Lois Greiman (27 page)

“What happened?” Paqual rose stiffly from the duke’s prostrate form.

“I do not know,” Megan assured him, shifting her expression to show perplexed concern. “One moment he was speaking to you, and the next he collapsed.”

Paqual scowled. “You didn’t…” He paused, looking bemused. “It almost seemed as if someone struck him.”

“Struck him, my lord?” Her tone was a perfect meld of innocence and bafflement. Her gloved hand fluttered to her throat where a dozen rubies shone against her perfect skin. “I assure you that is not possible. I was standing right here. Perhaps he imbibed a bit much and was overcome by the effects.”

“Perhaps,” said Cask sardonically, and the onlookers laughed.

The duke’s retainers had arrived, and, seeming surprisingly unsurprised, were already carrying him from the room.

Paqual watched them cart Venge away, then turned to the princess with a worried expression. “You are well, Your Highness?”

“Yes,” she said, but her tone was strained. “I am fine, but I think I shall retire for the evening. It has been a taxing day.”

“Perhaps that is wise. I could not bear it if something should happen to you,” Paqual said, and, bowing, motioned to her guards. They came, crowding the others back.

“I’ve learned something,” she said quietly so that the words reached no farther than Nicol’s ears as she turned toward the door.

“Many things I would guess,” Nicol countered, his fists clenched as he watched the duke’s feet disappear through the archway ahead of them.

She smiled slightly, just a shadow of joy, undimmed by the remaining spark of anger in her eyes, and in that moment she shone more brightly than every jewel that adorned her, so full of intelligence and life that it was all he could do to refrain from dragging her into his arms. “Dukes fall just as easily as plowmen.”

So he had been right. She had kneed the good duke in the groin without ruffling a hair, and Nicol himself had blocked the crowd’s view.

“Remind me to raise your pay,” he said.

The ladies-in-waiting rushed forward, enveloping her in their presence.

“I’ll do that,” she said, and, nodding with regal aplomb, disappeared from sight.

N
icol forced himself to remain in his own bedchamber that night, though his feet strayed toward her door a dozen times. He knew that every time he went into her room he put her at risk. Indeed, every time he spoke to her he took a chance, and he had no intention of compromising her. Yet the temptation gnawed at him like a rabid hound.

By morning, his eyes felt gritty, and his mood the same. Megan had failed to appear at breakfast, and though he tried not to let his gaze stray to the doorway, her absence grated on his nerves. Was she well? And if so, why hadn’t she come down for breakfast? There were few things that could keep her from her meals. But despite his preoccupation, he had little enough time to worry about such things. The Council of the Realm, that unique but fractious meld of the house of lords and the order of men, had already gathered in the palace’s state room. Thus, he sat in silence, listening to the debate and trying to focus on matters of the state.

“Our coffers are all but empty,” Lord Fairfield was saying.

“And why is that?” asked Mr. Grafter. He was a jeweler by profession and more wealthy than most of Sedonia’s grand peerage.

“The cost of maintaining the palace is ever increasing.”

“Maintaining it!” Grafter scoffed. “You have redecorated it a dozen times in the past score of years. And now the princess takes the throne and decides to remake it again for the duke’s visit. Perhaps it is money well spent if a bond is formed between Denmark and Sedonia, but it is money well wasted if naught comes of it. How is their courtship advancing?”

An uneasy silence spread through the room.

“I fear the duke may be a bit…boisterous for our princess,” Paqual hedged, speaking up for the first time.

“Who the devil cares if he’s boisterous? He’s richer than the king of England and has his brother’s ear.”

“We must think of the princess’s sensibilities. Give her time—”

“To hell with her sensibilities. If the man can produce an heir and pass down an inheritance, there is no problem.”

“As king he will have a good deal of power,” argued Lord Riven. “And after his performance last night I fear his intellect, along with his manners, is somewhat suspect.”

“What happened last night?” asked a bent old lord in a tilted wig.

“He passed out at the ball,” said a lanky commoner.

“Passed out?” Franklin Twyndon was a wainwright by trade and had made a fortune crafting viceroys for those who lived to be seen dashing about Fallcome Gardens. “Is he ill?”

“Perhaps the duke is simply not accustomed to our champagne,” Paqual suggested.

Or perhaps he was not used to being kneed in the balls by a woman half his size, Nicol thought, and felt anger swirl like bile amidst worried admiration. It was certainly not the
champagne that had felled the duke. In fact, it was not the two quarts of wine he had consumed before that either.

“’Tis sure his lordship is abed with a raging headache about now,” someone said.

“I heard there are other problems,” Riven said. The entire assemblage fell silent. “I heard there may be trouble with his…nether parts.”

“What the devil are you talking about?” Grafter roared, still eager for the match.

Riven squirmed like a boy before a steely-faced schoolmaster. “The duke’s men called in a surgeon first thing this morning. It seems Venge was complaining about pain in his…man parts.”

“Christ!” said Grafter.

“’Tis said his nuts are as swelled and purple as eggplants,” added the lanky commoner.

“He says she kicked him,” said Lord Fellden.

“The princess!” interjected Lord Riven, aghast. “She’s barely big enough to wound a fly.”

“And mild-mannered.”

“She’s naught if not sophisticated.”

But Fellden shook his head. “He says she kicked him a good one right between the legs, and he’s heading back to Denmark just as soon as he can walk.”

General chaos broke out, but finally Grafter shot to his feet. “Well, ain’t that grand! All the money you spent to woo him, and she goes and maims him before—”

“I assure you,” Paqual said, rising stiffly. “Princess Tatiana did not injure the good duke. The idea is ludicrous. You’ve nothing to worry about. If Venge returns to Denmark, there are certainly others just as wealthy who would be thrilled to take the princess’s hand in marriage. The prince of Romnia for one.”

“And what if she maims that one?”

“She did not maim—”

“Well, whether she did or nay, the duke is hobbling back to his mum, leaving us taxpayers to foot the bill.”

Paqual spread his knobby fingers. “I fear there is naught to be done but shoulder the burden and pass the bills on to—”

“If you raise the wheat tax again, half of Sedonia will starve before spring.”

“Then how do you propose that we pay our debts, Mr. Grafter?”

“What about a window tax?”

“’Tis clear you’ve got but two in your entire house.”

“Two is all I need.”

“And what of the rest of us? Do you want the majority of Sedonia’s peerage to board up their windows as they’ve done in England?” asked Lord Melville.

“I don’t give a good Goddamn if they live in holes and eat mustard seeds,” Grafter snapped.

“And I don’t care if you don’t eat a’tall!” Melville stormed.

“So you’d put the burden squarely on the shoulders of the working class,” accused Grafter, jerking to his feet.

Lord Melville rose with him. “The working class is the largest class. Of course they should pay the greatest portion of—”

“It ain’t just! ’Tis—”

“No.” A woman’s voice echoed through the room. Each man turned toward the sound, and there, framed in the doorway, was the princess. She wore a gown of gray and ivory. Her hair was swept atop her head, and her long slim throat was bare.

“Your Majesty.”

Chairs scraped, and men shot to their feet, only to bend and bow.

She entered the room like an elegant archangel, her head held high. “No,” she repeated. “It is not right that we should burden our people more than they can bear.”

“But the debts,” Paqual said, and swept his hand sideways to indicate the grandeur of the palace where they met. “They have to be paid. If you could form an alliance with the duke of—”

“I will not marry the duke.” She clasped her hands in front of her body. Nicol could not help but notice that her knuckles looked white against the silvery gray skirt. Could not help but notice that though she was nervous, her eyes were sharp and her chin high. Indeed, he could not guess how every man there managed to keep from pulling her into his arms, from touching her face and kissing her lips, her only feature that, even now, looked hopelessly unbusinesslike.

“Your Majesty, this is hardly the place—” Paqual began, but she interrupted him.

“I believe this is exactly the place,” she said. “I believe my people deserve to know the truth and the truth is this—the duke of Venge is selfish, crude, and vain. He detests Sedonia and thinks the Danes far superior to my own people. Is that the kind of man you want on your throne?”

No one spoke. She skimmed their faces.

“What would you suggest then, Your Majesty?” asked Fellden softly.

She caught his gaze, then shook her head slowly. “There are surely no simple answers, but it seems fair that each person should pay an equal percentage according to his income.”

“But Your Majesty,” argued Melville. “That would mean the peerage would pay a disproportionate part of the taxes.”

She smiled at him. “I have heard, Lord Melville,” she said, “that you are extremely wealthy.”

He stuttered something, but she held up her hand to stop his words. “I do not mean to suggest that we tax anyone unfairly, but think of this, good gentlemen, troubles brew like
storm clouds against France’s royalty. England’s working class is rioting. If the same happens here, will any of us profit? Would it not be better to make a more equitable system, to care for our workers, to appease our laymen?”

“Certainly, your ideas seem sound in theory, Your Majesty, but how would we implement such changes? And how would we convince my contemporaries that raising their taxes is a just idea? That is to say, surely they will feel unfairly put upon, especially with the money just spent to renovate the palace. And when they hear that you’ve no intention to marry the duke after all—”

“You are right,” she said and nodded solemnly. “I’ve no right to spend such exorbitant amounts of money.”

Jaws dropped like dice around the room.

“Therefore, I shall cut Malkan’s expenses in accordance with the amount of taxes levied against our citizens.”

“Your Highness,” Paqual began, “you must not be hasty. I know last night was trying for you, but you must not give up on the idea of an advantageous marriage. In fact, there are several extremely suitable young lords who even now—”

“I am not giving up on the idea of a match,” she said. “I am merely saying there are other ways to pay the bills without prost—” She stopped and pursed her lush lips. Nicol wondered silently how many others knew she had been about to call them whoremongers. “Until I do wed,” she said, “there are other ways to pay the bills.”

“Begging your pardon, Your Majesty,” Paqual began, and smiled eerily. “But your council has spent endless hours wrestling with this very problem. It is not so simple as you might think.”

“Did I say it was simple?” She could look as disdainful as a monk. “No, I did not,” she said. “But there are means.”

“Again, begging your pardon,” Paqual said. “But what would you suggest? Just the bills from last night’s fete run
upward of ten thousand sentrons. How do you propose that we pay that?”

Nicol saw a moment of astonishment flash through her eyes. Ten thousand sentrons must seem like an insurmountable debt to a woman who hoarded crackers and bits of colored glass, but in an instant she turned with regal aplomb to her assemblage. “I will need help in deciding where costs might be cut. What are your suggestions?”

They were flabbergasted, struck dumb. Nicol almost laughed out loud.

“Your Highness,” he said, and rose to his feet with a bow. “If I might be so bold—”

“Speak freely, my lord.”

“Your stable in England costs more than 120,000 sentrons per year to keep.” If she was surprised to hear she had horses in England, she refrained from saying so. “Perhaps,” he continued, “you could sell the stud, and—”

“That was the old king’s favorite pastime. Surely—”

“But the old king is dead,” said Twyndon, practical to the end. His scraggly, gray brows were pulled low over squinty eyes, but he was gazing at the princess as if seeing her clearly for the first time. “And his niece is on the throne.”

She gave him a regal nod and the slightest suggestion of a smile. “And what would you suggest that I sell, Mister Twyndon?” She must have only heard the man’s name mentioned once, but she had remembered. Nicol felt his chest swell.

She canvassed the room. At first the suggestions were sparse and careful, but the girl’s receptiveness drove them past their wariness until the room was all but spinning with ideas, not only of how to pare down the palace’s expenses, but how they might manage their own, how they could approach the average citizen, how they could better their country.

When Megan rose from her chair amidst the company, Nicol rose with the others. His throat felt tight with emotion,
but he was careful not to let it show in his expression. The council bowed as a unit, their faces reflecting their feelings, some hopeful, some wary, but all surprised.

The princess, it seemed, was far more than a pretty face and a royal name. She was a woman with a heart.

“B
ut Your Majesty, the horses at Braeton Stable are amongst the finest in the world.” There were actual tears in the horse master’s eyes. It seemed he had journeyed from London the moment he had heard there was a possibility of closing the stud. And only two days had passed since that suggestion had first been discussed. Roger Sunderlund was, apparently, a man who kept his ear to the ground. “’Tis said you are a fine judge of horseflesh. Surely you realize how splendid they are.”

Megan truly didn’t know what to do. She wished, in fact, that she had not agreed to meet with Roger Sunderlund and his eerie attachment to his, or rather,
her own
, horses.

“I understand they are fine stock,” she began, but in that moment Nicol interrupted from the doorway.

“Your Majesty,” he said and bowed. “May I enter?”

She nodded urgently, hoping for an ally. “Lord Newburn,” she said, widening her eyes a bit at Sunderlund’s lavish sentiment. “What are your thoughts on Braeton Stable?”

“Fine steeds are housed there,” he said “and everyone knows of your love for a good horse, but you’ve yet to find the time to visit the stud in England.”

Oh for heaven’s sake! Tatiana owned twoscore of blooded horses that she’d never even seen?

“But if Her Majesty could make the time to visit,” pleaded Sunderlund, “she would surely realize that such equine quality must not be lost. And New Mint…” His eyes misted over again as he twisted his hat in his hands. “He is the finest stallion in all of England. Perhaps in all of Europe. I could not bear to be parted…” He broke down and fell to one knee, grappling at her skirts. She scooted her legs back even as her guards rushed forward.

“Please, Mr. Sunderlund,” she said, but he was sobbing onto her slippers.

“Not my Mint,” he pleaded.

The nearest guard grasped him by the shoulder and dragged him to his feet, but he was still bent and broken.

“Your Majesty, he is like the son I’ll never have. You cannot—”

“This I promise you,” Megan said. “I shall not sell the stallion.”

He gasped and wrung his hat harder. “But they said the stable—”

“The stable may be sold,” she said. “And many of the horses might also have to be—”

He sucked in his breath.

“They might also have to find new homes,” she said. “But if New Mint is as good as you say, I shall surely find a place for him here at the palace.”

“And…me…Your Majesty?”

“You shall remain with him.”

She thought he probably would have collapsed like so
much loose chaff if the guards hadn’t been holding him up, but he remained in an upright position as he was taken from the room, thanking her profusely.

The chamber went quiet, empty but for Nicol and herself.

“Sedonians seem prone to sentimentality,” she said.

“Horsemen are overly emotional by nature,” he corrected. “The average Sedonian is solid as a rock.”

“Really. And are you a Sedonian or a horseman?”

“I am a gentleman and a whip,” he said.

“Elegant to the last.”

“Certainly,” he said, but there was something in his eyes that spoke of passions unleashed. Or was she imagining it to salve her own raw feelings?

“I am surprised you waste your time in council then.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly, but she couldn’t read his thoughts. “Tell me,” he said finally. “If they had rioted against your suggestions instead of rallying to your call, what would you have done?”

She shrugged. “I would have told them I was nothing more than a barmaid from Teleere.”

“They would never have believed you.”

“The truth is often surprising.”

He smiled a little. “Not that surprising, lass.”

“Your Majesty.”

Megan shifted her attention past Nicol’s shoulder. Halfway between him and the door a young boy stood. His back was as straight as a lance, his hair as neat as Sunday, and his face absolutely spotless.

“Master Jack,” she said. “You look very handsome.”

“And you look as good as a five-course meal.”

She laughed and he reddened, so she sobered quickly and motioned him nearer. “Tell me, Nimble Jack,” she said, and
noticed Lord Landow enter soundlessly behind him. “Do you have business here in the palace?”

“Yes,” he said, his face absolutely sober. “I come ta read you a book.”

Nicol found them some hours later sitting alone in a private alcove. Their backs were to the door as they hunched together over a small gaming table. He nodded to the guard as he stepped inside.

Dice clattered against wood, then bumped to a stop.

“That’s it then,” Megan said, gathering the ivory cubes. “You owe me seventy sentrons.”

“You told me you’d show me ’ow to cheat.”

“And I have.”

“You ain’t cheatin’.” Somehow the boy’s words sounded like an accusation.

She laughed. “So you think I’m so very lucky do you?”

Nicol could see the boy’s profile. His eyes were wide, his somber mouth pursed.

“You’re the princess.”

“And so I’m lucky?”

The lad nodded.

“This is the best advice I can give you, as a princess and as a friend,” she said and, taking his hand, pressed her own dice onto his palm. “Never trust to luck. It will surely abandon you when you most need it.”

He was silent for a moment, staring at her fingers, then lifted his eyes to hers. “Then what do I trust to?”

“God.” She closed his fingers, leaving him with the dice. “And yourself. You’re a special lad, young Jack. I see it in you.”

The boy stared at the table. “Me mum was a whore.”

The room went silent in the wake of his abrupt words, but her gaze never wavered, never shifted from his. “Was?”

“Long time ago, seems like another life, she went on a drinkin’ binge one night. There was men, and laughing. I wondered where she got the money for all that wine. Then the next day, she took me down to Monroe Street to see Mr. Compton. He wore rouge on ’is face and paint on ’is lips. But ’e ’ad ’im a grand ’ouse. I thought I musta died and gone to ’eaven.”

She closed her eyes for a moment and took his hand in hers.

The boy’s head bobbled a little as he stared at their fingers, and his mouth pursed harder. “Mum said I should trust ’im to take care of me from then on.”

She exhaled carefully. “Sometimes life’s a right bitch,” she whispered.

He jerked his eyes to hers, and she held his gaze steady. “Even a princess knows that much, Jack.”

They watched each other in silence for a long moment, then, “Did you love your mum, princess?”

“Infinitely.”

He narrowed his eyes in solemn thought.

“More than I can tell you,” she explained. “But she deserved to be loved.”

He bit his lip. “And mine…” His words frayed to a halt, like a shadow of the angry lad he had been just weeks ago. “She said I ’ad ta love ’er. Cuz she was me mum.”

“I don’t know a great deal about love,” she said. “But this much I can tell you…love is not something one can demand. It is freely given or it is not given at all. Your mother was weak and foolish, lad. But you are neither.”

The boy swallowed, closed his eyes and opened them to find hers again. “I think I killed ’im,” he whispered.

She sat perfectly still, thinking, then, “Mr. Compton,” she guessed.

He nodded jerkily. “Mum said ’e liked boys. She said…” He swallowed and continued slowly. “But she was wrong.”

Nicol tightened his fists and said nothing.

“’E ’ated ’em,” Jack said. “’E would come into me room at night and…” His voice failed again, but he cleared his throat and continued on. “I struck ’im with a poker. ’It ’im as ’ard as I could. ’E fell. There was blood.” His hands were shaking. “And then I run.”

She said nothing, and Jack glanced up again. “Will I ’ang for it, princess.”

She drew in an unsteady breath. “How long ago was that?”

“Most of five years ago I suppose.”

“No one knows?”

He glanced at their hands again, and when he spoke his voice was nearly too quiet to hear. “I ain’t told no one but you.”

“And I’ll not tell, young Jack. You have my word.”

The silence seemed physically painful. Jack’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “How come?”

“Even a princess knows pain when she sees it.” He scowled, and she continued. “You didn’t deserve to be misused, lad.”

“My mum said—”

“It doesn’t matter!” Her voice was harsh for the first time, but she soothed it. “Forget what she said, Jack. Please. You are what God made you, not what she made you. You were right not to stay on Monroe Street. You did what you had to do.”

“I ain’t never seen Mum again.”

“I’m sorry.”

He jerked his eyes up. “It ain’t like I wanted to. She ’ad a quick temper and all, but sometimes at night she’d sing to me. She ’ad a pretty voice did Mum. Even when she was drunk…” His voice faltered.

She didn’t make him go on. “So Poke finally took you in.”

“Yeah. And ’e’d ’it me too. But ’e never…”

Perhaps she winced. Nicol wasn’t sure.

“Just because he’s better than the worst doesn’t make him good,” she said.

He neither agreed nor disagreed.

“Don’t go back to him,” she murmured.

His face contorted, but not a single tear dropped from his eyes. Instead, he cleared his throat. “I can’t pay you.”

She glanced up.

“The bet,” he said. “I can’t pay you just yet.”

She laughed, and the sound seemed strange in the tight emotions of the room. “Lord Landow can see to your debt.”

The boy straightened his narrow back. “I pay for me own gambling.”

“I’ll tell you what, Master Jack,” she said. “Promise me you’ll not gamble again, and I’ll absolve you of your debt.”

He scowled at her. “I can’t make that promise, Princess, not even to you.”

“Then I can wait until the baron gives you enough coin to pay me.”

“Lord Landow…” He laughed. “Give me money?”

“You
are
his ward.”

Emotion flashed through his eyes, something between perplexity and hope. “What does that mean?”

“It means he’ll pay for your needs, your food, your education, your housing.”

“But ’e don’t…” He paused.” “’E doesn’t even know me. And sometimes I think…”

“What?”

“Sometimes I think ’e ’ates me.” He winced. “But sometimes I thinks ’e likes me, only ’e don’t want to.”

“Give him a chance,” she said. “Just as he is giving you. You can read now, and write. But there is so much more, Jack. You’ll be surprised.”

“Am I supposed to trust
’im
, princess?”

She dropped her gaze to their joined hands.

“Try,” she murmured. “Lord Newburn tells me he’s a good man.”

“I never trusted no nobleman before.”

“No,” she said and glanced up. Her eyes met Nicol’s with a hard flash of feeling. Like a lightning bolt straight to his chest. “Me neither,” she murmured. “But perhaps it’s time.”