American Royals

Daphne shivered; the night air felt slippery and cool on her arms, like a silken court gown. She was wearing a cocktail dress of black tulle with gold detail, a cropped fur jacket thrown over her shoulders. But then, she hadn’t dressed for the weather. She had dressed for battle. To remind Jefferson of everything he’d given up.

Her stiletto heels clicked pleasantly on the sidewalk as she headed toward Smuggler’s. There was no sign out front, no indication that you were in the right place except for a single word, MEMBERS, in polished brass letters on the door.

Some said that the owners of the ski-and-be-seen private club were the Washingtons themselves, though no one knew for certain. The identity of the proprietors was as closely guarded as the secrets of what happened behind that famous wooden door.

Smuggler’s required that all guests check their phones at the entrance, particularly when the royal family was in residence. No unauthorized photos ever emerged of what went on inside. Of course, that only fueled the rumors: that the newlywed Dukes of Roanoke once got into a lovers’ quarrel there, so terrible that one of them threw a fork at the other (no one would ever say which); that the king’s sister Margaret hosted her bachelorette party there, and used the land line to drunkenly prank call all her ex-boyfriends, including the Duc d’Orléans and the maharaja of Jaipur. Most famous of all was tonight’s event, the Washingtons’ annual New Year’s Eve party.

Despite the royal family’s efforts to keep this party low-profile, the entire town clearly knew about it. A massive crowd surrounded the entrance to Smuggler’s, everyone jostling eagerly for position, as if the security team might miraculously change their minds and suddenly let them inside. Toward the front of the crowd Daphne saw a few of the “it girls” who were busy on the capital’s social scene, wearing too-short dresses and too-large diamonds. They glanced her way, but Daphne pointedly refused to make eye contact. She marched to the front of the line as if she belonged here—because she did.

“Hey, Kenny.” She nodded at the guard as she sauntered past, hoping that he wouldn’t—

“Daphne?” Kenny startled to attention, giving her an uncomfortable smile. He had a space between his two front teeth. “I didn’t see you on this year’s list.”

As a rule, Daphne loved barriers, but only when she was on the correct side of them.

“Jefferson invited me,” she said innocently, and held out her phone. Sure enough, there was a series of texts from Jefferson. She clenched her hands at her sides, willing Kenny not to click on the contact icon, because then he would realize that the texts actually came from her mom’s phone. Daphne had composed them herself, while she was getting ready.

“You guys are back together?” Kenny asked, then shook his head, handing her phone back. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. Not today.”

Daphne’s stomach plummeted in panic. She could not afford for all these people to witness her humiliation. “You know I’m not a safety hazard,” she insisted, and made a show of opening her gleaming black purse, to show him the hairbrush and lip gloss tucked innocuously inside.

Before Kenny could refuse her again, the front door of Smuggler’s swung open, and Ethan stepped out. He took in the entire situation with a single glance. Daphne unwillingly lifted her eyes to his.

“I’m so sorry, Daphne.” She heard Ethan struggling to mask his amusement. “This is my fault. Jeff asked me to add you to the list, but I completely forgot. Can’t she come in?” This last was directed at Kenny.

Daphne kept on smiling her sweet, ingenuous smile, but inwardly she was seething.

Kenny seemed to think it over, then visibly relented. “Okay, just this once.”

Daphne handed in her phone at the mandatory checkpoint, collecting a plastic claim ticket in its place. She started down the staircase, but Ethan pointedly held out an arm. She had no choice but to take it.

Dim light gleamed from the chandelier overhead, which was made entirely of antlers. The lounge’s dark green walls were lined with Western-style paintings, the knotted pine floors covered in throw rugs and leather furniture. Women in sequined dresses and men in bow ties spilled into the next room, which held a bar and, farther, a dance floor.

Daphne’s swift glance confirmed that it was the usual crowd: earls and countesses and Supreme Court members, a few scattered businesspeople, various members of the extended royal family. The king stood with his back to the massive stone fireplace, his arm brushing the queen’s as she recounted some story. Usually he was so jovial at these events—laughing, gesturing for the footmen to keep everyone’s wineglasses full—yet tonight Daphne noted a new gravity to his manner.

“You can go now,” Daphne murmured, unhooking her arm from where it was looped through Ethan’s.

“Your gratitude, as always, is overwhelming.”

“You’ve made your point, Ethan. There’s no need to gloat.”

“But I’m so good at it.” His eyes glittered like dark stars.

“I’m not in the mood, okay?”

He gave a lazy, sensuous grin. “Come on, Daphne. I know we’ve had our moments—”

“That’s an understatement—”

“—but you should be glad I’m here. Otherwise you’d still be standing on the doorstep, waving around your fake text messages.”