her cheeks sweetly red.
“Me too,” Clive said somewhat obliviously. “And I saw Joss’s father going blue in the face yelling at Tom Huntington-Jones about something, so I’d best buck up and go fish for the scoop from Philippa. Coming, Bex?”
I scanned the room again. I couldn’t see Nick, but I did see my parents at the edge of the dance floor, entangled in a conversation with Nick’s agitated-looking Aunt Agatha.
“You go ahead. Let me check on my parents first.”
“…show jumping in Great Britain simply hasn’t been the same since he threw his hat in with the Dutch,” Agatha was saying when I reached them. She sounded accusatory.
“I am sure you’re right,” my mother said, in a tone I recognized as the one she used when she wanted to be conciliatory and also had no idea what the other person was talking about.
Agatha seemed pleased by this response, before turning to me with a stare that was evaluative at best. “Can I help you, Rebecca?” she asked after a beat.
I gestured at Mom and Dad. “These are my parents, Your Highness,” I explained.
Agatha looked at them, then back at me again, an expression of consternation on her face. “Really?” she said.
“I’m afraid it’s true,” Dad told her.
“I was quite sure you were related to Maxima,” Agatha said, in a tone that implied that she was still fairly certain that she was correct. She turned to me, grudgingly. “Rebecca, how are you enjoying the palace?” No one has ever sounded more pained by a pleasantry.
“It’s stunning,” I said. “One of my favorite Vermeers is hanging in the Portrait Gallery.”
“Oh yes,” Agatha said. “The Milkmaid.”
It was a test. I was about to pass.
“No, ma’am, I believe that one is in the Rijksmuseum,” I said. “I’m talking about The Music Lesson. Up close you can really see the way Vermeer injected himself into the work by adding that reflection of his easel. It’s breathtaking in person.”
“Of course,” Agatha said, looking almost disappointed that I’d been right.
In your face, was my elegant thought.
Then Agatha’s face fell even further. “Excuse me. Julian is…well, excuse me,” she said, hustling toward the bar, where I saw Awful Julian dumping two shots of whiskey into his soda.
“Do I even want to know what that was about?” Mom asked.
“I think Princess Agatha was making sure that I’m not both a greeting-card artist and a bullshit artist,” I said.
“I can only assume you showed her up magnificently,” Nick said, suddenly at my side. “I apologize if she was rude.”
My mother burst into girlish laughter. The two old women next to us glanced over and, in sync, raised penciled-in brows.
“Not at all,” Mom chortled. “I found her quite fascinating, actually.”
“Happy birthday!” My father shook Nick’s hand. “Quite a place you’ve got here.”
“Thank you both very much for coming,” Nick said warmly. “It means a lot to me to have you here, and I know Bex has been missing you very much.”
“Well, obviously, we’re delighted to be here,” my mother said, launching into what sounded like a TripAdvisor review. “It’s tremendous, and the level of service! I can’t even begin to imagine the planning.”
“Luckily, all I had to do is show up,” Nick said, smiling. “I don’t want you to think your daughter would have anything to do with the sort of person who would approve an ice sculpture of himself riding a polo pony.”
“He barely even rides,” I said. “Because of the wooden leg.”
“Bex!” Mom gasped.
“Don’t tell,” Nick said conspiratorially. “I’m so sorry I can’t stay and chat longer, but Gran will have my head if I don’t circulate.” He caught my eye, and did a quick double take. “Nice necklace,” he added.
“Happy birthday,” I said, holding his gaze, unwilling to melt. “My best to Gemma.”
Before he could react, he was whisked away. It was the last I talked to him that night.
After another hour, the footmen began notifying the older guests that their cars were lining up outside. I desperately wanted my parents to stay, but Mom and Dad had an early flight back to the United States, where my father had a long-standing meeting with the SkyMall board to discuss the Coucherator 2.0, which came with the option for a full sleeper sofa.
“This was marvelous, Bex,” my mother gushed quietly, as we were saying our good-byes. She gently touched my chin. “And you were dignified and composed and wonderful. A credit to any family, even a royal one. Maybe especially.”
“Stop it, Mom,” I said. “You’re going to make me cry.”
Mom