Read an Excerpt
3 June 1965
France
The château of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor
The French Riviera
High above the earth, where the atmosphere thins into nothingness, there is no weather. No clouds, no storms, no flashes of lightning. Here on the Riviera (for many, the closest thing to heaven on earth) the summer sky offered a show that could rival the opulence of the nightclubs and casinos, if anyone were to bother to look up. The month of June was high holy season on the Riviera, a time when the idle rich come to worship at the blackjack tables. They took little notice of the world outside. For that to happen, the sky would have to open up and rain cash.
A thin, sad-faced man in silk vermilion lounging pajamas stood on the balcony of a majestic villa overlooking the sea and stared at the heavens. The sun was setting through a patchy veil of pink clouds; its fiery red corona gave off sparks as it sank past the horizon. Soon the stars would shine like diamonds in the deep blue evening sky. The bright lights of the casinos and nightclubs would flick on, and the garish neon would wash out the sky, making the stars distant glimmers. The playhouses of the rich and bored were open all night, and the man on the balcony had spent much of his life, and a great deal of his fortune, in them. He was an old man now, and he had wasted most of his life in the pursuit of meaningless pleasures. It had been almost thirty years since he had done anything of consequence. His name still made the society columns on a regular basis, but for a man who had once ruled a kingdom, it was a sad second prize.
"Watercress or cucumber?" the Duchess of Windsor asked her husband.
"Watercress."
"How many?"
"Three."
The duke looked crestfallen when he saw his plate.
"Is something wrong, Pookie?" wondered the duchess.
"There are crusts on my sandwiches."
"Chef had a row with the chauffeur this morning and quit. The butler made these. You'll just have to be brave, dear, until our servant crisis is resolved."
The duke pushed aside his plate -- he detested crusts -- and turned his attention to the day's mail. He knew without looking that the thick cream-colored envelopes held the usual invitations to luncheons and dinner parties and fashion shows. Twenty-eight years had passed since he had abdicated his throne in order to marry his beloved Wallis Simpson. The scandal had long since died down, but the couple could still draw an audience, even if it was only one large enough to fill a dining table.
The duke sometimes felt like an ugly old curio brought out for company, but the duchess loved the attention. He imagined that marrying into exile had been a bit of a letdown for the vivacious American divorcée. His family had never forgiven them, and his countrymen had all but forgotten them. Nobody ever asked for his advice anymore about anything; the only noteworthy thing left for him to do was die.
"Anything interesting, Pookie?" the duchess asked.
"Just the usual. The Duff Coopers are having a cocktail party Saturday for some American film star. Princess Grace will soon be in town with her new yacht. There's a cocktail party at the Argentinean Embassy Friday next. And Foxie sent you a postal card from Paris; she says that next season's hemlines are disgracefully short. She writes, 'If one did not have a dressmaker of one's own, one would be forced to get one.' "
The duchess laughed. "That Foxie!"
"Here's a letter from Lord Reginald Wooley-Booley," the duke said with some surprise. They weren't in the habit of corresponding. Lord Reginald was on their Christmas card list, but so were three thousand others, give or take a hundred.
"Who?" the duchess asked. She took a sip of her oolong tea.
"He's the son of my old pal Lord Chundey. Surely you remember Chumpers. He came to our aquatic party in Fifty-five dressed as a female channel swimmer."
"Oh, him! He got petroleum jelly on my mermaid costume. I suppose his son wants an invitation to our villa. Well, the answer is no. If I am forced to run this place with a reduced staff, I cannot possibly take on the burden of a guest. Pass the sugar."
"Wally," the duke said excitedly, having read further, "listen to this! The Sons of Britain Society, a venerable group much respected by those in high places, has decided to restore England to its glorious imperialist past. And they want me to rule! They intend to put me back on the throne, with you as my queen!"
Tears filled the duchess's eyes; it had been years since they had played this charade. In the beginning of their marriage, she had indulged the duke in his fantasies of returning to power. She had even gone so far as to disguise her hand and write impassioned letters of support. But as they grew older, the possibility that they might someday return to royal life had become little more than a pleasant daydream. No one in England had expressed any real interest in them in years.
"Pookie, not tonight. I had an exhausting session with Henri today."
Her hairdresser had rolled her hair so tightly around the permanent rods that the duchess had been unable to blink for hours.
"Wally, I don't think Sir Reginald is pulling my leg. Why, the Sons of Britain Society counts amongst its ranks some of the most powerful men in Britain. Listen."
What England needs most in these days of social unrest is someone with enough dignity and authority to wear the sovereign crown. In other words, a king. If we are to return to our proper place as a world power, we must have a real leader. You are our only hope to save England!
