She shook her head and laughed at him but took the scone.

“I know you all think Americans are gullible about the British, and we will probably believe anything you say about many things, especially when you say it in that incredible accent, but that’s where I draw the line. But fine, I’ll ask anyway: Are there other black people who work for the Queen?”

A lot of people had tried to ask him this question, but they’d asked it so euphemistically he’d been able to pretend he didn’t understand what they were asking, even when they’d rephrased it three or four times. He smiled at those memories. That had frustrated those people so much.

Strangely, though, he didn’t mind Vivian Forest asking him this. Maybe it was because of the way she’d asked it—so up front and without any dancing around. Or maybe it was just because he liked her.

“A few, but not many. When I worked for her the first time, I was the only one on the personal staff—since I’ve come back, there have been a few more, but . . . only a few.”

He led her in the direction of his office on the far side of the house.

“Why did you leave? And why did you come back?” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I keep asking so many questions. You don’t have to answer that.”

He laughed.

“I don’t mind. I left the first time because I received a job offer in the private sector that I couldn’t refuse.” One which had paid him almost three times the salary he’d received as an assistant private secretary. Working for the Queen meant many things, but good pay wasn’t one of them. “I worked for a consulting firm for years; I was skeptical about how much I’d like the job at first, but it turned out I enjoy it a great deal. But I came back because my former boss had some health issues that caused him to resign suddenly, and Her Majesty needed someone experienced to jump into the private secretary role, so she called me. At first I said no, but she invited me for tea to discuss it further, and”—he smiled at Vivian—“she’s very good at pleading her case. So here I am. I warned her that I couldn’t promise to stay here forever—I would like to go back to the private sector at some point—but it’s been good to be back.”

Vivian nodded. He could tell she’d really been listening to him. She hesitated for a moment, but finally asked her question.

“Are you the first? Black private secretary, I mean?”

He nodded slowly and tried not to let his face reflect the rush of pride he felt.

“And that’s another reason I said yes.”

He spent his days immersed in this job and didn’t think about that too often. What an accomplishment it was, and everything it had taken for him to achieve it. Not just the years of hard work, but all of the tiny insults and jokes he’d had to ignore, all of the naysayers, the hundreds of times he’d kept a straight face and a low voice when he wanted to pound on the table and yell.

He opened the door to his small office.

“And here’s where I work—less glamorous than the rest of the house, but it’s enough for what I need.”

She looked around and smiled at the painting on his wall and the photographs of his family on his desk. She picked up one of them.

“Your son?” she asked him.

He shook his head.

“My nephew. My sister’s son. His father died when he was young, and I suppose I’ve been a bit of a surrogate dad for him. He’s a great kid—well, he’s not a kid anymore, but I’ll never stop thinking of him that way.”

Vivian laughed.

“I do the same thing with Maddie, and she’s in her thirties. How old is he now?”

He smiled.

“Nineteen. He’ll be off to Oxford next year.”

Vivian raised her eyebrows at him.

“Following in your footsteps?”

How had she figured that out?

“Yes, but how did you know?”

She grinned at him.

“It was something about that look of pride in your eyes when you said it.”

He laughed.

“I try not to be so obvious, but since I’m bragging about him”—he gestured at the painting over his desk—“Miles painted that for me a few years ago. It’s the river in Scotland where we often go fishing together. I know there are lots of priceless paintings in this building, but this one is my favorite.” Miles’s painting was usually on the wall of his office at Buckingham Palace, but he’d brought it down here for the week. These walls were too bare and dreary without it.

Vivian contemplated the painting, then smiled at him.

“I can see why it’s your favorite.”

Malcolm was looking forward to seeing Miles at Christmas. He’d seen very little of his nephew over the past few months. Most of that was his own fault—work had been busier than usual this fall—but whenever he’d texted Miles, the boy had been either in the middle of painting, and so didn’t text back for hours, or more likely, with his new girlfriend, the one Malcolm’s sister, Sarah, hated. In their texts recently, Miles had hinted that he had some big surprise to tell him about at Christmas—probably that he was going to move in with the new girlfriend. He shook his head and sighed. He’d be the one to have to smooth that over with Sarah, like he usually had to do with Miles’s escapades.