8 June 1959

I swear, Patrick, I love that woman and I have made my choice. I will marry her, or I will abdicate the throne.

It was a desperate gamble, but it was the only card Lucien had left to play. He had known from the very start that it might well come to this, but he had never imagined that it would have been so difficult to speak those words. His heart was racing alongside his thoughts, a pounding in his head so loud he was almost certain Patrick could hear it. So much had happened, so very quickly, and he had not been prepared to face such seemingly insurmountable obstacles.

The mockup of the newspaper was still spread out on the table in front of him, the headline The King's Mistress spelled out in bold block letters above an old and not entirely flattering picture of Jean. The details of that article haunted him, taunted him; could it be, he wondered, that what the journalist had written was true, that Jean had gone to her first marriage with a baby already in her belly? She'd told him the ages of her children once; he remembered them well, for the younger was the same age as Li, and the elder only two years her senior. But he couldn't reconcile those truths with the article in front of him; it said that she'd married in 1934, at age nineteen, but her eldest boy had not been born until two years later. Did that mean the article was untrue, or did it mean that there was still more about Jean's past he'd never reckoned with? And what about her son, her Jack; what had Bill Hobart found that made Sir Patrick so nervous about him? Jean had told him once that Jack was her troublemaker, but she had not told him any specifics, had certainly never implied he might have got on the wrong side of the law. Had she hidden the truth from him deliberately, or was Sir Patrick only trying to intimidate him?

And what about the matter of his heir? He had never been particularly concerned about the line of succession; his daughter was safe and well and expecting a child of her own, and he himself was in fine health. Before now he had always thought he would have time enough to settle the matter further down the line. Perhaps Li would change her mind, and come to him. Perhaps he could adopt some worthy soul, and secure the future of his country. Perhaps he and Jean were not too old, yet, to start a family of their own. But what if none of that comes to be? He wondered now. What if Sir Patrick is right, and the time has passed when Jean could conceive, what if Li remains determined to stay in China and her child with her, what if one of these bastards who keeps trying to kill me finally gets lucky? What will become of us then? Before this moment he had believed, truly, that he could follow his heart, could marry his love, and let the rest crinkle out as it would, but now he was beginning to see that Sir Patrick, while he had been rather callous, might have had the right of it. Perhaps it had been selfish of him, to think only of what he wanted, and neglect the future of his kingdom.

He had no intention of following through on his threat; though it would break his heart clean in two, he knew he could not step aside and leave a vacuum in his wake, leave the future of his country in the hands of his deplorable cousin. There were too many lives at stake, and he had been too long a soldier to sacrifice the good of the many for the sake of his own desperate yearning. And besides, if what that article said was true, if those secrets should ever come to light, Jean would be ruined, and he knew he would never forgive himself for visiting such horror upon her.

Across the table from him Sir Patrick frowned, but there was a glint in his eye that told Lucien all too plainly that the PM had seen straight through his bluff, and knew he would never make good on his threat. The words hung suspended between them for a long moment, and then Sir Patrick leaned towards him and spoke in a low, terrible voice.

"You may do that if you wish, sir," he said slowly. "But if you do, your cousin Edward will assume the throne. And when he does, his first move will be to ensure his own power, and that will mean eliminating any potential threat to his legitimacy. He will move at once to neutralize you, and your daughter, and your wife. You will have no funds, and no corner of this world will be safe for you. You would leave your country in the hands of a Nazi, and your family's lives will be forfeit. Surely, you must see-"

"Enough," Lucien said raggedly, raising his hand in defeat. "Enough."

He rose from his chair, and ran his hand over his hair, weary down to his very bones and full of sorrow. What he needed, more than anything, was to speak to Jean. He needed to know whether what the damnable article had said was true, or whether they could defend themselves from such slander. He needed to know if she still wished to marry him, after all this. He needed to talk it through with her, every bit, and hear her gentle wisdom. Perhaps it was not too late; perhaps there was some avenue he could not find on his own that would lead them into joy. If there was any way forward for them he was certain Jean could find it.

"We will meet again tomorrow," he said, "and I will have an answer for you then."

That seemed to satisfy Patrick; perhaps he believed he had made his point, and that given some time his unruly king would come to see sense.

"Very well, Your Majesty," he answered.

"Burn that," Lucien added, pointing to the article that threatened to destroy his every happiness, and then he left, walking on leaden feet away from that place. He had left Jean in his suite and so he made for his rooms, thinking, hoping that he would find her there. If not he would comb every inch of the castle from the battlements to the gardens in search of her, and give no thought to the possible reprisals should they be found out together. Their very future seemed to hang in the balance, and the minor gossip of castle servants held no particular threat, given the greater challenges they faced. Let the people whisper, he thought, for it made no difference now.

He flung open the door to his suite but found it empty; the moment he stepped into the parlor he knew that Jean had gone, for he could not feel her presence in that place, and silence hung still and deadly in the air. Still, though, he searched for her, glanced into the bedroom and the lav before stepping into his office. He stood for a time looking at the room, wondering how it was that such a short while before he had been sitting in the chair by his desk with Jean upon his lap, his heart light and full of joy; how could it be, he wondered, that such joy could so quickly be turned to devastation?

He turned then, intending to leave that place, intending to journey next to Jean's room, but he stopped at once for there was a folded piece of parchment propped up on his desk, the words Your Majesty written on it in neat, looping letters.

Dread filled him at the sight of that note, left him trembling where he stood. What fresh hell is this, he wondered, staring at those foreboding letters, that portent of doom. Had she left it for him when he went to speak to Patrick, some note filled with hope and thoughts of love? Had it been left by Jean at all, or was there some other madness afoot? No one had access to his rooms save for Peter and the unlucky maid who had recently been assigned to clean up after him, and somehow he did not think that either of those young people would have cause to leave such a message for him.

He approached the desk as a man heading for the gallows, terrified and yet unable to veer from his course. He lifted the paper and unfolded it, and began to read.

Your Majesty, it said. I hope you will forgive me for not telling you this in person, but I fear that if I were to see your face you would try to change my mind. We cannot afford the luxury of choice, just now. One of us must see reason, and I fear that you will not. The news that Sir Patrick has brought to you is true, and I see now that it was selfish of me to claim you for my own. You deserve more than I can give you. Know that I love you, with all my heart, and it is because I love you that I must go. You must do what is best for the kingdom, and I have no role to play in your future. It was a dream, Lucien, but I dream I will remember fondly for all the rest of my days. Be the king you were meant to be, the king I know you can be, and serve your people well. Do not look for me; please, spare us both that grief. You will find joy again, in time.

At the bottom of the page she had signed simply Jean, and as he stood with that paper in his trembling hands tears began to gather in the corner of his eyes. Somehow, though he could not say how, she had learned the details of his meeting with Sir Patrick; had the PM sent someone to speak to her quietly, to send her from his side before he had the chance to ruin himself? It seemed the sort of thing Patrick might do, to keep him occupied while he gave Jean the chance to flee. And flee she had, taking all of his hope with her.

I have to find her, he thought then, and recklessly he ran from that place, the paper drifting out of his hand to land silent and damning upon the floor. Heedless of propriety or the scene he might be making he raced towards Jean's room, but when he reached it he found the door unlocked, and no sign of his beloved. The room was neat and tidy as ever, but as he looked around he found that the dressertop was bare, now, uncluttered by any photographs or pots of face cream or delicate vials of perfume. Her white shawl was not hanging on its hook by the door, and there was no book resting on the bedside table. Fear clenched his heart in an icy fist, then. If she meant to leave him it would seem she was already well on her way, and he was not certain he could stop her, not now.

Cursing he ran from that place, dashed down the stairs, and as he neared the bottom he saw her, his darling Jean, wearing the same navy dress he'd seen her in last with a travelling case in her hand. She was marching resolutely across the foyer, and had very nearly reached the front doors. It's not too late, he thought as he caught sight of her; she had only just packed her things, and perhaps there was time, yet, time for him to dissuade her, to keep her with him, to find some way through the labyrinth before them.

"Jean!" he called out desperately. "Jean!"

Her steps faltered for a moment, her shoulders sagging as if in defeat, and he dashed forward, desperate to reach her. If only she would stop, if only he could reach out and touch her, perhaps her resolve might waver, perhaps she might see how desperately he loved her, and change her mind. But fate was against him; she did not stop entirely, instead seeming to find some inner well of resolve. Her posture straightened, and she continued on her way. The door opened at the touch of her hand, and Lucien was not close enough to reach her before it closed behind her.

He came to a stop there at the closed door, but did not go through it. In grief he raised his hand, and pressed his palm flat to the door. More than once he had told her that he would not ask of her more than she was willing to give, that if she did not want him he would let her go in peace. If only she had stopped completely, waited for him, looked back, given him some sign that she was not as dedicated to her present course as her note implied then he might have taken the chance, but she had done no such thing. After so much uncertainty it seemed she had made her choice, and if he were to follow her now he would only break every promise he had ever made to her, and doom her to a life not of her choosing. She knew, now, what it would cost her to join her life to his, and knowing this she had chosen to leave him. The thing was done; do not look for me, she'd said, and he loved her too much to ignore her final request of him.

The adrenaline that had been coursing through his veins from the moment Sir Patrick showed him the article left him suddenly, and he collapsed wearily against the door, his forehead pressed to the cold steel that separated him from his beloved. Even now she would be marching across the long winding drive toward the gate, leaving her home, her very life behind for the sake of his reputation, for the future of their country. I do not deserve her, he thought, for Jean had done what he could not, had seen the right course and taken it. She was too good for him, he thought then, and deserved better than the public scorn and devastation that he would heap upon her.

I have been blind, he thought. All his life Lucien had known his birthright to be a death sentence, a burden that would strip him of his very identity, and make him afresh in the image of a king. He had run from that damnation, as far and as fast as he could, but duty had called him home, and sunk its teeth into him. For months he had been behaving as if he believed himself above the rules that dictated his life, dashing off to China and wooing his housekeeper and filling her head with dreams, but Jean had seen the right of it. The crown had claimed him for its own, and a king could not serve two mistresses. He could love his kingdom, or he could love Jean, but he could not love them both. And Jean, beautiful, brilliant Jean, had known this, and released her hold on him at last.

Though he wished, with all his heart, that he could be simply a man, simply Lucien, that he could come and go as he pleased and love where he willed and give no thought to what others might say, he knew now that such freedom would never be his to enjoy. Time won't change who we are, she'd told him once, and he saw now that she was right. Nothing and no one could change his fate, and at last he faced that truth, and began to accept it with bitterness in his heart.