Redefining Protocol: Chapter 4

The Night Before Publication

James walked briskly through the palace gates towards Clarence House, shoulders hunched against the evening chill that had descended over London. The weight of what he was about to do pressed against his chest like a physical presence.

“Your Majesty,” one of his protection officers called, hurrying to catch up. “The car is ready.”

“I’ll walk,” James replied, not breaking his stride.

“Sir, protocol suggests…”

James whirled around, his blue eyes flashing with uncharacteristic fury. “I know how to fucking cross the road.” The words shot out sharper than intended, carrying the same alpha command he’d heard in his father’s voice countless times. The officer took an instinctive step back.

“Sorry,” James muttered, immediately regretting the outburst. “Just… give me some space. Please.”

The officer nodded stiffly and maintained a discreet distance as James continued his solitary march across Green Park. The paths were nearly empty, most sensible Londoners having retreated indoors against the drizzle that had started to fall. It suited James’s mood perfectly, the grey mist blurring the landmarks, leaving only vague, shadowy outlines.

By the time he got through security and reached the residential section of Clarence House, his hair was damp and his tailored suit jacket spotted with rain. He paused at the entrance to his father’s apartments, gathering himself before the footman opened the door.

Ainsworth stood in the entrance hall, his posture rigid and proper as it had been for the twenty-two years he’d served as Tommy’s valet. His silver hair was neatly combed, his uniform pristine, hands clasped behind his back as he inclined his head in a shallow bow.

“Good evening, Your Majesty.”

“Evening, Ainsworth,” James replied, shrugging off his damp jacket and handing it to the waiting footman.

Ainsworth’s eyes, sharp after decades of anticipating royal needs, took in James’s dishevelled appearance and tense expression. His mask of professional neutrality slipped slightly, revealing a glimpse of genuine concern.

“Everything alright, sir?” he asked, his voice low enough that the retreating footman wouldn’t overhear.

James met the older man’s gaze, feeling suddenly like the little boy who’d once hidden behind Ainsworth’s legs during a terrifying encounter with the Dowager Duchess of Brunswick. “No, Ainsworth. Afraid not.”

The valet absorbed this with a slight nod, widening his stance as though declaring with the planting of his feet that he would be there for the Duke in this crisis as he had been for all the others, from the bewildered eighteen-year-old omega who’d first arrived at the palace, through the births of three children, the long years of royal service, the King’s death, and everything in between.

“His Royal Highness is in his studio,” Ainsworth said. “Shall I announce you?”

“No need,” James replied, heading for the east wing where his father’s art studio occupied a sun-filled corner suite.

The corridors of Clarence House were familiar territory, a second home throughout James’s childhood. Walls lined with priceless art collected over centuries. Antique furniture arranged in formal groupings. Plush carpets specially chosen to complement the Duke’s delicate omega sensibilities, according to his grandmother’s outdated theories on designation-appropriate decor.

As James approached the studio, he heard faint strains of Mozart floating through the partially open door. He paused, steeling himself for what was to come, the mockup from The Sun burning in his pocket like a hot coal.

He pushed the door open fully to reveal the vast space beyond, so different from the formal, traditional rooms that made up the rest of Clarence House. Canvases in various stages of completion leaned against walls and easels. Pots of paint in vibrant colours cluttered every surface. Sketches and reference photos pinned haphazardly to boards. It was gloriously, chaotically creative, the one space where his father truly expressed himself without constraint.

Tommy stood before an enormous canvas, brush in hand, completely absorbed in the architectural nightmare taking shape under his skilled fingers. The structure he was painting defied physics and logic, a baroque mansion with impossible angles and staircases that twisted into nowhere, windows peering into abysses, doorways opening onto voids. Beautiful and disturbing and utterly unlike the bland, innocuous flowers he’d painted for public consumption that morning.

In his paint-splattered jeans and oversized jumper, hair pushed back with a headband that failed to prevent streaks of blue paint from finding their way onto his cheek, Tommy looked nothing like the composed royal omega the world knew. He looked smaller, younger, more vulnerable, the blue smudge making him seem more like the boy in those damned diaries than the omega who had shepherded James through his terror on the morning of his coronation.

“Daddy,” James began, his carefully rehearsed speech evaporating.

Tommy turned at the sound, brush still poised mid-stroke, his face lighting up with genuine delight as he spotted James in the doorway.

“James! What a lovely surprise,” he exclaimed, setting down his palette and wiping his hands ineffectively on an already paint-covered cloth. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight. Come in, come in. Have you eaten? I could have the kitchens bring something up. Or tea, at least. You look drenched, my darling boy.”

The stream of warm, paternal concern washed over James, making his task even more impossible. Tommy crossed the room towards him, arms already opening for an embrace, looking so genuinely happy to see his son that James felt his resolve waver.

“I do love it when you visit,” Tommy continued, seemingly blind to James’s stricken expression.

James crushed Tommy into a hug, ignoring the explosion of blue paint that immediately transferred onto his pristine white shirt. What was another ruined garment in the face of what he had to say? The shirt was collateral damage, a casualty of war. The war against reality that James had been losing spectacularly for the past week.

“Daddy, I’m sorry,” he whispered, feeling his throat constrict.

Tommy stiffened in his arms, his painter’s hands hovering uncertainly before settling against James’s back. “What’s happened? Is it Alice? Augustus?”

Of course that would be his first thought. His children. Always his children, even when James was fairly certain that the apocalypse itself was knocking at their door with a tabloid contract and a book deal.

“No, no, everyone’s fine,” James said, pulling back reluctantly, clinging to the momentary comfort of his father’s embrace even as he dreaded what came next. He blinked rapidly, determined not to cry. Kings didn’t cry. His father had taught him that. Well, not directly, but James had never once seen Tommy shed a tear in public, not even at Arthur’s funeral. A lesson absorbed by osmosis, like so many others.

Tommy stepped back, his head tilting slightly as he studied James’s face with the same intense focus he applied to his paintings. “You look terrible, darling. What’s wrong?”

James swallowed hard, wishing desperately for a drink. A very large, very alcoholic drink. Preferably something that would render him unconscious before he had to finish this conversation.

“It’s about… some of your old things,” he began awkwardly, the carefully rehearsed speech vanishing from his mind. “Apparently, there was a… misunderstanding.”

Tommy’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. “What old things?”

“Your diaries. From when you were younger.”

The paintbrush Tommy was still holding slipped from his fingers, landing on the paint-splattered floor with a soft, wet sound that seemed impossibly loud in the sudden silence.

“My… what?” Tommy whispered, his voice barely audible over the Mozart still playing softly in the background. The cheerful melody now felt obscenely inappropriate, like someone whistling at a funeral.

“Your diaries. From when you were in Eton.” James continued, forcing himself to maintain eye contact even as Tommy’s face drained of colour. “Some maintenance person at Kensington thought they were part of your decluttering phase, the one inspired by those Swedish cousins? They accidentally donated them to a charity shop.”

Tommy made a small, broken sound, somewhere between a gasp and a moan. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “No, that’s not possible. They were in my private box. In storage. They shouldn’t have been… no one should have…”

“Someone found them,” James continued, each word feeling like a knife he was personally driving into his father’s heart. “They were legally purchased. And then sold to a publishing house.”

Tommy staggered backwards, reaching blindly for support. His hand found the edge of a table, knocking over a jar of brushes with a crash that made them both jump.

“A publishing house,” Tommy repeated flatly. “My diaries. My private… they’re going to publish my diaries?”

James nodded miserably. “They’re serialising some entries to drum up interest for a book. The first one comes out tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Tommy echoed. He looked suddenly small and lost, drowning in his oversized jumper, blue paint smeared across his cheek like a bruise. “Which ones? Do they have all of them?”

“Yes,” James admitted, hating himself for having to be the bearer of this news. “I’ve been trying to handle it,” he added, his shoulders slumping slightly as a week’s worth of alpha bravado deflated. “Injunctions, legal threats, everything we could think of… but the judge overturned it all today.”

Tommy’s face remained unnervingly blank as James explained the situation, the composed mask that had served him through two decades of royal scrutiny firmly in place. But James knew his father well enough to spot the tells, the tiny cracks in the façade that no one else would notice, the slightly too-rapid blinking, the almost imperceptible tremor in his hands as they twisted the paintbrush with enough force to snap it in half.

“What exactly will they publish?” Tommy asked finally, his voice steady even as the splintered paintbrush betrayed his distress.

James winced. This was the part he’d been dreading most. “The first excerpt is… it’s about riding lessons.”

“Riding lessons,” Tommy repeated, his brow furrowing in momentary confusion before horrified understanding dawned in his eyes. “Oh God. The charity showjumping event. With your father.”

James nodded, unable to form words around the lump in his throat.

“Did you read it?” Tommy asked, his voice suddenly sharp, eyes pinning James in place.

The shame that washed over James was staggering in its intensity, hot and suffocating. “Yes,” he admitted, the word barely audible. “I had to. We needed to know what was coming.”

Tommy closed his eyes briefly, his entire body seeming to fold in on itself. “I was very sheltered,” he muttered shamefacedly, more to himself than to James. “I didn’t understand.”

The sheer humiliation in his father’s voice tore at James’s heart. Without thinking, he crossed the space between them and wrapped an arm around his slight shoulders.

“I’m so sorry, Daddy,” James said, reaching for Tommy’s hand with uncharacteristic gentleness. “I thought I could protect you from this. I thought I could fix it.”

Tommy’s fingers curled around his, cool and paint-stained against James’s warm skin. “They’re going to laugh at me even more,” he whispered, his voice so small that James found himself instinctively moving closer, head resting against Tommy’s temple in a protective gesture that belied their respective positions. James was suddenly, acutely aware of how small his omega father truly was despite the outsized role he’d played in James’s life, a protective fierceness stirring in his chest.

“I won’t let them,” James promised, though he knew it was a vow he couldn’t keep.

Tommy’s free hand came to rest on James’s hair, a gentle touch that carried decades of comfort given and received between them. “Oh, my darling boy,” he said softly, a terrible resignation in his voice. “There’s nothing you can do. And this… this is just the beginning.”

James looked up, dread pooling in his stomach at the expression on Tommy’s face. “What do you mean?”

Tommy met his gaze, blue eyes unnervingly clear and steady despite the devastation that must be raging within. “The riding lesson,” he said quietly. “That’s nothing. There’s far worse, Jamie. Far, far worse.”