Inheritance, p.1
Inheritance, page 1
ALSO BY KATHARINE McGEE
American Royals
American Royals II: Majesty
American Royals III: Rivals
This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical or public figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2022 by Katharine McGee and Alloy Entertainment
Cover art copyright © 2022 by Carolina Melis
American Royals III: Rivals excerpt text copyright © 2022 by Katharine McGee and Alloy Entertainment. Cover art copyright © 2022 by Carolina Melis.
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Contents
Cover
Also by Katharine McGee
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One: Beatrice
Chapter Two: Daphne
Chapter Three: Nina
Chapter Four: Samantha
Chapter Five: Beatrice
Chapter Six: Samantha
Chapter Seven: Nina
Chapter Eight: Daphne
Chapter Nine: Beatrice
Excerpt from American Royals III: Rivals
Acknowledgments
PROLOGUE
Royals: they’re just like us.
You don’t actually believe such an absurdity, do you? It’s just a myth that tabloids use to sell magazines—accompanied by photos of the Washington twins shooting pool at a dive bar, or of Princess Louise of France blowing on the polish of her fresh manicure. Surely you realize that those photos are staged.
In so many ways, royals are not like us. They grow up in palaces with lofty ceilings and sweeping staircases; they are constantly bowed and curtsied to. They inherit titles and tiaras.
But then, they also flirt and fight and act on impulse; they have dreams and hidden fears. Maybe they are like us after all. Maybe they are astonishingly, achingly human.
And nothing is more deeply human than a night filled with secrets.
You know the kind of night I’m talking about. A night when everything changes, when your entire world seems to balance on a razor-thin edge before veering in some new and unforeseen direction. Situations that you never thought possible might unfold. And some doors might close to you forever. That kind of night will find all of us eventually, royal and commoner alike.
And when the night is over and the sun comes up, everything has changed.
That’s when the real story begins.
1
beatrice
Princess Beatrice scanned the ballroom, looking through the voluminous gowns and crisp tuxedos for one face in particular. But when her father approached, she quickly tore her gaze away and smiled up at him.
“Hey, Bee.” King George IV of America held out a hand. “Dance with me?”
It was a trick her dad often employed at crowded events. He and Beatrice would retreat onto the dance floor: to strategize, or to share something one of them had learned, or simply to get a moment alone. Often this was the only way that King George could actually talk with his oldest daughter and heir. The moment he and Beatrice stepped off the dance floor, people would swarm toward them, jostling eagerly for the king’s attention. Drowning him in a swirl of requests.
Everyone always wanted something from the king. They wanted him to give a commencement address, or be an honorary cohost of their charity gala, or help their family member get an internship in Congress. They wanted a photo or a promise or simply the secondhand glamour of standing in his orbit. At events like this, King George and Queen Adelaide—and tonight, Beatrice and her French counterpart, the Princess Louise—were the zoo animals that people had bought tickets to see. And since this event had cost ten thousand dollars a table, the guests were clearly determined to get their money’s worth.
“It’s such a hassle hosting foreign royalty, isn’t it?” King George said softly. “I’m glad it’s the Madisons this time, and not us.”
“You’re glad we didn’t have to turn the palace into a blue fish tank?” Beatrice joked.
Her dad chuckled. “I do feel like a fish, now that you mention it.”
The ballroom at Montpelier—the Madison family’s country estate—had been transformed for tonight’s charity event, which celebrated the new collaboration between the National Portrait Gallery and the Louvre. The theme was Soirée Bleue, which, as far as Beatrice could tell, had nothing to do with either museum. It was simply an excuse to decorate Montpelier with seafoam-blue lighting and towering displays of hydrangeas on blue Lucite tables. The guests, all wearing shades of navy or periwinkle or turquoise, floated about the ballroom like a great blue wave. Behind a velvet rope, in a small antechamber, hung the pièce de résistance: the Mona Lisa, the crown jewel of the agreement between the two museums. The painting would be on loan in America for six months, touring from one regional museum to another.
Ambrose Madison, the Duke of Virginia—who was America’s current ambassador to France—had supposedly brokered the agreement. He and his family were back from Paris for the weekend to toast this historic moment. Or, really, to soak up praise.
“Have you heard from Sean?” Beatrice asked her father as they made a slow circle of the dance floor. Sean, their family’s head of security, was the only responsible adult at Washington Palace right now. Beatrice still couldn’t believe that her parents had left her siblings, Sam and Jeff, home alone on the night of their high school graduation.
The king glanced down at Beatrice, amused. “I know you’re worried, but the twins will be just fine.”
“You told them they could throw a party!”
“We both know they’ve done it before, when they were the only ones in the palace.” A strangely wistful note entered her dad’s voice as he added, “Let them have their fun now, while they can.”
Beatrice tried to hide her resentment. It must be nice to be Sam and Jeff: to have all the perks of being a Washington, but none of the responsibilities.
Across the ballroom, the Duke of Virginia’s son, James, caught Beatrice’s gaze and smiled lasciviously. Beatrice quickly looked away, pretending not to see. James had cornered her earlier and talked about himself for half an hour. As if she cared that he’d played lacrosse at prep school, or about his college fraternity, or that he and his younger sister had vacationed at the Spanish royal family’s house on Mallorca.
Those sorts of guys—the pompous aristocratic types—had been circling Beatrice with increasing frequency lately. At some point, she knew, she would be expected to marry one of them.
But that was a far-off problem, and one that didn’t bear thinking about right now.
Her dad tugged Beatrice’s arm over her head, and she spun on her toes, the way she used to when she was a little girl and he played Motown on the old record player. “So, what do you think of her?” he asked.
“I haven’t actually talked to her yet,” Beatrice admitted.
King George followed his daughter’s gaze to Louise, the Princess of France. “I was talking about the Mona Lisa,” he said gently. “Though now I’m curious about why you’re avoiding Louise. She’s one of the few people here your age.”
Louise was five years older than Beatrice, actually, and vastly more intimidating. She gazed about the room with a blasé nonchalance, as if she’d seen and done everything in life and nothing could surprise her anymore.
“I’m not avoiding her. I’ve just been busy,” Beatrice said unconvincingly.
Her father let out a breath. “I’ve always hoped that you and Louise might become friends. You could help each other navigate the strangeness of your positions.”
It was true that Beatrice and Louise had been born to similar situations, both set to become their nation’s first queen regnant. Though, unlike Beatrice, Louise was already queen in all but name. King Louis XXIII was ill; she had served as his Regent for sev eral years now.
“Why would I need Louise when I have you, Dad?” Beatrice said lightly. “Louise may rule France, but you’re the one ruling America, and we both know that’s the role I’m training for. Which is also a role I won’t have to fill for a very long time.”
“Of course.” George’s eyes flicked downward. “All the same, I think you should make more of an effort with Louise. Two future queens…You might learn a lot from each other.”
As the song ended and her dad took a step back, the inevitable crush of people began streaming toward him. Beatrice retreated, trying not to feel disappointed. It had always been this way for her family: their private moments played out in public, their conversations timed to the length of a song.
Princess Louise still stood across the ballroom, chatting with a few people near the alcove that led to the Mona Lisa. She was formidably chic in her gown, which looked demure at first glance—until you realized that the long-sleeved, floor-length lace was actually a sheer overlay, with only a stretchy tube dress beneath. You could see glimpses of Louise’s arms and legs and cleavage through the top layer.
Beatrice thought of her father’s words and took a deep breath, then headed in that direction.
When she reached Louise, the princess’s companions gave sloppy curtsies and scattered. That was what royalty always did: it either attracted people like moths to a flame or sent them running. There was no middle ground.
“Good evening, Your Royal Highness,” Beatrice said cautiously.
“Ah yes, hello.” Louise’s voice was low and musical and distracted. She hadn’t greeted Beatrice by name, let alone by title—which was a shocking breach of etiquette. But Beatrice found that she didn’t mind.
She came to stand next to Louise, staring uncertainly at the portrait. She never really knew what to do around art.
“It’s a beautiful painting,” she murmured.
Louise had a glass of red wine in her hands, blatantly ignoring the placard that said no drinks near the artwork. She twirled its stem idly in her fingers, holding it in a way that suggested it might crash to the floor at any moment.
Beatrice was reminded of how she’d felt as a freshman around some of the older girls at Harvard—the ones who strolled into lectures five minutes late, wearing neon leggings and clutching a latte, only to brazenly raise their hands and ask a question. She often wished she could move through the world with such unapologetic confidence.
“Look at her,” Louise said abruptly, lifting her hand. Her wine sloshed perilously close to the brim of her glass, yet she didn’t flinch. “What do you suppose she’s thinking about?”
Beatrice stared at the woman in the painting: at her delicate veil, her luminous eyes, the vague smile that teased her lips. “I don’t know.”
“She’s got a secret. Something deliciously off-limits, like a forbidden love.”
For some reason, Beatrice felt the need to argue. “She’s pensive, but that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s hiding something.”
Louise tossed her blond curls. “Of course she’s hiding something! Women have always been forced to conceal things. That is just part of being a woman—especially a powerful woman.”
No one ever talked to Beatrice with such bluntness. It was shocking, and a bit invigorating.
“You don’t know that the woman in the portrait was powerful.”
“She was wealthy enough to commission this from Leonardo da Vinci. That has to mean she wielded power,” Louise declared. “Ultimately, art is all about power and secrets, isn’t it? And money.”
“Sounds a lot like politics.”
Louise seemed amused by that. “It does, doesn’t it?”
Beatrice shifted a few steps closer, drawn to Louise as if by magnetism. They’d known each other their whole lives, crossing paths a few times a year—at state visits, or at galas like this one, or at the League of Kings conference twice a decade—but Louise had never paid her more than cursory attention. Beatrice had probably seemed juvenile, full of stories about college and her charity initiatives. Whereas Louise was Queen of France in all but name.
If she was lonely, if she missed her father’s guidance, Louise didn’t reveal it. There was something honed and slightly intimidating about her face, the decisive glint in her pale blue eyes. She looked like a woman who ruled. And Beatrice didn’t know many of those.
“How did the Madisons convince you to lend us the painting?” she asked, curious. It was the first time the Mona Lisa had ever been on loan in America, and the National Portrait Gallery was practically salivating.
The Madisons, of course, were gloating as if they had single-handedly saved America from cultural destruction.
“The Madisons? They had nothing to do with it. I just felt like Americans deserved a glimpse of the Mona Lisa, too.” Louise tilted her head, a smile teasing her lips. “When I was little, I used to ask my parents if this painting could hang in my bedroom. I was always disappointed when they said no.”
“You wanted the Mona Lisa to hang in your room?”
“Why not? Most of the art in the Louvre belongs to my family anyway.” Louise cast Beatrice an assessing glance. “They never let me borrow it, though.”
“Because it deserves to hang in public view.”
Louise barked out a laugh. “My parents couldn’t care less about what’s on public view. But they insisted on decorating my bedroom with military portraits: of King Louis XIV, Henri IV, François I. The kings who made France strong.” Louise sighed. Despite her glittering tiara, she looked decidedly unroyal right now, with her hip tilted to one side and her lips pursed. “What my parents didn’t realize is that the woman in the Mona Lisa is strong, too.”
Beatrice was intrigued despite herself. “Because we don’t know what she was thinking?”
“Exactly. There’s strength in keeping something of yourself back, something that no one else can touch. Especially when the world puts you under a spotlight. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes,” Beatrice said softly. She understood all too well.
Louise took a step back, lifting her wineglass in an approximation of a toast. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
Beatrice felt a pang of regret that their conversation was over, but she nodded. “Of course.”
She knew she should go back out there too, make sure all the guests felt sufficiently flattered, say hello to the members of Congress she still hadn’t greeted. Yet she lingered another few minutes, enjoying the relative quiet.
“So, this is the famous Mona Lisa,” a voice said next to her.
Beatrice’s face lifted into a smile. “Yes. Come all the way from France,” she agreed, and turned to look at Connor Markham.
Here was the person she’d been furtively searching for all night. He was always nearby, yet at the same time out of reach—a silent, stoic figure along the edge of the ballroom, a human statue standing at attention near the door.
She blinked, not used to seeing Connor in the navy blazer and gold lantern pin of the Revere Guards’ dress uniform. At Harvard he’d worn cable-knit sweaters and dark jeans, dressing as if he were just another student. Sometimes Beatrice forgot that he wasn’t. Connor was so easy to talk to that he felt more like a peer than an employee.
As strange as it was, she’d begun to think of him as a friend. A real friend, not like the girls from high school or college who posed with her in photos for bragging rights, but someone Beatrice actually trusted. She didn’t have many true friends. They were surprisingly hard to come by, when you were princess and heir to a throne.
She liked to think that Connor felt the same way—that she was more to him than just a job.
“What do you think?” she asked, gesturing to the Mona Lisa.
Connor clasped his hands behind his back and tilted his face up, studying the portrait. His soft blue-gray eyes darkened to a deep pewter, the way they always did when he was lost in thought.
“Honestly? I expected it to be bigger,” Connor admitted, which startled a laugh from Beatrice.
