Chương 167: Consequences

The next morning, Leo ordered the full English breakfast. The kitchen offered what the menu called an "Empire Variation," which sounded politically questionable and tasted incredible. Curried sausages. Spiced beans with cumin and a smoky aftertaste. Even the eggs had a dusting of garam masala across their tops. He was enjoying himself. Two tables over, a pair of older guests in tweed had the morning papers spread between them.

"They're saying the Irish government won't even take the call."

"Of course they won't. The horse is a national hero over there. There's a mural going up in Temple Bar." Leo pulled his own copy of The Sun closer. EVER ENDURING EMBARRASSMENT: Fugitive and Stallion Take Windsor Trophy on Irish Tour as Royal Family Demands Extradition The picture showed Morimoto standing on a pub table, the Royal Ascot trophy raised above his head, Ever Enduring's massive silhouette visible through the window behind him.

A crowd of Dubliners surrounded the table, pints raised, faces split with grins. Someone had draped a green scarf around Morimoto's neck. Someone else had put a flat cap on the horse. The Irish government had issued a statement expressing "deep concern" about the allegations while noting that extradition proceedings required "careful consideration of all relevant factors." Translation: no. Leo scanned every paragraph. Every caption. Every sidebar. His name appeared nowhere.

He set the paper down and returned to his sausages. A woman crossed the dining room. She looked to be in her forties, but she was Foundation Establishment so that could mean anything. She looked like Vicky in twenty years. Same dark hair, swept back in a boardroom style. She wore a cream blazer over a silk blouse, pearl earrings, a watch that looked very expensive. She didn't look like an NFL player. She looked like the kind of woman who owned NFL teams. Leo's fork froze halfway to his mouth.

Hilda Walton stopped at his table.

"Mr. Chen." Her voice was pleasant and precise.

"I'm Hilda Walton. Victoria's grandmother." The guilt hit before he could stop it. He was Vicky's cavalier. He was supposed to be helping her navigate the Season, attending events, doing whatever cavaliers did. He still wasn't entirely sure what cavaliers did, but he was fairly certain it didn't involve getting arrested. This was his employer. The entire reason he was in London. The woman whose training deal was the difference between making the Giants roster and sitting on the bench.

He set the fork down and stood.

"Mrs. Walton. It's an honor. I've watched your film. The cover-two stuff against Philadelphia in twenty-two, the way you passed off the center..."

"Sit down, Leo." She said it kindly.

"May I?"

"Yeah. Of course." He dropped back into his chair.

"Should I order you something? The Empire Variation is..."

"No, thank you." She settled into the seat across from him, smoothed her skirt, and folded her hands.

"I'm only here to read." She reached into her bag and produced a newspaper. Then another. She laid them on the tablecloth, side by side. ROYAL FLUSH: Prince Edward caught gambling in Leicester Square. UNBRIDLED PASSION: Lovesick Ever Enduring chases Windsor mare to Heathrow. Then she reached over, took Leo's copy of today's Sun, and laid it next to the other two. Three front pages. Three days. A fat horse, a humiliated prince, and Ireland's newest folk hero, arranged left to right like a timeline.

She studied them for a long moment.

"Strange," she said.

"It feels as though there's an invisible hand guiding everything." She raised an eyebrow at him. Leo looked at the papers. Then at her. He shrugged.

"I already checked. My name isn't mentioned in any of them." He went back to his beans. Silence settled over the table. Hilda watched him eat. Leo focused on his plate and pretended not to notice.

"Our hosts," Hilda said finally, "have asked that you kindly suspend your extracurricular pursuits for the remainder of the Season."

"I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for everything."

"I'm sure there is." She tilted her head.

"I'm going to be honest with you, Leo. This request isn't coming from me. Frankly, what you've been doing has been good for Vicky." Leo looked up.

"Every debutante in London has spent three days fighting for camera time on stories they can't control," Hilda continued.

"The Pemberton girl gave a quote about the horse that her family is still apologizing for. The Ashworth twins were photographed laughing at the prince, which the Palace noticed. Penelope Ma's accounts are still locked." Leo puffed up his chest. She tapped the edge of the table.

"Vicky has said nothing, done nothing, and risen ten places in the rankings purely by standing still while everyone around her stepped on rakes. I have never seen a debutante improve her position this fast while doing this little." Leo nodded along, smiling. This was, he felt, basically a performance review, and it was going well.

"But," Hilda said, "I'm not the one making the request. The House of Windsor is. Prince Edward, specifically."

"Prince Edward?" Leo set down his fork.

"The man who couldn't hold a poker face for ten minutes? Who spooked Morimoto into running? Who charged into a chase without a single Lord on his side?" He spread his hands.

"That Edward has complaints?"

"Don't worry about Edward. He's having his own conversation right now." Leo didn't believe her. Edward was probably in some palace somewhere, drinking tea, blaming him for everything that had gone wrong.

"Think of it this way," Hilda said.

"The royal family believes you're a negative influence."

"Negative influence?" She extended one finger and tapped the middle newspaper. The photograph showed Edward mid-stride, hat tumbling, sunglasses askew, his face exposed. The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. He opened his mouth to argue. Then he thought about what arguing would require him to admit. He closed his mouth.

"Fine." He pushed back from the table and stood.

"Fine. If you guys don't want me here, I'll go to Ireland. I'll chase down Morimoto myself. I have seven mil..." He caught himself.

"Lots of reasons to find him."

"Leo." Hilda didn't move.

"Please. Don't do this."

"What, I can't leave the country now? Am I under arrest?" Hilda sighed.

"You wouldn't get anywhere near him." She gestured at the newspaper.

"And you wouldn't need to. Half the Fortune 500 has their European headquarters in Dublin. Apple. Google. Pfizer. Every company whose formations Morimoto's been counterfeiting for thirty years. The Irish love a good laugh at the Crown, but they love their corporate tax base more. He'll be in cuffs by tomorrow." Leo processed this.

"Ah," he said. He sat back down.

"Besides." Her expression softened a fraction.

"Vicky needs you here."

"Vicky needs me?" Leo speared a sausage.

"Funny way of showing it. She left me in jail overnight."

"You've been doing a fine job, Leo. Better than you know." Hilda studied him for a moment.

"You've gotten close to Prince Edward."

"Unfortunately."

"Could you introduce him to Vicky? Set something up?" Leo gave her a confused look.

"I already did. They met yesterday." Hilda went still.

"They met yesterday?" Her brow furrowed.

"She didn't say anything about it."

"Maybe Vicky didn't tell you about him." He gave her a knowing look.

"To be perfectly honest, I don't know what you see in Eddie. I've already told you what happened at the casino. The man's first instinct when things go wrong is to find the nearest bystander and point." Leo gestured at himself.

"Is that the kind of man you want around Vicky?" Hilda gave him a long look. Then she laughed.

"Eddie, you say." She dabbed at the corner of her eye with a napkin.

"She did meet an Eddie." Leo looked at her like she'd lost her mind. What was funny about that? He'd introduced them himself, and they had spent their time talking on a street corner while Morimoto escaped through the roof. Hilda rose from her chair, came around the table, and patted him on the shoulder.

"Keep up the good work, Leo." He smiled, uncertain what he'd done to deserve the praise. Hilda turned to leave. Then paused.

"One more thing." Her voice cooled.

"Stay in the hotel, Leo." Leo's smile faded.

"So I am under house arrest." Hilda just looked at him. It was the same look Vicky used. Then she was gone, leaving three newspapers arranged on his table like evidence at a trial. Leo turned back to his breakfast. The curried sausages sat there. The spiced beans. The eggs. Suddenly none of it was appetizing.

Leo found Vicky's door on the fourth floor and knocked twice.

"It's open." She stood at the mirror in a pale blue day dress, fixing an earring, her hair already done in something complicated that had probably required a team of stylists. A garment bag hung on the wardrobe door. Two pairs of shoes sat on the floor in front of her.

"Hi, Vicky. It's me, your cavalier." Leo dropped into the armchair by the window.

"What's on the menu this week?"

"Today is the Henley Royal Regatta." She switched to the second earring.

"Tomorrow is another charity gala, then the pre-ball dinner. The day after is the ball." Leo made a face. Boats, then speeches, then the main event. Three days of standing in nice clothes while people appraised each other.

"Sounds boring," he said.

"But I guess it beats sitting in my room all day." Vicky's hands stopped at her ear. She turned from the mirror and gave him a look he recognized from her grandmother.

"Leo. You're under house arrest. One foot outside this hotel and you're on the next flight to Newark. Training deal included." Leo's face did something ugly.

"Which is why," Vicky said, and her voice acquired a brightness he immediately distrusted, "it's a good thing you're here." She crossed to the desk, picked up a binder, and handed it to him. It was heavy. Three inches of laminated tabs. The cover page read CAVALIER PREPARATION. Leo opened it. The first page was today. The day was divided into blocks. The blocks were divided into fifteen-minute increments. 0900: Toast composition, draft one. 1030: Toast delivery, posture and pacing. 1145: Comfort break.

1200: Escort choreography, entrance sequence. 1400: Formal wear fitting, first of three. 1545: Comfort break. 1600: Presentation protocol, the approach, the handoff, the withdrawal. 1800: Forms of address, written examination. He flipped forward. Tomorrow looked the same. The day after was worse.

"Comfort break," Leo said.

"You scheduled my bathroom breaks."

"The Palace etiquette consultant scheduled your bathroom breaks. Hilda signed off on it." She picked up the first pair of shoes, considered them, put them back.

"Toast is priority. Two hundred people, and your draft is a blank page. Then escort choreography, eleven positions. Then fittings, because apparently your shoulders are..." She glanced at a note on the desk.

"... a tailoring emergency." Leo turned the pages. He searched for a break. He found a block on day three labeled CONTINGENCY and felt hope, then read the subheading: contingency rehearsal. There was no free time. None. Whoever built this schedule had made sure he couldn't escape.

"Do I actually need all of this?" He held the binder up.

"The toast, fine, I'll write the toast. But the walking? I know how to walk. I've done it all my life." Vicky looked at him. Then she laughed so hard she had to put a hand on the desk.

"No." She wiped her eye with one knuckle, the exact gesture her grandmother had used. Leo decided not to mention it.

"You made a mess of the entire Season. The least you can do is learn where your elbow goes." She picked up the garment bag and the winning pair of shoes.

"I'm out. Regatta runs all day." She headed for the door.

"Don't move. And before you get any ideas, the Palace sent a minder."

"A minder."

"A minder." She opened the door and paused at the threshold.

"Good luck, Leo." The door closed behind her. Leo sat alone with the binder. His face grew ugly again, and this time there was no one to see it, so he let it stay that way.

Fifteen minutes later, someone knocked. Leo set down the binder and crossed the room. His minder had arrived. Probably some palace functionary in a red tunic, ready to follow him to the bathroom and time his breaks with a stopwatch. He opened the door. Edward Windsor stood in the hallway. The prince wore a charcoal suit and held a binder of his own. His binder was also three inches thick. His expression suggested he'd rather be anywhere else in the world. Leo leaned on the doorframe.

"Eddie." Leo blinked.

"You're my minder?"

"I am, I'm afraid, your minder." He said the word like it physically cost him.

"Might I come in? If I stand in this corridor much longer, someone will photograph me, and I rather think one more headline would finish me off." Leo stepped aside. Edward entered, surveyed the room, noted the open binder on the armchair, and sighed.

"You have the laminated one as well, then."

"Eleven escort positions. Scheduled bathroom breaks."

"Comfort breaks," Edward corrected. He set his own binder on the desk next to Leo's. His was somehow thicker.

"I should like it on record that I objected to this arrangement. Formally. In writing."

"What happened?"

"Savoy's been sent home." Edward unbuttoned his jacket and sat on the edge of the bed.

"The family required someone to blame for the Ascot. The horse was unavailable. Mr. Morimoto is indisposed." He paused.

"Something about a new bracelet and a room he can't leave."

"Savoy was the remaining candidate. The official line is that his management of Aurelia's public response was inadequate. He was on a flight to Germany this morning."

"So Aurelia has no cavalier."

"Aurelia has a cavalier." Edward looked up at him.

"You're looking at him." Leo processed this.

"The ball is in two days." Edward gestured at the desk.

"I've done all of this before, naturally. One doesn't grow up in the Palace without learning it. But my mother has decided I require a refresher." Leo started laughing.

"It isn't funny." Leo picked up his binder and flipped it open.

"Just thinking that if I'm going to be miserable, at least I won't be the only one." Edward gave him a long look.

The next three days were somehow more miserable than Elia Manning's special training program. Leo wrote four drafts of the toast and had three of them returned with red ink. He learned that there were eleven escort positions and that he had been performing position six with the wrong elbow for an entire afternoon. He stood on a tailor's box for two hours while a small Italian man circled him muttering about his shoulders. He took his comfort breaks at the scheduled times. He went long once. Once.

By the third day Leo could recite the forms of address in his sleep, walk the entrance sequence blindfolded, and tie a white bow tie in under a minute. He had not left the hotel once. The minder system had worked flawlessly, mostly because the minder was also a prisoner. Then the third afternoon was over, and it was the evening of the ball.