“Why not?” Beatrice’s relationship with her former chamberlain, Robert Standish, had been stiff with formality. But beneath the incessant bowing and Your Majesty–ing, Robert hadn’t respected her at all. He’d been silently undermining Beatrice’s authority, trying to keep her from exerting any real power.
Robert had been far too stuffy and old-fashioned to even consider sitting down in the Washington family’s private breakfast room, which was precisely why Beatrice had suggested it. She was determined to do things differently this time around.
“Bee.” Teddy cleared his throat. “Do you think you could run some of my thoughts past Anju, see if we can get moving on any of them?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
America had never had a king consort before. The only real precedents for Teddy’s position were the eleven queens consort who’d come before him—most recently, Beatrice’s mother, Queen Adelaide.
So Teddy had drawn up some ideas for responsibilities he could take on. He’d been trained as a future duke, after all; he had a great deal of experience in allocating budget, looking out for the good of his people. Beatrice knew he wouldn’t be happy doing what queens consort traditionally did—cutting ribbons, arranging tablescapes.
Of course, it wasn’t fair that the queens had been limited to domestic roles in the first place. Beatrice’s mother was one of the smartest people she knew. And, like Teddy, Adelaide had been trained to rule a duchy someday—two duchies, in fact. But once she’d married King George, she’d been relegated to a position that was more ceremonial than political. That was just the way the monarchy worked.
Until now.
Beatrice was determined to change all of that, to show people that a woman could rule as effectively as any man. Still, she didn’t want Teddy to feel purposeless. He was too talented to sit around waiting for her to need him. Even if that was, technically, the only item in his job description.
“Thanks. I’ll catch up with you later.” Teddy stood, dropping a kiss on Beatrice’s forehead as the Lady Chamberlain walked in.
After she’d fired Robert Standish, Beatrice had launched a full-scale search for a new chamberlain. She’d interviewed dozens of options before settling on Anju Mahali, who, as the former CEO of a software company, might have been the unlikeliest candidate of them all.
“Are you sure you want to hire her? She knows next to nothing about politics,” Beatrice’s mother had warned.
Honestly, Beatrice thought, the royal family needed someone with a fresh perspective. And anything Anju needed to know about politics—not to mention the intricacies of protocol—she could find in Robert’s binders and file folders. He’d certainly left enough of them.
At least Anju had some experience managing public opinion. When Beatrice had called off the wedding of the century, offering no more explanation than a vague security scare, she’d expected a public reaction. There was always a reaction to every last one of her decisions, no matter how insignificant they seemed to Beatrice. She’d met with a congressional leader at his office rather than summoning him to hers—was that a gesture of respect, or of disdain? (In reality, the palace’s air-conditioning had been out that day.) She’d worn a pair of amethyst earrings—surely that was a silent cry for help, since amethysts were known to have healing vibes. (Beatrice had been especially bemused by that claim; she’d worn the earrings because her stylist thought they matched her purple dress.)
The scrutiny had only gotten worse after her controversial decision to postpone the wedding. All summer, people had been speaking out against her, in op-eds and on talk shows and in social-media rants. It’s not that I’m antifeminist, they would begin, but—
As if that single but absolved them of anything they said next. But she’s so young and inexperienced. But it’s hard to imagine she could ever live up to her father. But she called off her own wedding; don’t you worry that’s a sign of emotional instability?
For the first time in both their lives, Samantha’s approval ratings were higher than Beatrice’s. Sam had just completed a successful royal tour, while Beatrice was the woman who’d left America’s favorite duke at the altar. The magazines that used to rave over “Queen B” now piled criticism on “Runaway B.”
In Beatrice’s opinion, their puns were getting worse.
“Welcome back, Your Majesty,” Anju said with a brisk nod. That was another thing Beatrice liked about her: she didn’t bother curtsying.
“Have you eaten?” Beatrice gestured to the breakfast spread before them. Anju ignored the food but poured herself a coffee and added a heaping scoop of sugar before taking the seat opposite Beatrice.
“As our first order of business, I’d like to review Teddy’s suggestions for ways to shape the role of king consort,” Beatrice began.
Anju hesitated. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, that’s not very time-sensitive. And many of Teddy’s suggestions—that he meet with ambassadors on your behalf, or help manage your briefings by the Trade Commission—would require congressional approval. I think we should focus on the League of Kings conference for now.”
“Right, of course.” Beatrice swallowed against a sudden panic.
The imminent convocation of the League of Kings would be her first great test as a ruler.
The League had been founded in 1895, ending the War of the Three Peters: Tsar Pieter of Russia, King Pedro IV of Spain, and Emperor Peter of Austria. In Europe it was still known as the Cousins’ War, since all three Peters were cousins through the Hapsburg line.
At its inception, the League of Kings had been something entirely new: a multinational treaty, in which all the signatory nations swore to maintain international peace and security. They agreed that every five years they would meet at one of their palaces—no politicians, no press, just the kings and their sons—to discuss issues of global importance.
Now the League of Kings comprised the monarchs of nearly every nation in the world, except a few holdouts in the Pacific who didn’t see the need to sign, like Singapore and Hawaii. Now the attendees were not only kings, but queens and empresses and sultanas, though all efforts to rename the coalition as anything but the League of Kings had sputtered out and died. And now the conferences were held all over the globe, not just in St. Petersburg or Sandringham.
The League of Kings hadn’t met in America since Beatrice’s grandfather was king. But this fall, America would be hosting the conference again, in the very first year of Beatrice’s reign.
The rotation of League of Kings hosts was a contentious and highly delicate act of international diplomacy, more prestigious—at least to the monarchs—than hosting the Olympics. Already the King of Ghana and the Emperor of Japan were fighting over the location of the conference in 2045.