Months ago, at the funeral reception for Beatrice’s father, King Frederick of Germany had asked Beatrice if she’d like to withdraw as this year’s host. “No one will blame you for stepping out of the lineup. Why don’t you let me have everyone to Rumpenheim instead?”
She knew Frederick meant well. At eighty-four, he was the current chairman of the League of Kings, and he’d been something of a mentor to Beatrice ever since she’d lived at Potsdam one summer in college, studying German.
Beatrice shook her head. “Thank you, but I need to see this through. My father was so eager to host this year’s conference.” She tried to ignore Frederick’s look of consternation as she added, “He was planning to bring his climate accord to a vote again. I’d like to finish what he started.”
“The climate accord?” Frederick repeated, frowning. “Beatrice, your father tried to pass that proposal for years, but he could never get enough people on board.”
“Only because they kept quibbling over the details.”
Climate change was one of those issues that the League of Kings agreed upon in theory, but not in practice. Whenever King George had brought it up, the discussion devolved into accusations and finger-pointing. Each monarch insisted that everyone else was a grievous offender. Why should they have to devastate their economies fixing other people’s mistakes?
“Besides,” Frederick had added hastily, “you can’t propose new business your first time at the conference. It simply isn’t done.”
“This isn’t my first conference.” As her father’s successor, Beatrice had attended the League’s most recent meeting in China, as well as the previous one in France.
There had been a few raised eyebrows that first time: most monarchs waited for their heirs to graduate from high school, or at the very least middle school, before bringing them to the conference. Twelve-year-old Beatrice had worked tirelessly and frantically to prove herself. At the heirs’ info sessions, she had scribbled notes until her hand cramped, trying not to feel intimidated when she was partnered up with the Prince of Wales, who was almost twice as old as her father.
“It’s your first time attending as a ruler,” Frederick amended. “You’re in the driver’s seat now, Beatrice.”
Like her grandfather, Beatrice would host the League of Kings at Bellevue, the royal family’s palace in Orange. The League of Kings never took place at a monarch’s main residence, but instead at a summer palace or minor estate. It would have been too risky, gathering so many world leaders in a busy capital city.
Located on a private island, Bellevue was the most secure of the Washingtons’ various homes. It had been built by the French, as a wedding gift from King Louis XX when his daughter Thérèse married King Andrew. And, in typically French fashion, it had never been connected to the mainland by a bridge. One had to cross either by boat or by helicopter. When Louis had given the estate to the newlyweds, he’d included a gilded ferryboat, complete with a captain named Gaston.
Thanks to its eighty guest rooms and dozens of outbuildings, Bellevue could accommodate almost everyone on-site. Of course, the coast would still be swarming for miles. People always flooded the area around a League of Kings conference: journalists desperate for a story, activists protesting an issue, royal enthusiasts who hoped a bit of glamour might rub off on them.
Beatrice had only been to Bellevue a handful of times in her life. Her family had never loved going there; it was so grand in scale and splendor that it felt like trading one palace for another. They were much happier at their country house, or the Telluride cabin—somewhere cozy, where they could make pancakes and watch TV as if they were an ordinary family.
And so, while Bellevue’s state rooms and gardens were open to the public, the rest of the estate was largely shut up, hidden behind dust cloths and curtains. Until now.
Beatrice tried to remember the last time she’d been at Bellevue, almost two years ago, when Connor Markham had still been her Revere Guard. So much had happened since then: she and Connor had started dating in secret, until Beatrice had lost her father and everything had changed. Or, really, she had changed. She’d realized that she and Connor didn’t belong together. That she loved Teddy—even if she wasn’t ready to marry him.
“I’ve brought hard copies of everything. Shall we begin with your schedule?” Anju asked, reaching into her briefcase for a stack of binders. Their spines were labeled with phrases like protocol & ceremonies or north atlantic trade routes & treaties, or even younger sons of the royal houses of the world.
Beatrice slid the binders eagerly across the breakfast table. The sight of all those color-coded plastic tabs felt oddly comforting. Studying was something Beatrice had always excelled at.
“Let’s get started,” she agreed, turning to the first page.
If Beatrice could fulfill her father’s dream and get the climate accord passed, maybe America would start taking her seriously. Maybe the press would actually discuss her accomplishments, instead of her fashion choices or her relationship with Teddy—would stop lamenting that she wasn’t the ruler her father had been.
This conference was her chance to start building a legacy as queen.
“I can’t believe this is the end of our tour.” Samantha glanced at her best friend, Nina Gonzalez, who was seated across from her on the royal family’s private jet. “How many flights have we been on now, seventy?”
“More like a hundred.”
Nina leaned down to press a brass button on the side of her seat. A hidden drawer popped out of the chair’s base, revealing neat rows of candy and peanuts. “The M&M’s are back!” she exclaimed, ripping open the corner of a bag. “I wonder whose job it is to restock the plane after our flights. They’re probably sick of buying more M&M’s every time.”
“I’m sure they started buying in bulk once they realized what an M&M monster you are,” Sam teased.
“I prefer M&M enthusiast, thank you.” Nina passed her the bag, but Sam shook her head. Her stomach was too knotted with anticipation to handle any sugar.
Understanding flashed in Nina’s eyes. “Are you nervous about staying with the Davises?”
“Well, yeah.” Sam’s words tumbled out in a sudden rush. “What if Marshall’s parents don’t like me? And how am I supposed to act around them, anyway? Do I call them Lord and Lady, or by their first names, or—”
Nina threw an M&M that landed squarely in Sam’s chest, silencing her. “Quit freaking out. Just act like you do around my family, and you’ll be fine.”
“Somehow I doubt the Duke and Duchess of Orange want to sing show tunes in matching sweatpants.”