Lois Greiman (16 page)

Off to the right a bevy of ladies curtsied and murmured a greeting. She nodded in return.

“Even more so than Lowry?”

Panic struck her like high tide. Through her veil she could see that he was still smiling at her. “Lowry?” she murmured in terror, but he laughed and squeezed her arm.

“Perhaps you haven’t heard of him. As I said before, Your Majesty, you should have more leisure time.”

She felt faint. He was teasing her? She was going to kill him. But not just now because he was holding her upright and nodding to a group of gentlemen who rose from their seats and bowed as she entered.

“Your Majesty,” they murmured, but their greetings to each other were more bland.

“Lord Glenco. Lord Paqual,” Nicol answered back.

She tried not to gawk at her surroundings, but everything here was new and bright, including her circumstances, which made her heart race like a runaway cart horse.

The audience seemed to have no compunction about talking during the performance and kept up a steady stream of conversation though the actors were still at work. From the stage someone screamed. She started, and Nicol tightened his grip imperceptibly on her arm.

“I hope your business went well.” Paqual said. He was not more than a few inches taller than Megan herself. Skinny and balding, he seated himself a moment after Nicol handed her into a chair near the railing. The old man’s eyes remained on her an instant longer. They were as bright and hungry as a hound’s.

“What business is that?” Nicol asked.

“I heard you were in Teleere.”

“To visit family.”

“You have relatives on the isle?”

“My mother’s kin.”

“Ahh. How nice that you have time for such things.”

Nicol’s gaze lingered on the old man a moment longer, and in that instant she felt the aged chancellor’s animosity.

“My apologies,” Megan said.

They turned to her as one.

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty,” Paqual said.

“My apologies,” she repeated. “I depend on you too greatly, my lord, or you, too, could spend time with your kindred.”

The old man preened even as he bowed from his seat. “I live to serve, Your Majesty.”

She nodded.

Nicol bowed. “I will take my leave then—”

“Nay.” Had she said it too quickly? “There is an empty seat,” she said, and indicated the chair with a gloved hand. “Join us.”

He delayed an instant, then, “Thank you,” he said. “I fear my companion had to miss the performance, so I am here alone.”

“And who was the lucky woman tonight?” asked Paqual.

Angry voices rose from the stage. Megan managed to ignore them, as seemed the custom.

“My cousin,” Nicol said. “Visiting from Portshaven.”

“How nice,” drawled Paqual, though he managed to convey the idea that there was somehow something distasteful about the viscount’s lifestyle.

“Yes,” Nicol agreed, and drew the chair closer to Megan’s.

Her heart settled down a notch.

Raucous weeping issued from the stage, and finally all eyes turned toward the actors.

Megan watched, too. She had never seen a play, had never been in a theater, not even to pick pockets, but now that she was here, she found it impossible to concentrate.

“Relax,” Nicol said, and, leaning toward her, pointed to the stage as if commenting on the performance. “The worst is over.”

“Truly?” There was no way any of the others would overhear their conversation. Not above the heaving sobs that issued from the stage. “And what if I vomit again?”

He shrugged, still watching the performance. “Try projecting toward Paqual,” he said, and, against all logical odds, she laughed.

M
egan awoke to a shallow clicking sound. Her mind shifted from her dreams, trying groggily to sort fact from fiction. Beneath her, the mattress was soft, and the sheets smelled of rose petals. She definitely wasn’t in prison.

She opened one eye and saw that a woman had slipped into the chamber. Lifting her head from the pillow with some effort, Megs watched the girl squat before the fireplace. Ten acres of polished marble lay between the bed and the hearth. So none of it had been a dream. Not the silent exchange in the privy, not the conversation with Lord Paqual, not falling asleep during the play, and not Nicol’s gentle teasing about her inability to stay awake to save her own life.

She’d awakened with a start, afraid she had compromised that very thing, but people were extremely indulgent with princesses it seemed, for no one else had even mentioned her faux pas.

God help her.

The abigail bent forward, blowing life into the fire before
feeding in kindling. In a moment she had the blaze started anew. What was her name? She had helped Megan remove her gown the night before. Had taken down her hair and scurried unobtrusively from the room.

“Thank you.”

The girl jerked about, making Megan wonder if it was the croak in her voice or her gratitude that was startling. Her eyes were wide and dark, her hair all but hidden beneath a white mobcap that very nearly matched her skin tone. Against her cheeks, freckles stood out in stark relief.

“You’re most welcome…Your Majesty.”

Megan very much doubted if she would ever become accustomed to the borrowed title. Would ever connect it to herself. But of course not, she was only to be there for a few days. A week at the most.

Her bladder complained. Did princesses really have to pee?

“Do you know what time it is?” she asked, scanning the room for a place to relieve herself. A dressing screen shielded the corner of the room. A hunt scene was painted in bright colors across the hinged linen, sleek horses behind baying hounds. It seemed like a likely place.

“’Tis still early. Not yet nine o’clock. I am sorry to have awoken you.”

Nine. She almost smiled. Back on Teleere she would have washed the crockery and fenced five watches by now. “Do you know if the viscount has arrived yet?”

The maid scrunched her freckled features as if deep in thought. “Lord Newburn?”

“Yes.”

“I believe he stayed in his chambers here in the palace last night, Your Majesty.”

He had a room here at the palace? That would have been a good thing to know, she thought testily, though she realized
she had barely had time to learn where her own chambers lay. “Of course,” she said. “I’m to meet him in the blue room for breakfast.”

The girl curtsied again. “Certainly, Your Majesty. Shall I draw a bath, or shall I tend your hair immediately?”

Bath or hair. They seemed better choices than mending a lady’s torn chemise by tallow candles or trying to escape an inebriated miller’s pinches. Still she felt tense, but so her day began.

When she reached the blue room Nicol was alone at a small table, drinking tea. Except for one wayward curl, his hair was brushed back from his brow and shone in the light from the nearby fireplace. His russet-colored jacket was immaculate, and dark leather gloves lay perfectly aligned on the table beside his saucer. He rose when he saw her and bowed. “Good morning,” he said. “I trust you slept well, judging by your nap during the performance last night.”

She gave him a glance she hoped would put him in his place, but she was no match for his elegant nonchalance. He only smiled and deepened his bow. Behind her, three ladies-in-waiting veered off to settle themselves on powder blue divans set along the wall. “Did you wish to speak to me about something in particular, Nicol?”

His eyes sparked at the sound of his name. She took a seat directly across from him at the round table.

He leaned across the smooth surface. “Anna usually manages to put a bit of warmth in her voice when she speaks to me,” he said.

“Does she?” Megs intoned, raising one brow slightly. His smile changed to something a bit more devilish, but he sipped his tea as if they spoke of nothing more controversial than the weather.

“She is safely aboard the
Melody
with her guard,” he said.

Her stomach lurched at the memory of the meeting in the privy. She would never achieve that polished elegance. Never. “I can’t do this,” she murmured, just managing to refrain from skimming the room like an escaped criminal in the watchman’s favorite pub.

“You already have,” Nicol countered.

“I fell asleep at the play,” she hissed.

From her left, the chambermaid hurried across the room carrying a highly polished walnut tray.

“What the devil is her name?” Megan asked, feeling desperate, but Nicol only shrugged.

The girl set the tray in the exact center of the table and backed away a step. “Is there anything else I might get you just now, Your Majesty?”

Megan scanned the meal. Warm scones, mulled ale, steaming oatmeal with honeycomb and butter. It looked delectable. Her stomach cranked up tight, feeling sick.

“This will do,” she said.

The girl bowed, but Nicol raised his cup. “Might I get more tea…” He paused. “What was your name again, lass?”

“Bryna, my lord.”

“Bryna,” he repeated. “Could I get a pot of tea and marmalade for the scones.”

“Certainly, my lord,” she said, and curtsied her way out of the room.

“How can you eat?” Megan asked.

He grinned at her as he leaned back. “And this from the lass who consumed five oxen before reaching Sedonian shores. Relax,” he said. “Paqual leaves nothing for the princess to do but commission a wardrobe and plan parties.”

“That is two more things than I can manage.”

He widened his grin.

“Your Majesty.” She turned at the sound of Paqual’s voice. “I heard you were about already. You should be abed. A
princess must get plenty of sleep after all. What with the duke’s arrival only weeks hence.”

She didn’t turn to Nicol in a panic as seemed appropriate, but remained looking at Paqual. “And what of you, my lord? Do you not require sleep?”

He bowed stiffly from the waist. “I am forever busy in your glorious service, Your Majesty.”

“And I am blessed to have you.”

“Your Majesty is too kind,” he said, and bowed again before motioning to his contemporaries and striding from the room.

Megan added honey to her porridge and stirred it absently, but she could feel Nicol’s eyes on her. “If you’ve something to say, you might as well do so now,” she murmured, glancing up.

He grinned crookedly at her. “A thief
and
a politician,” he said, and toasted her with his tea. “Who would have guessed it?”

“As it happens,” she countered, sipping her tea. It tasted bitter as did everything these days. “I am neither—”

But a servant approached, stopping her denial. She turned regally.

“Your Majesty.” The man bowed. “Edmund Danzig awaits your arrival in the east salon.”

Danzig! Panic spewed up anew. The name meant nothing to her.

“He must feel the duke’s guest rooms need emergency redecorating,” Nicol said, carelessly feeding her clues. “They cannot wait another minute.”

In her mind, Megan cursed like a longshoreman, but she turned back to the servant with regal aplomb. “Tell Mr. Danzig that I will be with him shortly,” she said.

The servant bowed and disappeared. Megan took a sip of tea and resisted crashing the cup atop Nicol’s head. “So I am redecorating?”

“From what I have heard Danzig makes the decisions.
Anna merely nods now and again. All is well,” he said, and rose to his feet.

“Where are you going?” She hadn’t meant for the panic to reach her voice, but some things couldn’t be helped.

“I can hardly leave Paqual to his own devices,” Nicol said. “Or he’ll sell Sedonia to the Turks and send us all to Asia.”

“Don’t leave me alone.”

“You won’t be alone,” he said. “You’ll be with Mr. Danzig.”

“I don’t even know who Mr. Danzig is,” she hissed.

“Not to worry. You shall surely figure it out,” he said, but in a moment his expression darkened as he retrieved a lone glove from the table top. “Your Majesty.” He executed a shallow bow. “Do you, perchance, know what happened to my other glove?”

She tasted her tea again. It seemed sweeter now. Quite satisfying really. “No,” she said. “But not to worry. You shall surely figure it out.”

As it turned out, the viscount was right. There was little Megan really needed to do. The chambers the duke would be occupying were nothing if not spacious. The windows were high and broad, the walls covered in bright damask. But the duke, being the brother to the king of Denmark and a well-decorated captain in the Danish army, liked to boast his own colors, which happened to be crimson and gold. The wall linen must be changed, the moldings repainted, and the ivory bed hangings and curtains replaced. They would never do. To Megan, the room seemed more than adequate as it was, but it was she, after all, who was the true visitor here, so she nodded and murmured and looked thoughtful as Danzig fluttered about, skinny and flighty as a starved country hen. Contrary to the current men’s hairstyles, which were relatively natural, he wore a huge, powdered wig that tended to list to the left when he got nervous, which was most of the time. His clothing was
just as outdated and just as interesting. His breeches were mustard yellow and his jacket pea green. But as odd as his appearance was, he had an uncanny gift for whipping his entourage into a good-hearted froth. Workers bustled about like spring bees, leaving Megan fairly tranquil by comparison.

The nooning meal was served in a gargantuan room called the grand hall, and since Megan’s stomach had managed to settle a bit, she was able to test the samples of delicacies the royal chef was experimenting with for the coming festivities.

When Nicol found her she was surrounded by a clutter of crockery and wondering if there was any way she could stash away some of the wine sauce for later consumption. Or at least swipe a bowl or two.

The viscount bowed and straightened. As seemed the norm, there was no one close to her. It made Megan wonder if the princess had isolated herself by choice or by chance.

“So you have found your forte?” Nicol asked quietly.

She raised a spoonful of the last sample and nodded toward the chef, who stood some twelve feet away but still managed to hover. “This, Mr. Hunt, is ambrosia.”

He blinked as if confused, wrung his hands once and cocked his head. “You approve, Your Majesty?”

“Most definitely.”

“Might it need a smidge more lemon.”

“No.”

“But what of the texture? Should it be a bit thicker? My assistant’s mind wanders like a honeybee. Something about the mason’s daughter. The lad thinks he wants to lay brick with the girl’s father instead of tend the sauce. Children these days never stay the course set—”

“It is perfection,” she interrupted.

“But is it—”

“Mr. Hunt,” she said, pursing her lips. “If you change the recipe one iota, I fear I shall be forced to have you beheaded.”

His eyes got as round as white onions. His jaw dropped. “Yes, Your—”

She was immediately sorry she had said it. Apparently the princess was not prone to such outlandish outbursts. “Mr. Hunt,” she said, and rose to quickly take his hand. “I merely jest. Your cooking is divine. You are, undoubtedly, a culinary genius, and I am not such a fool as to interfere with genius.”

Mr. Hunt was sixty if he was a day, but he blushed clear to his ears. It was, perhaps, the most charming thing she had ever seen. “Th—thank you, Your Majesty,” he breathed, and, bowing nearly to the floor, escaped like a plump hare into the kitchen.

She drew a careful breath and turned to sit down across from Nicol once again. His dark eyes watched her with cynical knowing.

“You’d best be careful, lass, or you’ll have every man from butter churner to prince vying for your hand in marriage. You’ll make the good duke of Venge jealous before he even arrives to woo you with his royal wit.”

Lifting her cup from its saucer, she carefully extended her baby finger above the rim. “Pray tell, my lord, is there not a barmaid somewhere just begging to be threatened and bullied.”

He chuckled as he rose to his feet. “As a matter of fact, Your Majesty, I do have important tasks to see to. As do you, I see.” Turning on his heel, he left her with that parting.

Perhaps he had meant to wound her with his words, but if that was the case, he would be sadly mistaken. It was not her job to better Sedonia. She would nod and murmur and scamper back to Teleere with coins in her pocket at the first opportunity. And then she would buy her own inn—somewhere quiet where the working class could relax after a hard day’s labor and she would never have to lay eyes on a nobleman again.

That thought consoled her as she stumbled through the afternoon and into the evening.

The next day followed much the same course. She was overfed, carefully watched, and minutely considered. Her hair was brushed and coifed, her costume puffed just so. A bevy of lords and ladies rambled about the palace, seeming both eager and loath to venture too near her. But with a few well-chosen words, she was able to draw them into her circle. For the life of her, she couldn’t imagine why they were there, for they did little but drink to excess and tell poor jokes. Her own seemed quite stellar by comparison.

Nicol entered the hall just as her entourage burst into riotous laughter.

“Your Majesty,” said Lord Kendall. He was a plump young marquis with a round nose and eyes that sparkled like a weasel’s. “I did not realize your wit could outshine your beauty.”

She gave Kendall a slanted glance and took the tiniest sip of wine. She might be a fool to be here at the outset, but she was not about to become a drunken fool. “And I did not realize you were so astute,” she said.

There was a titter of laughter.

“Nicol,” she said, turning slowly toward him. “You have finished closeting yourself away with the other advisors.”