Beatrice took the seat her mother had indicated. She clasped one hand over the other in her lap, then reversed them. Strains of music floated from the orchestra, conversations overlapping as people found their way to their seats.
“Your Royal Highness,” said a voice at her shoulder, and Beatrice glanced up into the dancing blue eyes of Teddy Eaton.
She rose to her feet in a fluid motion, only to freeze with indecision. How was she supposed to welcome Teddy? A handshake felt too impersonal, given that this was a date, but a hug seemed a bit familiar.
As if sensing her panic, Teddy reached for her hand and lifted it to his lips in an old-fashioned, courtly gesture. His kiss just barely brushed the surface of her skin.
Beatrice swallowed. It took every last shred of her self-control not to turn around and glance at Connor. “Thank you for coming,” she declared, her words hollow and formal even to her own ears.
The moment they took their seats next to each other, a dull roar of interest swept through the theater. People craned their necks to catch a glimpse of them, held up their phones to snap a quick photo. Even the occupants of the other boxes didn’t bother to hide their stares.
Beatrice ground her back teeth, wishing she hadn’t suggested something so high-profile and public. Of course people were going to gossip about this. Beatrice never went on dates, and now she was at the season’s most anticipated show with the handsome, eminently eligible Theodore Eaton?
Teddy turned to her, ignoring the flurry of excitement at his arrival. “So, are you excited about the show? They’re saying it’s completely revolutionary.”
Beatrice saw her sister try to slip toward the back, but the queen put her hands on Samantha’s shoulders and steered her into the seat on Teddy’s left. She winced at the memory of how she’d snapped at Sam the other morning. She hadn’t meant to; she’d just been so on edge about what had happened the night before with Connor, and Sam’s accusations had caught her off guard.
“I’m looking forward to it,” she told Teddy, and glanced in her sister’s direction. Maybe she could extend an olive branch by drawing her into the conversation. “Though Samantha is the one who’s really into musicals.”
“Really?” Teddy asked, glancing at Samantha.
“Beatrice is the official patron of the arts, not me,” Sam said sullenly. She turned to her friend Nina, in the chair on her other side.
Beatrice blinked at her sister’s rudeness. “That position is just a formality,” she hurried to explain. “I’ve never had any musical ability.”
Teddy’s eyes flicked briefly to Samantha, and a shadow of something darted over his expression. Then he gave Beatrice a smile. “You’re not a singer?”
“I’m so tragically off-key that I got cut from fourth-grade choir.”
But there was more to it. The truth was, Beatrice had always lacked the patience for theater, for the same reason she rarely read novels: she couldn’t relate to the characters. She remembered how frustrated she’d been as a child, when she saw a play about a princess on a quest. The whole thing had felt so deceitful to her—this story about a princess who drove the action, who got to make choices. Because the life of a princess was decided for her, long before she was even born.
Writers got to pick the endings of their novels, but Beatrice wasn’t living a story. She was living history, and history went on forever.
She flipped open the Playbill and saw that the opening number would be performed by Melinda Lacy, in the role of Emily.
Of course, Beatrice realized: the title alone should have given it away. This was the story of Lady Emily Washington, the Pretender—or as some people persisted in calling her, Queen Emily.
The only child of King Edward I, Emily remained one of the most controversial, romantic, and tragic figures in American history. Her parents had done their best to arrange a marriage for her. But despite being pursued by half the world’s kings—supposedly the kings of Greece and Spain once fought a duel over her—Emily refused to ever marry. Upon her father’s death in 1855, twenty-five-year-old Emily attempted to establish her claim to the throne, as a woman, alone.
And then, after just a single day of being the so-called queen, Emily vanished from history.
Scholars still debated what had happened to her. The prevailing theory was that her uncle John had her killed so that he could become king. But rumors persisted, each wilder and more outlandish than the next—that Emily fell in love with a stable boy and ran away to live in anonymity; that she became a lady pirate and spied for the British; that she escaped to Paris, assumed the name Angelique d’Esclans, and married the French dauphin, which therefore meant that the true heirs to the American throne were actually the kings of France.
“I didn’t realize this was about Emily,” Beatrice said softly. “I wonder which ending the show will give her.” She scanned the list of musical numbers in search of a clue.
“I like to think that she escaped to safety. Canada, maybe, or the Caribbean.” Teddy leaned an elbow on the armrest between them.
“Unfortunately, like to think isn’t the same as believe,” Beatrice argued. “The evidence suggests that her uncle murdered her.”
“That very same uncle is your ancestor,” Teddy reminded her. He had a point. “And until you, Emily was the only woman who could ever claim to have been America’s queen. Don’t you want her story to have a happy ending, even in fiction?”