Page 16 of Thrones We Steal

“Thank you for that intel. If you don’t mind, I’m going to continue.” It’s the only way to prove this ridiculous theory wrong.

29 March 1838

Helena has shared her news with me, although I have so many questions I dare not ask. I have pondered the calendar at length but cannot make sense of it. She said the end of July, but how can that be? Unless … but I cannot consider it.

15 May 1838

A downpour has taken over the country for the past three days. The fields are flooded and the roads are impassable. Helena remains in good spirits, but I know she is anxious for her time to come. Things are not as they used to be between us. I know she is not telling me all that is on her heart.

8 August 1838

Helena has been delivered of a son. He was christened William, and one day he will be king, William II. He is a bonny lad with dark hair. She has not said a word to me about her secret, but I pray she knows it is safe with me. I would never tell another soul. It shall go to my grave with me.

I lay the stack of pages beside me on the floor. I can’t read any more. A cold heaviness expands in my stomach as I process what this means. It isn’t possible. It can’t be possible.

If William II was illegitimate, that meant King William I only fathered one child.

Catherine.

I mentally trace a path down the family tree I know like my own handwriting, following the oldest male, or female when there were no males, in each family: Catherine to Elizabeth Anne, to Joseph, to Frank, to Theodore.

Maisie is right. This changes everything.

Henry sits motionless in the chair. His eyes are glued to the floor, unseeing. What is going through his head? If this is true—which it can’t be—it’s as life-changing for him as anyone.

“There’s no way it’s true,” I whisper.

He raises his eyes as though they weigh one hundred pounds. “You think someone made this up?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

He shakes his head and rubs his fingers over the creases on his forehead. “It’s pretty obvious the writer of that diary thought Helena had an affair and gave birth to another man’s baby. We’re in agreement on that, right?”

“It seems that way,” I say. “And if the baby wasn’t William’s …”

“Then my father is not the rightful king,” he finishes.

I study his face for a sign of what he’s feeling, but it gives nothing away. Then his brow furrows again and his head swivels up.

“If my father doesn’t belong on the throne, who does?”

You know when you’re young and you do something you shouldn’t and your mum is about to find out? This felt exactly like that. I watch him scan the room, finally finding the framed family tree that hangs in a place of honor over the fireplace. My father had been proud of his lineage, even if he wasn’t close enough to the throne for bragging rights. Henry uses the torch on his phone to illuminate the graph and works his way over it until he gets to the correct branch, then follows Catherine’s lineage down, down, down.

Because if William II was illegitimate, that meant his older sister, Catherine, should have reigned instead of him.

I know the instant he figures it out, the same thing I worked out only moments ago. The room becomes as still as a coffin, waiting breathlessly for what comes next.

“It’s you, isn’t it? You’re the rightful monarch of Wesbourne.”

6

“Part of Me” - Katy Perry

Most people don’t know my family is descended from royalty. It isn’t the kind of thing you bring up in conversation—yes, my great-great-great-great grandfather was the king, small world, huh? Would you like another glass of wine?

It’s not like I’m considered in line to inherit, although technically I hold the impossible 22nd spot in the line-up, after Henry’s Aunt Margaret and a bunch of dodgy cousins. It’s been nearly two hundred years since my direct ancestor sat on the throne.

But if this diary is right—and I’m highly skeptical that it is—I should be ruling Wesbourne. It’s staggering at best, debilitating at worst.

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