impress them. To earn my place. Not that they were ever unkind; it was pressure I put on myself. But finally I reached the point where I stopped worrying about what they wanted and asked myself what I wanted."
The expression on Ben's face was difficult to read. James thought perhaps Ben had never fully understood that about himself until now. He knew better than to press Ben further; they needed to lighten the mood somewhat. James glanced around and saw just the thing.
"Do you play?" He gestured to a marble chess set on a table just inside Ben's cabin.
"Yes, though I'm out of practice."
"Well, that makes two of us." James smiled. "Come on. Unless you're scared to admit you've been outplayed by--I'm going to guess your usual terminology--an inbred twit?"
Ben laughed out loud. "I never called you a twit!"
"But inbred? I thought so! Well, it's a fair cop, guv'nor. Let's play."
***
Damn it all to hell, he was about to be outplayed.
Ben didn't mind that so much now that he realized James was no silly aristocrat, but was in fact extremely intelligent. But he was disconcerted to realize that he wanted to impress James. That he needed to win a contest between them.
That he was making the chess game stand in for a different kind of match,
one that would never happen.
Probably.
He glanced over the board, just in time to meet James' green eyes. They both smiled, but looked back down immediately, as though the jolt that had gone through Ben at that moment was entirely mutual.
Was it wishful thinking on Ben's part? Or were his instincts telling him the truth?
My God, he thought. The Prince of Wales is gay.
It wasn't as though there had never been rumors, but they were few and generic, the exact same rumors that flickered at the edges of the fame of virtually any handsome single man. A friend of mine heard/I know this guy who went to university with him/etc., etc.: Most of the time such rumors were meaningless, and the majority of people realized it. So far as the gossip rags told the tale, they claimed that James had spent years slavishly in love with the uninhibited, unworthy Scottish noblewoman Lady Cassandra Roxburgh. People usually adored him and hated her, though in recent years there had been impatience for James to break off his bad romance already. She'd been dubbed "Randy Sandy," and a few tabloids proclaimed "Jamie's Whipped!"
But Lady Cassandra was only a beard. Ben felt almost certain of that now.