Actually, a maidservant had told her, these rooms had once belonged to Madame de Pompadour, the commoner whose relationship with Louis XV nearly brought down the French monarchy.
Daphne had to hand it to Louise; she had a sense of humor.
“In other news,” Ethan said, more tentatively, “the Duke of Virginia’s trial begins next week. I wonder how Gabriella feels about it all.”
Daphne gave a derisive snort. “Who knows? Last I heard, she was in Mallorca with Juan Carlos.”
Daphne had seen the whole thing unfold, the day after Beatrice and Teddy’s wedding, when she went to the private airport with Louise. The VIP reception area had been crowded with foreign royals, all of them gossiping with fascinated annoyance about the Washingtons’ wedding switch. Daphne had been tying her printed scarf around her head, trying to go unrecognized, when she’d heard Gabriella’s imperious voice.
“What do you mean, my family’s plane has been seized?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the woman at the private airport’s front desk had said, flushing. “But your plane has been confiscated by the government, under orders from the FBI.”
Daphne had watched as Prince Juan Carlos of Spain—the carefree playboy prince, the one with the eponymous tequila company—had approached Gabriella. “I’m going to Mallorca. Can I give you a ride somewhere along the way?” As if dropping her off by private jet was as easy as pulling to the side of the highway.
“I still can’t believe it,” Ethan mused. “Gabriella and Juan Carlos, I mean.”
“I can. That girl was dead set on marrying a prince.” Daphne said it disdainfully, ignoring Ethan’s raised eyebrow.
“You’re not jealous of all her millions of followers?” he teased. Ever since she’d hooked up with Juan Carlos, Gabriella’s social-media army had skyrocketed to the millions. Her feed was a study in hedonism, all sparklers and beach raves in Ibiza and Spanish aristocrats chugging the infamous royal tequila.
“I have a country to run. I can’t be bothered with some socialite’s online presence,” Daphne sniffed. “Honestly, Gabriella and Juan Carlos seem perfect for each other.”
Ethan chuckled, then changed the subject. “So I was looking at the calendar, and I was thinking—what if I come to Paris next month? I’d get my own hotel room,” he said quickly, reddening. “I mean—it’s probably best if we, um, don’t rush into anything—”
“I’d love that.” Daphne’s breath hitched at the thought of Ethan, here. Of having him entirely to herself. No subterfuge, no secrets. Holding hands as they walked together through Paris, wandering in and out of museums, sharing a gelato from her favorite place on Île Saint-Louis. “And don’t be ridiculous. My room is plenty big, and the French have no qualms about overnight guests.”
“Well…if you’re sure.”
His eyes deepened at that, and Daphne forced herself to look away, grabbing her calendar. “Any weekend but the seventeenth.”
“Going somewhere with Louise?”
“Not exactly,” Daphne said vaguely. She wasn’t ready to talk about these plans yet, in case they went horribly wrong.
“I really should go,” she added, and Ethan nodded.
“I’ll text you later. Daphne—I’m proud of you.”
After they hung up, she glanced down at the pile of paperwork on her desk. Managing things during Louise’s absence was a job on top of her already full-time job. She needed to review the notes on the Assemblée Nationale’s upcoming legislation, and then she had a call with Alexei’s Imperial Secretary, Gus: a gruff, grouchy Swedish man who hadn’t been easily won over by Daphne’s charm or charisma. Between the two of them, she and Gus were building a new system of diplomatic firewalls and information protocols that might—hopefully—allow Alexei and Louise to both rule.
It would mean a lot of staff, and private lines, and top-secret documents that neither monarch could share with the other. But the biggest obstacle was that each country needed to approve the marriage in a national referendum. Which meant that Daphne was managing the biggest royal PR campaign of all time, selling Louise and Alexei’s romance to the world as an epic, impossible, sweeping love story.
So far the French were polling in support of their princess, which wasn’t all that surprising; the French had always been sentimental. Daphne was having a harder time winning over the Russians. But she knew she could get there, in the end—and told everyone so.
Perhaps that was the best thing about this job: she no longer had to hide just how smart she was.
At home she had always downplayed her intelligence. All her life she’d been told she was beautiful; small wonder that she’d thought the pinnacle of her achievement was trading on those looks to climb higher in the world.
Trying to become a princess, Daphne realized now, had been too small a dream. It was a role that hinged entirely on her relationship to someone else.
For the first time in her life Daphne was free: of her mother’s ambition, of the constraining persona she had built, of the demands of being a princess. She was free to be anything she wanted.
Who knew where her path would lead. Maybe she and Ethan would end up together, or maybe not. She might become an ambassadress or a congresswoman or the CEO of a company. Whatever she did, she was going to do it on her own merit, without manipulation or scheming.
Well…maybe with a little bit of scheming.
NINA
“The only work we haven’t discussed in detail is Lady Susan.” Dr. Lytton leaned back in her overstuffed chair. “What do you make of Blalock’s assertion that Susan is just another figure in the British villainess tradition, à la Lady Macbeth?”
“I actually think that Lady Susan was more inspired by non-English works. Like Les liaisons dangereuses,” Nina argued, stumbling over the French pronunciation.
Dr. Lytton lifted her eyebrows. They were in her office, which was a study in cozy chaos, with books on every single surface, stacked so perilously high that Nina always feared they might topple. Sunlight streamed through the windows that overlooked the quadrangle, dappling shadows over Nina’s spiral notebook.
Nina loved Oxford. She loved the creak of the staircase that led to this office, the treads warped from centuries of scholarly footsteps. She loved the city, with its winding cobblestone paths and quaint bakeries, a place that had remained seemingly untouched by the passing of time. It had been freezing when she arrived, and as she’d wandered the snowy, fairy-tale campus, she’d wrapped Jamie’s scarf tighter around her neck and thought how lucky she was to be here.