JASPER CUNNINGHAM DEAD—FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED
Jasper Cunningham, son of media mogul Sir Robert Cunningham, died last night at his family’s townhouse in Belgravia.
The former Eton student and club financer was pronounced dead on the scene at a house party reportedly attended by multiple members of the royal family. Scotland Yard has launched an official investigation into the matter, and no further details are available at this time.
Cunningham was nineteen.
—Breaking news alert from the BBC, 16 June 2023
NO ONE SEEMS TO KNOW exactly how it happened.
When a detective named Erika Farrows interviews me later that morning, she tells me Jasper was found facedown on the sidewalk. The glass doors to his balcony were wide open, and one of the curtains was torn, leading them to suspect he had lost his balance and fallen while drunk.
“But there’s also blood present in the bedroom,” she says, glancing at my bandaged knuckles. “Blood that we don’t believe is Jasper’s.”
“Miss Bright has already informed you of how she came to be injured,” says Wiggs, the palace lawyer with graying hair and sagging jowls who sits beside me at my dining table. “She was acting in self-defense and is in no way connected to Mr. Cunningham’s death.”
“What time did you leave the party?” says Farrows. I shake my head.
“I don’t—”
“As has already been established, Miss Bright was drugged by Mr. Cunningham and does not remember,” says Wiggs. “She was escorted out of the party by Lord Clarence, whom I believe you have already interviewed.”
It’s only then that I realize where these questions are leading, and my insides go cold. “You think I had something to do with Jasper’s death?” I say, stunned. Wiggs pats my hand, a silent request for me to keep my mouth shut, and as he continues to argue my innocence, I obey.
I didn’t kill Jasper. How could I? I could barely walk.
But as I close my eyes, I remember the crunch of bone as my elbow connected with Jasper’s nose and the distant sound of shattering glass. And I begin to doubt.
After another hour, Detective Farrows finally leaves, and I crawl onto the couch in my sitting room and wrap myself in a soft quilt Tibby managed to dig up. My lessons have been canceled for the afternoon—supposedly due to an unspecified illness, though with how queasy I feel, that’s not entirely a lie—and all I want to do is shut out the world.
I didn’t kill him. I couldn’t have killed him. Maybe Jasper really was drunker than I thought he was. Maybe that’s why—
I cut off that thought before my mind can even formulate it. Some of my memories may be fuzzy, but that one isn’t, and I understand exactly what almost happened. What did happen. I pull the blanket tighter around myself and bite the inside of my cheek. I can still feel every blistering kiss, every burning caress, and I desperately wish I could shed my skin like a snake, leaving behind every inch that Jasper touched until I belong to myself again.
“Do you need anything?” says Tibby from the dining table. I shake my head.
“I just want to sleep,” I mumble.
“You should at least try to eat something,” she insists. “I’ll order up sandwiches.”
The thought of food is enough to make bile rise in my throat, but I don’t have the energy to fight her. Instead, I lie still and pretend to nap, hoping that’ll quell any desire she has for conversation.
It works, and I’m almost asleep when lunch arrives twenty minutes later. But the footman isn’t alone, and as the tray gently clatters against the table, a familiar voice drifts over from the opposite side of the room.
“I can sit with her for a while,” says Kit quietly.
“You’re sure?” whispers Tibby. “I only need to shower and change.”
“I’ll stay until you’re back,” he promises, and Tibby murmurs her thanks before slipping out the door.
Kit doesn’t greet me, and I’m grateful for his silence. Once the footman leaves, however, he picks up a plate and pads over to the armchair beside the sofa, and I can’t resist cracking open an eye.
“That smells like peanut butter and jelly,” I mumble.
“A sinister concoction if ever there was one,” says Kit with a slight shudder. He offers me the plate of sandwiches, which have all been cut into quarters and arranged with an artistic flourish. “I believe Tibby ordered them especially for you.”
I eye him and reluctantly take a quarter. I’m still vaguely nauseated, but the smell doesn’t turn my stomach. “Do you not have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches here?”
“We have peanut butter,” he says, “and we have jam, which is a combination I admit I’ve never tried. But our jelly is what Americans might call Jell-O. And no one in their right mind would put those two things together in a sandwich.”
I nibble the corner of mine. The bread is warm from the oven, and the smooth peanut butter pairs perfectly with the tang of strawberry jam. I haven’t had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich since my grandmother used to make me lunch in elementary school, and a strange wave of sadness washes over me. I’m not especially nostalgic about the years I spent with her, but right now, all I want is for her to wrap her arms around me and tell me everything will be okay.
“Good?” says Kit, and I nod.
“You should try one,” I say. He wrinkles his nose, and I manage a faint smile. “Please. It’ll make me feel better.”
“Ah, so you thrive on seeing others suffer,” he teases, but he picks up one of the triangles and gamely takes a bite. I half expect him to spit it out, but instead he chews slowly, his face a mask of neutrality.
“Well?” I say. “Not bad, right?”
“I’ve had worse,” he allows once he’s swallowed. “I can see how it might be…enjoyable, once you’ve acquired a taste for it.”
Somehow the thought of peanut butter and jelly being an acquired taste makes me snort. “I’m sorry, which of us thinks spotted dick and mushy peas are edible?”
“I’ll have you know that both of those are delicious,” says Kit, setting down the remainder of his sandwich. “And don’t even get me started on toad-in-the-hole. It will change your life.”
I’m grinning now, and it’s easy, even after the hell that has been today. But as I meet Kit’s dark eyes, my smile fades. “Thanks, by the way,” I say, tearing off a piece of crust. “For—what you did last night. After what I said to you, I didn’t deserve your help, and…I really appreciate it.”
“The only thing you didn’t deserve is how Jasper treated you,” he says quietly, but there’s strength behind his words. Conviction I need to hear right now. “I’m sorry it took me so long to come find you. Are you feeling any better?”
I nod. “I’m still tired, and my hand hurts a little, but that’s all.”
“Good,” says Kit, though I’m sure he knows I’m lying. An uncomfortable silence settles between us, and I stare at my sandwich, watching the strawberry jam ooze out from between the slices of bread. My nausea returns full force, and I set my half-eaten quarter down beside his.
“Did you see what happened?” I say. My voice is thin, and I can’t stand how fragile I sound. “I don’t remember all of it, but—I remember hitting Jasper. And I remember hearing glass break.”
Kit takes my hand. His skin is smooth and warm, but I automatically twitch away, and he hastily lets go. “I never even looked inside the room,” he admits. “I saw you stumble into the hallway, and—well, it was fairly obvious what Jasper had tried to do, and making sure you were safe was my priority.”
My face falls. “Oh.”
“But,” he adds, “whatever happened, however Jasper fell off that balcony…it wasn’t your fault. You were protecting yourself. He’s the only one who committed a crime.”
I shift awkwardly underneath my quilt. I hate the thought of being a victim. I hate the way Kit is looking at me, with pity in his eyes. And I hate how I know that for the rest of my life, any time I’m in a room alone with a guy, I’m going to wonder—however fleetingly—if he’ll try the same thing.
Maybe Jasper didn’t deserve to die, but I didn’t deserve this, either.
“What if the police don’t see it that way?” I mumble. “Wiggs kept saying I was in no condition to push Jasper that hard, but—what if I did? And what if it still counts as—as manslaughter or something?” I don’t even know if they have manslaughter in the UK, but the thought chills me to the bone. “What if it counts as murder?”
Kit studies me. “Those are a lot of what-ifs.”
“I don’t know how it works here, but in the US, you can be convicted of murder by driving the getaway car,” I say. “And even though Jasper drugged me, if I’m still the one who pushed him…”
“Then I suppose we’ll just have to prove it wasn’t you,” says Kit. “Or, if we can’t, then offer them a more viable suspect.”
I narrow my eyes. “What do you mean?”
“There were plenty of people at that party,” he says. “Surely at least a few weren’t all that fond of him.”
“But—how am I supposed to know who didn’t like him? And how is Wiggs—”
“Wiggs won’t,” says Kit. “But I’ve spent nearly a decade running in the same circles as Jasper. I can help, if you’d like.”
I’m not sure what to say to that. Kit has done more for me in the past sixteen hours than most of my family has in my entire life, and asking even more from him—especially when I know he’ll face the wrath of Maisie for it—seems like too much. But he watches me, steadily and unwaveringly, and I feel a little better at the prospect of having him on my side.
“I’d like that. Thank you,” I say. The wheels in my mind are already turning, and I sit up, trying to recall the foggy names and blurry faces of the dozens of people I met last night. “We should start by making a list of everyone who was at the—”
“Evan.” Kit leans toward me—not enough to cross the invisible boundary that now exists between us, but enough so I know he’s serious. “Right now, the best possible thing you can do for yourself is rest. I promise we’ll make that list as soon as—”
An urgent knock from the hallway startles us both. Kit leaps to his feet, and before I can tell whoever it is to go away, Maisie flings open the door.
“Your Royal Highness,” says Kit, dipping his chin in a hasty bow. I don’t stand, though. And I definitely don’t curtsy.
“What are you doing here?” I say, immediately on guard. Maisie is the last person I expected to visit me today, and judging by the stiff set of her shoulders, she’s as uncomfortable in my presence as I am in hers. Or maybe she always looks like she has a tree trunk up her arse. Both are equally possible.
“My security team found your dress right before the police arrived, and I thought I’d drop it off,” she says, but while she’s speaking to me, she’s focused on Kit. Her irritated stare lingers long enough for him to comprehend whatever silent message she’s trying to send, and he clears his throat.
“If I might use your loo?” he says, and it takes me a moment to realize he means my bathroom.
“Uh, yeah—it’s through the bedroom,” I say, frantically trying to remember how much of a mess I made while getting ready for the party, but I’m drawing a blank. Last night feels like a lifetime ago.
Kit politely excuses himself, leaving Maisie and me alone together for the first time in our lives. Thankfully she doesn’t bother with small talk—instead, she reaches into her large black handbag and produces the emerald-green dress I abandoned on the floor of Jasper’s bedroom.
“Half the side seam has come undone. You shouldn’t be so careless with couture.” Maisie drapes the dress haphazardly over the back of the nearest armchair and glances around, taking in the paintings that hang on my walls. “Daddy gave you one of the nicest guest suites. Usually this is reserved for foreign royalty or world leaders.”
“Well, we both know I’m not either,” I say, eyeing the dress. It feels cursed now, and I wonder if Louis would object to me burning it to ashes. “Why are you really here, Maisie? We both know it isn’t to check on me.”
She sniffs imperiously at my use of her nickname, or maybe she isn’t used to direct questions. “Do you have any…memory lapses from last night?”
I let out a choked laugh, though there’s no real humor in it. “Yes,” I say, and at the flicker of hope that crosses her face, I add, “but not the thing you’re hoping I forgot.”
Her expression sours. “Oh.”
I lower my head onto the armrest of the sofa. “I don’t care, you know.”
“I don’t give a fig whether you care,” says Maisie. “I care about who you’re going to tell, and how long you’re going to hold this over me.”
Right. So she thinks just as badly of me as I do of her. “Why are you so convinced I’m a terrible person?”
She waves dismissively, as if the answer is obvious. “What will it be, then? Would you like me to say kind things about you to the press? Acknowledge your presence in public? Do you want money? Jewels? A title when I’m queen?”
All I want is to go home to my mother and forget this nightmare ever happened, but Maisie can’t give me that. No one can. And even if she could, the thought of blackmailing her—of blackmailing my half sister and the future monarch of the United Kingdom, no matter how much of a spoiled brat she is—makes my insides curdle.
“I want you to believe me when I say I’m not going to tell anyone,” I snap. “I know how to keep my mouth shut.”
“Do you?” Her words drip with sarcasm, but I hold Maisie’s stare, and after several long seconds, the nastiness in her eyes fades. “You don’t understand what’ll happen if it comes out that I’m—” She stops herself and sucks in a breath. “I’m the only direct heir, and I’ll be the first queen regnant since Victoria. There are…expectations I must meet, and if I give the people any reason to believe the line of succession is at risk…”
I blink. “Are you seriously worried about how you’re going to have kids with Gia? You’re seventeen.”
Her lips curl into a sneer. “I wouldn’t expect someone like you to understand. Nothing is a problem to you, is it? You careen through life without the weight of responsibility and ruin everything in your path.”
I clutch the quilt so hard I feel a thread snap. “I’m not going to out you, Maisie. It’s none of my business, and yet again, I don’t care who you’re screwing. Just stop trying to screw me over, and we’ll be good.”
This seems to bring her up short, and my half sister studies me with the intensity of an art critic trying to find a flaw in a piece. After an agonizingly long moment, she squares her shoulders. “Very well. Do make sure to hang that dress up. You wouldn’t want it to wrinkle.”
Maisie walks to the door, her heels muffled by the thick carpet. But once she reaches the threshold, she stops and peers back at me.
“You are all right, yes? Jasper didn’t…” She trails off, but she doesn’t need to finish.
“No, he didn’t get that far,” I mutter, my face burning.
Maisie nods, seemingly satisfied with this answer. “He had it coming,” she says quietly. And without another word, she leaves.
I DON’T TELL Kit about my conversation with Maisie, and he doesn’t ask. Instead, once he reiterates that we can begin our investigation as soon as I’ve rested, I give in and eat half a sandwich while we settle on a Netflix movie to watch. After an hour or so, Tibby joins us, and while she doesn’t seem thrilled about my cinematic tastes, she mostly keeps her disapproving tsks to herself.
They both stay until I fall asleep, and Tibby is back at dawn, drawing open my curtains and shoving me into the bathroom so I’m sparkling clean for Trooping the Colour. I pretend not to be surprised, but in truth, I completely forgot about the ceremony in the chaos of the day before, and I spend the entire shower trying to convince myself that I don’t feel sick to my stomach. Fortunately, while the real members of the royal family are all participating in the parade—either on horseback, like Alexander and Nicholas, or in a carriage, like Helene and Maisie—I’ve only been invited to the balcony appearance that afternoon. Unfortunately, Louis still sends one of his assistants to make sure I’m presentable, as if I’m not entirely capable of grooming myself. In his defense, my hair, makeup, wardrobe—everything needs to be perfect today, and the tension in the air is palpable.
“Please stop pacing,” I say to Tibby as she crosses in front of me for the hundredth time. “You’re making me nervous, and I can’t afford to have sweat stains.”
“A little Botox will take care of that,” she says, her eyes glued to her phone. A wrinkle appears between her brows, and suddenly Tibby swears so spectacularly that the stylist drops the curling iron.
“What?” I say, but she holds up a finger to shush me, turning away so I can’t see the glow of her screen. “Tibby, what?”
She opens and shuts her mouth. “This cannot be happening,” she mutters, her eyes huge. “How—”
I’m on my feet in an instant, and I ignore the stylist’s objections as I storm over and snatch Tibby’s phone from her hand. She tries to steal it back, but I whirl around, buying myself a few precious seconds to read what’s on the screen.
And my heart drops to the floor.