The Queen's Librarian (2 page)

“
Tripp
!”

“What,
what
?”

Lucas jolted this time, back snapping straight, as he squinted across the table and tried to focus once again on… Parry. Right.

“I asked you if you’d found a buyer for the estate yet.”

Lucas scowled as he watched Parry fill his ale up again, then he took a long slurp before answering, “Who said anything about selling the estate?”

Well, besides Lucas, who’d been begging his mother for bloody
years
to let him try to unload it. Because they simply couldn’t afford to run it. And the expense of “keeping up appearances” was running it into the ground.
The-Queen-your-cousin would never approve, dear
, his mother had said.
We can’t embarrass her by being her “poor relations,” can we? You’ll have to figure something out. You’re the master, after all
.

It was going to turn Lucas’s ridiculously red hair white, and very soon, he just knew it. All being cousin to the Queen seemed to be good for was making it necessary to spend money one didn’t have in order to maintain property one didn’t want. Well, that wasn’t entirely fair—accepting the position of Queen’s Librarian his cousin had offered him in a rather astute moment of mercy had helped. Until his mother started faking fainting spells every time she was reminded that her only son had taken a—
gasp
!—job.

If your father was still alive, this would kill him.

Lucas somehow doubted that. Lucas was of the very private opinion that his father might not, in fact, be dead, but merely hiding.

It simply isn’t
done
, love! Just raise the rents
, Mother said blithely, like it was that easy. Like the tenants weren’t scrabbling just as hard as Lucas was. Of course, he’d wager the tenants didn’t have to worry about why there had to be real silk ribbons stitched into each of the four—
four
!—layers of his sisters’ petticoats, even though no one could see them. At least, no one had
better
be seeing them.

“I’ve heard the odd mutter now and then,” Parry said with a wave of his hand. “Understandable, I suppose, that you can’t get a buyer, what with the Circle on the eastern downs, and all.”

Lucas curled his lip. The Stone Circle—or The Bloody Millstone, as Alex fondly referred to it—was the reason Lucas wouldn’t be able to get a buyer, even if his mother let him try. And Parry bloody well knew it. One stupid ancestor invites one stupid Daimin through the portal and causes a tiny little—massive, crop-destroying—flood, and the place is branded forever after. It wasn’t fair.

“The Circle belongs to the Queen,” Lucas muttered, then drained his mug and thumped it to the table. This wasn’t nearly as fun as it had been a few minutes ago. Bloody Parry.

“Who dotes on her youngest cousin,” Parry said, nodding like they were conspirators as he refilled Lucas’s mug.

Lucas had to grin a little. “She does, doesn’t she?”

Whoops, he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Even if it wasn’t exactly a secret, it was a bit rude to go about trumpeting it. Still, it was nice to be doted on by
some
one. Well, Alex doted on him for some reason. The grin stretched wider as Lucas cast a hazy glance back over to the billiards tables and shoved his spectacles up again as he tried to focus, but it didn’t help this time. Didn’t matter. He’d know Alex’s shape anywhere. Damn, he looked so good in that blue cravat. It brought out the color of his eyes as they caught Lucas’s, like a pair of cobalt lakes above a soft, spreading smile that made Lucas’s stomach do a lazy little flip, and heat pool down in his—

“
Tripp
!”

“
What
?”

Oh. Parry again. Still. Whatever.

“I was
saying
,” Parry told him patiently, “that, if you asked it of her, the-Queen-your-cousin would probably see her way to granting you the rights to the Circle.”

Lucas scowled. “Why would I want to do that?” Just what he needed—one more maintenance expense he couldn’t afford.

“So that you could sell the entire estate,” Parry explained, with the obvious long-sufferance of one addressing the very dim. Or the very drunk. “The Circle would still be a detriment to a good price, but you’ve a full roster of tenants that’s the envy of every landlord in the province, and your vineyards and wineries turn some good coin.” Parry shrugged. “It could even out.”

Terrific. Lucas could make just enough with the sale to pay off all the debts, and then they’d all be homeless as well as poor. Honestly, did Parry think Lucas hadn’t looked at all the angles? And anyway, now that Lucas thought about it, how was it that Parry seemed to know exactly how taut the Tripp purse strings were these days, when Lucas had been bloody
killing
himself to keep it quiet?

Perhaps he was being uncharitable toward an old not-quite-friend, since Parry had introduced Slade to Clara, after all, but none of this was sitting quite right.

Lucas narrowed his eyes. Drat it all, there went the pleasant buzz he’d been nursing. “Parry,” he began slowly, “just exactly what are you—?”

“Yes, just exactly what
are
you doing, Parry?” Alex asked from behind Lucas’s left shoulder.

Lucas tried to twist around so he could see—whoops, moved too fast. He thought he managed a grin as Alex gripped his elbow and helped him right himself in the chair again. By the lift of Alex’s eyebrows, Lucas thought perhaps he hadn’t managed it very well. Or maybe he’d managed it a little
too
well.

“You’ve been hovering about Mister Tripp all evening,” Alex was saying to Parry, his tone a bit on the accusing side. “And that’s the seventh time I’ve seen you refill his flagon.”

He paused as Lucas snorted. “Refill his flagon”—it had a vaguely filthy ring to it.

“What are you on about, Parry?” Alex wanted to know. “Are you going to make me call you out?”

Lucas blinked. He tried to turn around again, but had just as much luck this time as he’d had the last. Meaning none at all. And those smeary streaks of light were flitting about his vision again. He reached for his spectacles, missed, and tried to discreetly turn the idiotic-batting-at-the-head into a suave-smoothing-down-the-hair, but he suspected it lost its polish when accompanied by oops-knocked-the-spectacles-off.

“Mister Booker!” Parry harrumphed, indignant, though Lucas could swear that when Alex retrieved Lucas’s glasses for him and carefully perched them back on his nose so he could see again, Parry was smirking. “I assure you, I have no designs—”

“
Feh
!” said Alex. “I know your ‘designs’ too well, Parry. And I seem to recall Mister Tripp once remarking to one of your more explicit overtures that the only way
you’d
ever find out if ‘the carpet matched the drapes’ was if you were to get him so blindingly drunk he forgot how to say, ‘Bugger off’.”

Had Lucas said that? Seemed a bit crude, but Alex said so, so he must’ve done. Funny that Alex would remember it when Lucas didn’t, but Alex’s tone seemed almost jealous, so maybe—

Awww
, Alex was jealous. Lucas got a little teary. “Parry said I stole you,” he put in helpfully. Alex merely blinked at him, tilting his head in that cute way he did that always reminded Lucas of Bramble. Since Bramble was Lucas’s dog and, according to Alex, a “hapless devil pony,” Lucas hadn’t mentioned that to Alex yet. He was saving it for when Alex pissed him off. “From Clara,” Lucas explained then snorted, puffed out a laugh that was actually closer to a belch, and covered his mouth. “Nah y’ll nennah mee fee neh fill—”

Alex gently pulled Lucas’s hand away from his mouth. “Say again?”

“Now you’ll never see the silk ribbons on her petticoats,” Lucas repeated. He held up his hand and stuck up four… five… four fingers. “
Four
layers of petticoats,” he told Alex, waggling his fingers for emphasis. “
Four
! And all of them have to have
silk
bloody
ribbons
!” He felt like crying.

“Mm, yes.” Alex caught Lucas’s hand and gave it a pat. “Perhaps we shouldn’t be distressing Mister Parry with your sister’s petticoats.”

Lucas’s eyes went wide. “I said that out loud?”

“Petticoats?” Slade put in.

Lucas whipped his head around—he really needed to stop doing that—and felt his cheeks flush bright red. “Oh, Slade,” he said, mortified, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t…. Please don’t tell Clara.” Oh God. “Don’t tell my mother!” He turned back to Alex. Damn it, he
really
needed to stop doing that. “Alex, tell him. I didn’t mean to—”

“Of course you didn’t,” Alex soothed, patting Lucas’s hand again and giving Parry a sharp glance at the same time. “You’ve no head for ale, love. Slade understands.”

That seemed… a little condescending. Lucas scowled and took his hand back. “My head is fine, thank you.” Except for the part where it kept doing that swimmy thing every time he turned it. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he intoned, gathering his dignity about him, “I need a piss.”

Well. The dignity hadn’t lasted long.

Scowl going darker, because… well, just because, Lucas hauled himself up from his chair and pretended not to notice when Alex grabbed his elbow. Because if he didn’t notice, he wouldn’t have to shove Alex off and risk face-planting into his flagon, because whoa, damn, the whole pub was doing loopy things that couldn’t possibly be good for the structural integrity. Lucas gave it a moment to decide which way was up then straightened his… well, he
meant
to straighten his coat until he remembered it was hanging over the back of his chair. So, he straightened his… blast, where had his waistcoat gotten to? He still had a shirt on, didn’t he…? Whew. That was one in the “win” column.

“Lucas?” Alex said slowly. “All right, there?”

“Was I wearing a waistcoat?” Lucas asked, squinting up to see Alex looking down at him with something between concern and amusement. It was the amusement that made Lucas remember his earlier pique. He’d been thinking seriously about nabbing that lick, now that Alex was handy, but decided it would only send the wrong message, considering. “Never mind,” he snapped, shoving his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and snatching up his coat off the back of the chair. He was still trying to jam his arm into one of the sleeves when he more or less lurched into the door, vaguely grateful that he miraculously hadn’t managed to trip over anyone or anything on his way.

The abrupt chill of the evening hit him right away, ale and cigars and sweat giving way immediately to the warm, friendly scents of wood smoke and pine and dying leaves on the brittle-sharp air. He hadn’t realized his eyes were burning; now they widened a little, his vision seeping into somewhat clearer focus as he peered up at clots of stars until the lenses of his spectacles fogged with the chill. No faerie ring around the moon, so that was good; a frost right now would be disastrous. Lucas stuffed that back into the murk of his head with all the rest of his everyday worries and breathed in deep, found he was hanging on a little too desperately to the knob of the door and so pried his hand away. The spongy path into the yard tried to steal his shoe, and Lucas cursed the stupid weather out of habit as he flailed and windmilled accordingly to keep his balance. Perhaps he should have stuck to the safety of wood flooring.

He hadn’t exactly meant to come outside. He’d been aiming for the gents’ in back of the pub. But this would do, if he could stay upright. The nip in the air was already doing him some good. Because he should probably be at least a little bit coherent for whatever was brewing between Parry and Alex. In fact, he probably shouldn’t have stumbled out as he’d done. Who knew what might happen if he wasn’t there to step between them, because Parry was a bit of an ass, and Alex was—

Awww
, Alex was jealous.

Lucas snorted, swatting at the stray strands that had come loose from the messy tail at his nape, and tried not to feel too smug. Alex—rich, handsome, charming, what-are-you-doing-with-mousy-little-Lucas—Booker was
jealous
. Filling his lungs with a bracing breath, and redoubling his efforts to get into his coat, Lucas gave a small, smirky grin and headed off toward the small brake of bushes that enringed the side yard of the Drunken Duck Inn.

The coat. Would
not
. Cooperate. Not only could Lucas not get it on, but now he couldn’t get it off, either. Three clumsy-quick moves and he was stuck, one arm half in, one arm half out, trying to windmill them both as he tottered into the bushes, because he needed both hands for his placket, and now that he was out here, and the whole I-need-a-piss thing had been at the front of his mind for several moments, the need was growing a little more needful. And now one tail of the coat was flopping over his head—ah, it was upside down, that explained a few things—and the bush had sort of snatched at the other and snagged the tail and the right sleeve awkwardly over Lucas’s head. A
hawthorn
bush, now that he was paying attention. The kind with all those spiky, spiny things sticking out of them. The kinds of spiky, spiny things that could take hold of, oh, say, a person’s coat, and pin him up like a somewhat short, bespectacled scarecrow.

Well, then. This was dignified.

Would they hear him if he called to someone for a bit of help? He imagined the picture he must make. Right. No calling for help. He tugged at the sleeve and stopped immediately at a very distinctive
riiiip
. It was his best coat. One of only two still wearable coats, actually. And a trip to the tailor’s was simply not in the budget this month.

Damn it, he was going to have to call for some help, wasn’t he? He was never going to live this one down. One time he goes pub-crawling,
one time
, and look at what happens. On top of that, he was going to have to face that halfway patronizing aw-look-how-cute-my-drunk-boyfriend-is
look on Alex’s face again when he came out to find that Lucas had managed to get himself into a brawl with a bush. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t Lucas’s fault, damn it, and anyway, the bush started it!