My family was still in France with the Queen Mother because we had nowhere else to go. Third sons get nothing: no title, no estate, not even the right to be styled “Sir.” A third son’s eldest daughter gets even less, and when my father died two years ago, his death left me with less than less. My father was the third son of the first Lord Blantyre in Scotland. Most of the members of our court had returned home-at least those who had something to return to. Our monarch had won his throne and restored place and power to as many Royalist families as he could, but my family had no prior claim on anything. Although we weren’t exiles anymore, now that King Charles had possession of his kingdom. Members of the exiled English court, like me, wore sensible clothes, repurposed with outdated lace. A gift from my older cousin Princess Henriette Anne, it was the prettiest thing I owned. No jewel hung from my neck, only a blue silk ribbon. The French nobles, in impeccable silks and jewels, politely averted their eyes from the chipped murals of our dilapidated palace walls. I had gotten a good look at the guests waiting for the royal couple to return from the chapel. Now I fell back on my heels and slouched. I was straining my eyes in the candlelight, searching the wedding guests in the gallery of the Palais Royal, seeking out one English duke in particular.
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