“I’m sure the French spilled wine on it at some point and relit it with a cigarette lighter,” Sam agreed.
Beatrice gave a strangled laugh. “Thank you,” she told them both, then glanced regretfully back at the windows. “I guess we should head inside.”
The ballroom of Bellevue felt like a medieval tapestry come to life. The mirrored arches along one wall matched the windows along the other, which overlooked the Pacific. Chandeliers glittered like diamonds, casting everything in a golden light—all the opulent turbans and tiaras, precious gemstones pulled from Crown Jewels collections and museum display cases. Some of the older kings wore a painfully traditional form of court dress, complete with lace ruffles at their wrists and ceremonial swords buckled to their waists. The younger ones had opted for a less antiquated look, though their braided coats and epaulets were still worn with a sword.
How pointless, Beatrice thought. A room full of men armed with weapons that not a single one of them could actually wield. Unlike the women, who had nothing to defend themselves with but their wits.
She saw Empress Mei Ling a few yards away, her voice lowered conspiratorially as she said something to the Swedish queen. They both looked up at Beatrice’s approach, then swiftly averted their eyes. Beatrice glanced frantically at King Frederick, but he too avoided looking in her direction. Beatrice felt as if she’d become a ghost at her own party.
Then a voice spoke behind her. “Ah, voilà! Here she is!”
Beatrice turned to greet Princess Louise of France, who was surrounded by a group of royals in their early to mid-twenties. There was Alexei, the tsarevich of Russia; his father, Dmitri, was one of the most intimidating and powerful people in this room. Beatrice had gone on a date with Alexei’s brother Pieter once, only to leave when Pieter asked their waitress for her number.
There was Bharat, son of one of the maharajas of India, wearing a jaunty bow tie and a pair of square-framed glasses. He would have taken Beatrice on a date, too, like most every prince within a decade of her age, except that he’d come out at age twelve.
There was Princess Sirivannavari of Thailand, wearing a shockingly short skirt and pouting into her cocktail. She seemed more social-media celebrity than future ruler to Beatrice: she posted makeup tutorials, and videos of her shoe collection. Perhaps she was trying to be approachable, Beatrice thought generously. Though that was probably giving Siri too much credit.
And then there was Louise, Princess of France.
Beatrice would have died rather than admit it, but she’d always been intimidated by Louise. There was something proud and distinctly aloof about her, even now, as she surveyed the room with detached interest. They’d crossed paths a number of times over the years, yet Beatrice had always been too nervous to say much, though she and Louise had a lot in common. Both were the first female monarchs of their respective nations, and both had lost the guidance of their fathers far too young.
King Louis XXIII had fallen ill several years ago, leaving his daughter to rule as Regent in his stead. The French were notoriously tight-lipped about his health, though he must have suffered from something extreme, a mental illness or life-threatening injury. Beatrice had a feeling that if King Louis were in any condition to rule, even from his hospital bed, he would.
At the last League of Kings conference in Hainan, Princess Louise had been a stylish twenty-three-year-old, while Beatrice had just graduated from high school. Five years later, Louise was as glamorous as ever, with her dark mascara and languid voice. Her light blond hair had been pulled into a high ponytail, a bit like the way Sam usually wore it, except that Sam’s ponytails always looked sporty, whereas Louise’s projected a sort of regal insouciance.
Inevitably, the world had been comparing Beatrice and Louise ever since they were children. When Beatrice gave her first public address at age ten, the international media immediately played clips of it alongside Louise’s. When Beatrice had briefly dated Prince Nikolaos of Greece, the tabloids all reminded her that he’d gone out with Louise first, so Beatrice was only getting her French counterpart’s sloppy seconds. Most popular were the “Who Wore It Better?” features, where both women had on the same item of clothing: a red luncheon dress, a black one-shouldered gown. Louise always looked so slinky and chic that Beatrice seemed distinctly boring by comparison.
Their personas had only crystallized as they grew older. Louise’s image was all art and culture and European sophistication—sponsoring a masked ball at the Louvre, skiing at St. Anton with her other royal friends—while Beatrice remained studious and thoughtful and wholesome.
Sometimes Beatrice couldn’t help thinking that Louise’s way of doing things looked a lot more fun.
“Votre Altesse Royale,” Beatrice said now, in answer to Louise’s greeting.
“Please, we can speak English! We are in your home, Béatrice.” Louise pronounced it like a French word, Bey-ah-treece, drawing out each syllable as if she relished the sound of her own voice.
It was a definite breach in protocol, using Beatrice’s first name without being invited to, but for once Beatrice didn’t mind.
There was an indefinable magnetism to Louise. Beatrice had grown into her position, in an ungainly and sometimes painful way, but she couldn’t help thinking that Louise would have been a leader even if she hadn’t been born a princess. When she turned her pale blue eyes on you, it felt like stepping into the glow of a spotlight.
“It’s been so long. Since last year’s Soirée Bleue, I think?” Beatrice ventured.
The other young royals were pretending not to listen, but Beatrice saw their eyes darting back and forth between her and Louise as if they were watching the volley and return of a tennis match.
“Ah, yes. The event celebrating the Mona Lisa.” Louise lifted an eyebrow, challenging and slightly teasing. “You didn’t believe me when I said the woman in the portrait is hiding a secret.”
Beatrice remembered standing with Louise before the Mona Lisa—which, after that night, had been on loan to America for nearly a year—as they discussed what the subject of the portrait was thinking about. Louise had insisted that the woman had a forbidden lover, which Beatrice had thought was a bit of a stretch.
But that was before Beatrice had fallen for Connor, then ended things with him after her father died. She didn’t think Louise’s theory was so unreasonable anymore, now that Beatrice had experienced her own forbidden love. And hidden her fair share of secrets.
There was no possible way she could say any of that aloud, so she smiled politely. “Thank you for lending it to us. I know that millions of Americans are grateful they got to see the Mona Lisa in person.”
“Art should always be experienced in person. Great art should be experienced more than once,” Louise said sagely. “After all, it changes each time you see it, because you bring something different to the artwork each time. Don’t you agree?”