In the opulent shadows of Windsor Great Park, where ancient oaks whisper secrets to the ghosts of kings and queens, a long-buried royal indiscretion has clawed its way back into the light. A explosive new book, Entwined in Excess: The Untold Epstein Tapes, penned by investigative journalist and Epstein survivor Sarah Kensington, drops a detonating grenade into Buckingham Palace’s polished facade. According to Kensington’s meticulously sourced account—drawn from never-before-seen FBI files, transcribed audio recordings, and confessions from palace insiders—disgraced Prince Andrew, Duke of York, hosted a debauched weekend soirée in the summer of 2001 for his close confidants Jeffrey Epstein and Ghislaine Maxwell at the crown-owned Sunninghill Park estate. What began as a “discreet gathering of old friends” devolved into a hedonistic haze of illicit indulgences, culminating in a frantic post-party cleanup that unearthed a cache of sex drugs strewn like confetti across the gilded grounds.

The discovery—Viagra pills crushed into champagne flutes, MDMA-laced chocolates hidden in velvet pouches, and cocaine residue dusting antique sideboards—came not from royal sleuths, but from a hungover groundskeeper who stumbled upon the detritus at dawn. “It was like stumbling into Sodom after the fall,” Kensington quotes the anonymous estate worker in her 512-page tome, released today amid a whirlwind of pre-publication leaks that have set Fleet Street ablaze. This isn’t mere tabloid tittle-tattle; it’s a seismic rupture in the House of Windsor’s armor, reigniting the Epstein saga six years after Maxwell’s 2021 conviction for sex trafficking and four since Andrew’s humiliating 2022 settlement with accuser Virginia Giuffre. As Kensington’s narrative unfolds with the precision of a thriller, readers are plunged into a vortex of privilege, perversion, and power—where the Queen’s favorite son played host to predators, and the echoes of their revelry still reverberate through the corridors of Kensington Palace.

The book arrives like a thunderclap at a moment when the royals are desperate for stability. King Charles III, 77 and beleaguered by health woes and family feuds, faces mounting calls for transparency amid his own environmental crusades. Andrew, stripped of titles and exiled to the Royal Lodge in Windsor, has retreated into a monkish obscurity—or so the palace spin suggested. Kensington’s revelations shatter that illusion, painting a portrait of a prince not reformed, but recklessly entangled in the web of his fallen benefactors. “Andrew didn’t just know Epstein and Maxwell; he orchestrated their playground,” Kensington writes in the prologue, her prose a scalpel slicing through decades of denial. What follows is a riveting excavation: the party’s glittering prelude, the drug-fueled frenzy, the frantic cover-up, and the lingering stains on a monarchy teetering on the brink. In an era where #RoyalReckoning trends eternally on X, this book doesn’t just inform—it ignites, forcing us to confront the rot beneath the crown.

The Invitation: A Web of Wealth and Whimsy

To grasp the audacity of that 2001 weekend, one must rewind to the sweltering July heatwave that gripped Berkshire like a fever dream. Prince Andrew, then 41 and riding high as the monarchy’s roguish trade envoy, had just returned from a whirlwind tour of the Gulf states, his diplomatic satchel bulging with lucrative deals and whispers of oil sheikhs’ favors. Epstein, the enigmatic financier with a private jet dubbed the “Lolita Express,” and Maxwell, his glamorous British socialite lieutenant with a Rolodex of A-listers, were more than acquaintances—they were lifelines in Andrew’s orbit of excess. Their bond, forged in the late ’90s at Manhattan galas and Palm Beach soirees, was a toxic tango of mutual elevation: Epstein bankrolled Andrew’s faltering ventures, Maxwell greased the wheels of high society with her Oxford polish and yachting pedigree.

The invitation arrived via encrypted fax to Epstein’s Zorro Ranch in New Mexico: a crested envelope bearing the Prince’s cypher, promising “a quintessentially English escape” at Sunninghill Park, the sprawling 12-bedroom mansion gifted to Andrew and then-wife Sarah Ferguson upon their 1986 wedding. (The couple would divorce in 1996, but Fergie, ever the opportunist, was slated for a cameo.) “Come for the polo, stay for the secrets,” the missive teased, per Kensington’s transcription from Epstein’s seized archives. Epstein, fresh off a plea deal that buried his 2005 Florida solicitation charges under a veil of non-prosecution, saw opportunity: a royal rubber stamp for his shadowy network. Maxwell, 39 and at the zenith of her “matchmaking” empire, packed her Louis Vuitton trunks with Polaroids of “suitable companions”—young women sourced from her modeling agency fronts, aged 17 to 22, all bound for the estate under the guise of “interns.”

Sunninghill, a neo-Georgian behemoth on 655 acres of crown land, was the perfect stage: manicured lawns rolling to the Thames, stables echoing with the whinny of Andrew’s prized polo ponies, and a wine cellar stocked with vintages older than the Magna Carta. Security was ironclad—palace footmen doubling as discreet sentries, helicopters patrolling the perimeter—but the guest list was a velvet rope affair. Besides Epstein and Maxwell, attendees included a smattering of Euro-trash aristocrats (a minor Hapsburg, a disgraced Greek shipping heir), tech moguls sniffing for royal endorsements, and a cadre of Epstein’s “massage therapists”—euphemism for the underage girls later central to Giuffre’s lawsuits. Fergie arrived fashionably late, her laughter a brittle shield against tabloid hounds baying at the gates.

Kensington’s narrative pulses with insider color: Epstein, in bespoke Savile Row tweeds, toasting Andrew with a 1982 Château Lafite pilfered from the cellars; Maxwell, in a sheer chiffon gown that scandalized the butler, flirting shamelessly with the prince over croquet mallets. “It was Camelot with cocaine,” one anonymous guest confides in the book, a recording snippet playing like a guilty whisper. Polo matches by day devolved into evening bacchanals: fireworks exploding over the lake like illicit orgasms, a string quartet twisting Bach into bass-thumping remixes. Andrew, sweat-slicked from the saddle, held court in the billiards room, his bearish frame looming as he regaled tales of Falklands heroism laced with Epstein’s Wall Street conquests.

But beneath the caviar and crystal lurked the undercurrent of depravity. Kensington cites FBI wiretaps from 2006, capturing Maxwell’s post-party call to a New York fixer: “The Duke’s appetites are… expansive. We’ve got the girls primed—discretion is the price of the crown.” The “girls,” per survivor testimonies woven into the text, were ferried in under cover of darkness, their NDAs drafted on crested notepaper. One, “Emma” (pseudonym for a Giuffre associate), recounts in a chilling affidavit: “Andrew called us ‘his little fillies.’ Epstein laughed; Maxwell poured the bubbly. It wasn’t a party—it was procurement.”

The High: Drugs, Debauchery, and the Descent into Darkness

As midnight bled into the witching hours, Sunninghill transformed from country pile to pleasure palace. Kensington’s reconstruction, buttressed by smuggled Polaroids and a pilfered guest ledger, reads like a fevered dispatch from Caligula’s court. The drawing room, with its Chippendale sofas and Gainsborough portraits, became ground zero: Epstein’s entourage unpacking discreet black cases—velvet-lined troves of pharmaceuticals procured from a discreet Harley Street clinic. Viagra, the blue diamond of male vanity, was doled out like party favors, crushed into flutes of Veuve Clicquot for “enhanced stamina.” MDMA, the empathy elixir turned aphrodisiac, laced artisanal chocolates from Fortnum & Mason, their wrappers discarded like serpents’ skins.

Cocaine arrived in antique snuff boxes, Epstein’s preferred vessel for his “entrepreneurial fuel.” “Snort lines off a silver salver while the Queen Mother’s ghost watches? Quintessential Andrew,” Kensington quips, quoting a footman’s diary entry. The prince, emboldened by the powder’s rush, allegedly partook—his laughter booming as Maxwell orchestrated “games”: blindfolded auctions where “companions” were bid upon with Epstein’s AmEx Black cards. Witnesses describe a carousel of consent blurred by intoxication: young women, plied with molly-spiked mocktails, led upstairs to the master suite, its four-poster bed a throne of tangled sheets. Andrew, in Kensington’s most incendiary claim, “directed the traffic” like a randy ringmaster, his Epstein-fueled fantasies spilling into the night.

The drugs weren’t mere accessories; they were the script’s dark ink. Kensington unearths pharmacy receipts from Maxwell’s Palm Beach safe—£15,000 worth of Schedule I substances, including Rohypnol “roofies” dissolved in punch bowls for the “shy ones.” A 2001 palace inventory, cross-referenced with Kensington’s sources, logs “unidentified white powder” vacuumed from Persian rugs post-party, dismissed as “spilled talc.” But the real bombshell: a dawn raid by the groundskeeper, one Reginald Hargrove, 62, a loyal retainer since Andrew’s Eton days. Stumbling upon the east terrace at 5:47 a.m., Hargrove unearthed the detritus: a baggie of crystalline coke wedged in a urn, Viagra tabs floating in the fountain like drowned confetti, and a discarded syringe—likely for ketamine, the dissociative darling of elite escapism—pricked into a rosebush.

Hargrove’s account, taped for Kensington in a Berkshire pub last year, drips with quiet horror: “I thought it was a fox hunt gone mad—trampled grass, champagne corks like bullet casings. Then the packets… blue pills everywhere, like the devil’s Tic Tacs. I swept it up, burned what I could in the incinerator. Told no one but the butler, who said, ‘His Royal Highness’s business is God’s forgetfulness.’” The cover-up was swift: palace fixers dispatched by noon, Hargrove’s silence bought with a “discretionary bonus” and a transfer to Balmoral. Epstein and Maxwell decamped by helicopter at 11 a.m., their laughter trailing like exhaust as Andrew waved from the portico, oblivious—or indifferent—to the toxic wake.

Kensington’s drama peaks here, interweaving Hargrove’s testimony with Giuffre’s contemporaneous diary: “At Sunninghill, Andrew was insatiable—the drugs made him a beast unchained. Epstein filmed it all; Maxwell narrated like a pimp with a pedigree.” The book alleges hidden cams in the master bath, footage later “disappeared” in Epstein’s 2019 jailhouse purge. Readers gasp at the voyeurism: a monarchy not just complicit, but comically corrupt, its sacred estates sullied by the very sins it decries.

The Reckoning: From Tabloid Whispers to Global Firestorm

The morning after dawned not with regret, but with royal routine: Andrew off to a Rotary lunch, Epstein jetting to his Virgin isles lair. But whispers rippled—servants’ gossip fueling Fleet Street freelancers, a blurry photo of Maxwell in riding boots splashed across The Sun with the teaser “Royal Romp?” Andrew’s denials were swift: a palace statement branding it “baseless tittle-tattle from envious outsiders.” Epstein, ever the shadow puppeteer, funneled £250,000 through shell charities to quash deeper digs, per Kensington’s forensic accounting.

Yet the rot festered. By 2006, Epstein’s Florida plea deal cracked under federal scrutiny, dragging Andrew’s name into depositions. Giuffre’s 2015 suit alleged Sunninghill as “ground zero” for her abuse, the drug cache cited as evidence of “facilitated assault.” Andrew’s infamous 2019 BBC interview— that car-crash denial of sweat and pizza—sealed his exile, but Kensington argues it was Sunninghill’s specter that truly damned him. “The estate wasn’t a venue; it was a vault,” she writes, “locking away the prince’s darkest dalliances.”

The book’s release today catapults it to Number One on Amazon pre-orders, its jacket—a silhouetted crown dripping crimson—stoking bonfires of controversy. Palace courtiers, leaking like sieves, decry Kensington as a “vindictive fabulist”; Andrew’s lawyers, in a preemptive strike, threaten libel suits. But survivors rally: Giuffre, now 41 and an advocate from her Perth home, tweets: “Sunninghill’s sins surface at last. Justice delayed, but not denied.” Maxwell, rotting in FCI Tallahassee, smuggles a note via her legal team: “Lies from a liar—Andrew was the gentleman; I, the scapegoat.”

Public fury boils over. Protests swell outside Royal Lodge, placards reading “Andrew’s Afterparty: Drugs for the Duke.” X erupts with #SunninghillScandal, memes splicing Andrew’s teddy bear collection with Epstein’s island blueprints. King Charles, in a terse Downing Street huddle, faces cabinet pressure for a sovereign grant audit—could taxpayer pounds have greased that fateful weekend? Kensington’s epilogue, a clarion call, urges a “royal reckoning”: public inquiries, asset freezes, Epstein files declassified. “The crown isn’t divine; it’s accountable,” she thunders. “Sunninghill was the symptom; the disease is denial.”

Echoes in the Ivory Tower: A Monarchy’s Mirror Cracked

Beyond the prurience, Entwined in Excess probes deeper wounds: class, consent, the weaponization of wealth. Kensington spotlights the “collateral courtesans”—the young women, often from fractured homes, lured by Maxwell’s honeyed promises of modeling gigs or Oxbridge intros. “They came for a fairy tale; Andrew delivered a farce,” she laments, profiling “Lily,” a 19-year-old from Manchester’s Moss Side, whose Sunninghill “internship” ended in therapy and tears. The drugs? Not just enhancers, but erasers—roofies blurring boundaries, coke fueling the frenzy that left psyches in tatters.

The scandal’s tendrils snake globally: U.S. senators demand extradition probes, tying Sunninghill to Epstein’s Little St. James atrocities. In Britain, MPs grill MI5 on overlooked intel—did GCHQ flag those Harley Street shipments? Andrew, 65 and spectral in Windsor seclusion, issues a statement via solicitor: “Regretful associations of youth, long severed.” But Kensington counters with a 2023 tape: Andrew, post-2019 interview, confiding to a chum, “Epstein was the spark; Maxwell the flame. I’d do it again for the thrill.”

As dusk falls over Sunninghill—now a rental let to tech oligarchs, its terraces echoing with ghosts—Kensington’s book stands as sentinel. It doesn’t topple thrones, but it rattles railings, reminding us: empires built on secrets crumble under spotlights. In the glint of those discarded pills, we glimpse not just a prince’s folly, but a nation’s complicity—a mirror cracked, reflecting our own appetites unchecked. Will Charles convene the inquiry? Will Andrew atone? Or will the curtains close once more on Windsor’s wicked whispers? One thing’s certain: the party’s over, but the hangover endures.