Page 2 of Rivals
For the first time in both their lives,Samantha’sapprovalratings were higher than Beatrice’s. Sam had just completed a successful royal tour, while Beatrice was the woman who’d left America’s favorite duke at the altar. The magazines that used to rave over “Queen B” now piled criticism on “Runaway B.”
In Beatrice’s opinion, their puns were getting worse.
“Welcome back, Your Majesty,” Anju said with a brisk nod. That was another thing Beatrice liked about her: she didn’t bother curtsying.
“Have you eaten?” Beatrice gestured to the breakfast spread before them. Anju ignored the food but poured herself a coffee and added a heaping scoop of sugar before taking the seat opposite Beatrice.
“As our first order of business, I’d like to review Teddy’s suggestions for ways to shape the role of king consort,” Beatrice began.
Anju hesitated. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, that’s not very time-sensitive. And many of Teddy’s suggestions—that he meet with ambassadors on your behalf, or help manage your briefings by the Trade Commission—would require congressional approval. I think we should focus on the League of Kings conference for now.”
“Right, of course.” Beatrice swallowed against a sudden panic.
The imminent convocation of the League of Kings would be her first great test as a ruler.
The League had been founded in 1895, ending the War of the Three Peters: Tsar Pieter of Russia, King Pedro IV of Spain, and Emperor Peter of Austria. In Europe it was still known as the Cousins’ War, since all three Peters were cousins through the Hapsburg line.
At its inception, the League of Kings had been something entirely new: a multinational treaty, in which all the signatory nations swore to maintain international peace and security.They agreed that every five years they would meet at one of their palaces—no politicians, no press, just the kings and their sons—to discuss issues of global importance.
Now the League of Kings comprised the monarchs of nearly every nation in the world, except a few holdouts in the Pacific who didn’t see the need to sign, like Singapore and Hawaii. Now the attendees were not only kings, but queens and empresses and sultanas, though all efforts to rename the coalition as anything but the League of Kings had sputtered out and died. And now the conferences were held all over the globe, not just in St. Petersburg or Sandringham.
The League of Kings hadn’t met in America since Beatrice’s grandfather was king. But this fall, America would be hosting the conference again, in the very first year of Beatrice’s reign.
The rotation of League of Kings hosts was a contentious and highly delicate act of international diplomacy, more prestigious—at least to the monarchs—than hosting the Olympics. Already the King of Ghana and the Emperor of Japan were fighting over the location of the conference in 2045.
Months ago, at the funeral reception for Beatrice’s father, King Frederick of Germany had asked Beatrice if she’d like to withdraw as this year’s host. “No one will blame you for stepping out of the lineup. Why don’t you let me have everyone to Rumpenheim instead?”
She knew Frederick meant well. At eighty-four, he was the current chairman of the League of Kings, and he’d been something of a mentor to Beatrice ever since she’d lived at Potsdam one summer in college, studying German.
Beatrice shook her head. “Thank you, but I need to see this through. My father was so eager to host this year’s conference.” She tried to ignore Frederick’s look of consternation as she added, “He was planning to bring his climate accord to a vote again. I’d like to finish what he started.”
“The climate accord?” Frederick repeated, frowning. “Beatrice, your father tried to pass that proposal for years, but he could never get enough people on board.”
“Only because they kept quibbling over the details.”
Climate change was one of those issues that the League of Kings agreed upon in theory, but not in practice. Whenever King George had brought it up, the discussion devolved into accusations and finger-pointing. Each monarch insisted that everyoneelsewas a grievous offender. Why should they have to devastate their economies fixing other people’s mistakes?
“Besides,” Frederick had added hastily, “you can’t propose new business your first time at the conference. It simply isn’t done.”
“This isn’t my first conference.” As her father’s successor, Beatrice had attended the League’s most recent meeting in China, as well as the previous one in France.
There had been a few raised eyebrows that first time: most monarchs waited for their heirs to graduate from high school, or at the very least middle school, before bringing them to the conference. Twelve-year-old Beatrice had worked tirelessly and frantically to prove herself. At the heirs’ info sessions, she had scribbled notes until her hand cramped, trying not to feel intimidated when she was partnered up with the Prince of Wales, who was almost twice as old as her father.
“It’s your first time attending as aruler,” Frederick amended. “You’re in the driver’s seat now, Beatrice.”
Like her grandfather, Beatrice would host the League of Kings at Bellevue, the royal family’s palace in Orange. The League of Kings never took place at a monarch’s main residence, but instead at a summer palace or minor estate. It would have been too risky, gathering so many world leaders in a busy capital city.
Located on a private island, Bellevue was the most secure of the Washingtons’ various homes. It had been builtby the French, as a wedding gift from King Louis XX when his daughter Thérèse married King Andrew. And, in typically French fashion, it had never been connected to the mainland by a bridge. One had to cross either by boat or by helicopter. When Louis had given the estate to the newlyweds, he’d included a gilded ferryboat, complete with a captain named Gaston.
Thanks to its eighty guest rooms and dozens of outbuildings, Bellevue could accommodate almost everyone on-site. Of course, the coast would still be swarming for miles. People always flooded the area around a League of Kings conference: journalists desperate for a story, activists protesting an issue, royal enthusiasts who hoped a bit of glamour might rub off on them.
Beatrice had only been to Bellevue a handful of times in her life. Her family had never loved going there; it was so grand in scale and splendor that it felt like trading one palace for another. They were much happier at their country house, or the Telluride cabin—somewhere cozy, where they could make pancakes and watch TV as if they were an ordinary family.
And so, while Bellevue’s state rooms and gardens were open to the public, the rest of the estate was largely shut up, hidden behind dust cloths and curtains. Until now.
Beatrice tried to remember the last time she’d been at Bellevue, almost two years ago, when Connor Markham had still been her Revere Guard. So much had happened since then: she and Connor had started dating in secret, until Beatrice had lost her father and everything had changed. Or, really,shehad changed. She’d realized that she and Connor didn’t belong together. That she loved Teddy—even if she wasn’t ready to marry him.
“I’ve brought hard copies of everything. Shall we begin with your schedule?” Anju asked, reaching into her briefcase for a stack of binders. Their spines were labeled with phraseslikeprotocol&ceremoniesornorth atlantic trade routes&treaties, or evenyounger sons of the royal houses of the world.
