Feeling Beatrice’s gaze on him, Jamie grinned and sank into an absurdly low bow, so that his shirt fluttered open and revealed his tanned chest. “Your Majesty. A pleasure to see you, as always.” He eyed Beatrice’s diamond watch and added, “What time is it, by the way?”
Beatrice glanced down at her wrist. “Six.”
Jamie crowed in delight. “It’s time, then! A button an hour! A button an hour!” To Beatrice’s shock, all the men on board—except Dmitri—obediently unfastened another button of their shirts, which now hung half-open. Beatrice saw the chests of far more kings than she’d ever expected to see in one place.
“Seriously, Jamie?” Sam rolled her eyes.
Jamie just laughed, unbothered. “You’re welcome to join in, of course, Samantha.”
Beatrice bristled, but Jamie was already heading off to harass someone else. And Sirivannavari, Bharat, and Alexei had started toward them, wearing dopey smiles and glowing necklaces and, in Alexei’s and Bharat’s case, shirts with the top few buttons undone.
“Really, boys?” Louise teased.
“A button an hour. I don’t make the rules, I just obey them,” Bharat said flippantly, but Alexei must have caught Louise’s disapproval, because he hurried to redo his buttons.
There was a loud thump from outside, and they all turned. Alexei shrugged. “Don’t worry, that’s just some drunk idiot trying to unhook the lifeboats. Happens every time. They’re securely fastened,” he added reassuringly.
Louise leaned over, nudging Beatrice’s shoulder with her own. “Told you. The Romanovs really know how to throw a party.”
* * *
An hour later, Beatrice ducked from the terrace back into the great room.
The party had, impossibly, gotten even rowdier. Bharat and Alexei had broken into the pool closet and unearthed a huge crate of squirt guns, and now all the royals were engaged in an all-out water fight, their expensive silk dresses and custom-fitted shirts soaking wet. Beatrice just wanted to catch her breath for a minute, escape all the chaos.
“You’re not enjoying yourself?”
She almost jumped; she hadn’t seen the tsar sitting on the couch, reading a stack of documents as if he were in his office, not in the middle of a wild party.
“I just needed some quiet,” she said carefully.
She thought again of everything the tsar had said last week, when she’d pitched the climate accord to him. At least, unlike some monarchs, Dmitri had done her the courtesy of listening to what she said.
He was smart, and he was stubborn, and no matter what arguments she laid out, he was always ready with a counterargument. How could he agree to something that would eliminate so many jobs, especially among the poorest communities in his nation? Had Beatrice even considered how expensive this proposal would be? She hadn’t lived through the bitter cold of a Russian winter; she didn’t know what she was asking, telling him to increase taxes and build a series of wind farms he couldn’t afford.
Now, looking around at the lavish interior of the Xenia, Beatrice found it hard to imagine that there was anything the tsar couldn’t afford.
Her eyes drifted to a poker table set up along the opposite wall; she hadn’t noticed it before. Dmitri followed her gaze and smiled wolfishly. “Do you play?”
Beatrice flashed back to those rainy afternoons at the country house when her father had taught her and the twins the basics of poker. They used to bet on silly things: the winner got the largest slice of chocolate cake at dinner, or picked which movie they all watched that night.
“Only a little.” And maybe it was the contagious energy of the party, or the fact that she was dressed like a braver, brazen version of herself, but Beatrice added, “Should we play? We could add a wager.”
“I’m listening,” the tsar told her, intrigued.
“If I win, you’ll vote for my climate-accord bill.”
Dmitri gave a low whistle. “That’s quite an ask, but very well. I accept.”
A thrill coursed through Beatrice’s veins. This was how things were done at these conferences, wasn’t it? Forget the debates, forget the protocol, forget the massive delegations and assemblies. Sometimes the world changed in smaller ways: a boat ride over ink-dark water, the flip of a card.
Dmitri threw open the doors to the terrace, his voice booming over the clamor. “Beatrice and I are about to play a hand of poker!”
There was a roar of excitement at his words, and the other monarchs all quickly streamed inside. Half of them were missing shoes or articles of clothing, or, in the case of the queens of Mexico and Morocco, seemed to have traded outfits entirely.
Sam and Louise came to stand near Beatrice. “What are you doing?” Sam hissed.
“Honestly, I’m not sure. I’m sort of…making it up as I go along?”
Sam stared at her, an eyebrow lifted. They both knew that Beatrice never acted on impulse; she was always motivated by facts and data and logic. But it felt good to act out of character, to be spontaneous—to be more like Sam—for once.
“Now, if I win, what do I want?” the tsar mused, thinking aloud. “Perhaps you could break your engagement to Theodore and marry one of my sons instead. Not Alexei—he has to rule Russia someday,” he added, waving at the tsarevich. “But I have three other boys, all of whom would be more than happy to renounce their titles and move to America for you. You can take your pick!”
Beatrice stared at him blankly. Then the tsar clapped her back, laughing uproariously. “Your face is priceless! Beatrice, you must know that I was joking!”
Was he? Beatrice had the sickening thought that political marriages had been negotiated like this for centuries, probably on boats just like this one. Lives and loves gambled on the throw of the dice, or negotiated as part of an economic treaty.
“Unfortunately for your sons, I’m not available.” She smiled, but there was an edge to her words.
“All right, then. What about that tiara you always wear? Anastasia keeps raving about how beautiful it is.”
“The Winslow tiara isn’t actually mine. It belongs to America.”
“Then I suppose if you lose, you’ll have to buy it from your own country,” he declared, and chuckled at his own words.
Gamble the Winslow tiara? Beatrice’s every instinct rose up against the suggestion. And yet…For years she had lived by the rules, dotted every i and crossed every t. Maybe it was time she allowed a little bit of risk into her life.
“Agreed.” She held out her hand, and the tsar shook it.
They crossed the room to the gaming table, already set up for play with two armchairs and a deck of cards. The other royals gathered around, clutching cocktails or glowing necklaces or water guns that dripped onto the expensive carpet, but Dmitri clearly didn’t care.