Tomorrow's Kingdom (34 page)

For one horrible, heart-stopping moment, Persephone thought that Lord Belmont was going to refuse—that she was going to be turned away from her own imperial capital, that her bid to take the throne was going to end before it had even begun.

Then Lord Belmont bowed as low as his enormous girth would allow and ordered the guards to raise the gate. As the gate slowly began to rise and the crowd began to cheer in earnest, Persephone turned and, with Cur and
Silver trotting at her heels, strode back toward Fleet, who appeared torn between trying to bite Azriel and trying to jerk free of him.

“I did it, Azriel!” whispered Persephone, beaming up at him. “I talked Lord Belmont into opening the gate!”

“You did indeed,” said Azriel, smiling down at her. “I can hardly believe how far your diplomacy skills have come since the days you'd routinely threaten to slit a man bow to stern for refusing to do your bidding.”

“If Lord Belmont hadn't responded to diplomacy, that was next on my list,” assured Persephone, patting the scabbard at her thigh.

Azriel laughed aloud. Then he slid his hands around her waist, lifted her into the saddle as easily as if she were made of feathers and said, “Lead on, my queen.”

Feeling as triumphant as a conqueror—and feeling the everstronger punches and kicks of the baby, who apparently felt the same way—Persephone rode through the great gates of the imperial capital. Just inside, she reined up in surprise at the sight of Meena, one of the three sisters who'd attended upon her when she'd first resided at the palace in the guise of Lady Bothwell. The shy mute girl was standing just behind Lord Belmont. When Persephone called a warm greeting to her and bade her come by the next day for a visit, Meena ducked her head and dipped an awkward curtsey, Lord Belmont's wobbly chin nearly hit the cobblestone street and the crowd went wild.

Giving Fleet a nudge with her heels, Persephone continued on through the narrow, crowded streets, through the watchtower passageway of the imperial palace and into the main courtyard. There, she was greeted by a veritable army of liveried servants. After giving orders that her troops should be fed and sheltered and her Council members assigned chambers in the palace, she turned to the solemn-faced palace chamberlain and asked if he could kindly arrange to have a fire lit in the hearth of her old chamber.

“There is no need for that, Your Majesty,” he said. “For upon being notified of your pending arrival, I had the royal chambers aired, swept and scrubbed. The mattress stuffing has been changed out, the bedding and curtains have been freshly laundered, the rugs and tapestries have been thoroughly beaten. I can assure you that all is fit for a queen.”

“I'm sure it is,” said Persephone with a troubled smile. “But the last time I was in those rooms I watched my brother die a terrible death, and I think I need a few days to get used to the idea of sleeping in his bed.”

Looking intensely uncomfortable—as though he wasn't accustomed to his betters offering explanations—the chamberlain bowed stiffly, turned and hurried away. After he'd done so, Persephone and Azriel climbed the gleaming steps that led to the wide-open front doors of the palace.

Before they'd taken half a dozen paces into the imposing main entrance hall, Lady Aurelia appeared at the top of the grand staircase. Her honey-blond curls were piled atop her head and fixed with crystal hairpins that twinkled in the torchlight. She was dressed in black as befitted a recent widow but the nod to mourning ended there, for the sleeves of her gown were gorgeously puffed and the underskirts looked to be cloth-of-gold. The top of the bodice was cut low and tight in an obvious effort to accentuate her small breasts, while the lower part of the bodice hung in generous gathers intended to accommodate and emphasize a swelling belly—one that Persephone knew from her last conversation with Finn must be nothing but padding.

With a theatrical sigh, Lady Aurelia placed one hand at the small of her back, thrust her fake belly forward and slowly began to descend the stairs. Everyone in the crowded entrance hall looked avidly from Persephone to Lady Aurelia and back again, eager to see what would happen when the dead king's sister and his pregnant widow—one with a clear claim to the throne, the other intent upon giving birth to an infant with an arguably better claim to the throne—came face to face at last.

Persephone kept her expression carefully neutral as she watched Lady Aurelia reach the bottom of the stairs and sashay over to where she and Azriel were standing.

“Your Majesty,” said the little noblewoman, dipping Persephone the barest of curtseys while ignoring Azriel completely.

Noting the lack of courtesy—and also that the noblewoman looked paler and more pinch-faced than ever—Persephone nodded with considerably more graciousness than she felt before saying, “I would speak with you privately, Lady Aurelia.”

Turning, Persephone strode back out of the palace without a backward glance. It was another risk, for if Lady Aurelia did
not
follow, Persephone knew she'd have to treat it as an open challenge to her authority as queen. She
did
follow, however, and the next moment the two of them were facing each other in the relative privacy of the pillared portico.

“We both know that you are not with child,” said Persephone without preamble.

Looking startled, flustered and deeply offended in rapid succession, Lady Aurelia gave a delicate cough and said, “I am quite sure I don't know what you are—”

“But you
are
my brother's widow,” continued Persephone, a little louder than before, “and as far as I'm aware he never bore you any ill will. Moreover, by all accounts your father is serving me well, and in doing so he is proving his loyalty to me and my cause. Whatever game you are playing at, Lady Aurelia—however it got started— let it be ended. Tomorrow morning, instead of padding your belly, announce that you have lost the child you were carrying. Do this and though I cannot promise we will ever be friends, I
can
promise that I will honour you as a sister, now and forever.”

Lady Aurelia—who'd appeared distinctly unsettled by the news that her father was diligently serving Persephone—seemed to hesitate. Then her bright eyes caught sight of the dazzling rings upon her own fingers and the bracelets upon her own wrists and her expression hardened.

“As I started to say before, Your Majesty, I don't know
what
you are talking about,” she said, placing her hand upon the swell of her false belly. “I carry my beloved husband's child and in due course, I shall bring forth a lusty prince for the realm.”

With that, Lady Aurelia curtseyed, turned and sashayed back into the palace. Persephone watched her go, deeply troubled by her insistence on persisting with the charade of pregnancy—a charade she'd almost certainly begun at the behest of her noble father. Then Persephone strode back into the entrance hall herself and, seeing that the chamberlain had returned and was waiting for her, she gestured for Azriel to join her in following him. Azriel shook his head ever so slightly.

“Why not?” asked Persephone in a hushed voice. “What's wrong?”

Azriel smiled as though he found her question inexpressibly endearing. “My dear wife, most of your subjects believe you to be unmarried,” he reminded gently. “If you invite a wanted Gypsy rogue such as me to share your bedchamber—
again
—they will think you a complete and utter strumpet.”

“Let them think what they will,” she whispered, reaching out to surreptitiously brush her fingers against his. “I want you with me, Azriel—tonight and every night.”

Azriel said nothing to this, but the sudden heat in his eyes sent a ripple of desire shooting straight through her. Hastily, Persephone stepped away from him. Then, pretending not to notice that the chamberlain was looking at her in much the same way as the Marinese Elder Roark had looked at her after he'd caught her and Azriel making
love on the beach, she commanded the chamberlain to proceed.

Within moments, they were entering her old chamber. As she looked around, it suddenly struck Persephone as bizarre that her life should have changed so dramatically since her first encounter with Mordecai, while the chamber in which she'd stayed on that fateful night had hardly changed at all. The wood floor still gleamed in the firelight; the dark panelled walls were still hung with thickly woven tapestries depicting ancient tales of heroism and love. The canopy bed was not yet made up with sheets and quilts but it was still hung with plum-coloured velvet curtains; the long table was not loaded down with platters of food, but it still stood beneath the shuttered windows. Best of all, the great claw-footed tub still stood by the hearth although—sadly!—it looked to be bone dry.

Persephone was about to ask the chamberlain to address that grievous oversight when the door at the back of the chamber opened to reveal Martha, Meeka and little Meeta. They hurried in one after another, lined up against the wall and curtseyed.

“Seeing as how Your Majesty preferred the same chamber as before, I thought you might prefer the same servants,” said the chamberlain.

“You did well anticipating my wishes,” said Persephone with a smile.

The chamberlain nodded his acknowledgment of her praise. “And is there anything
else
I can do for Your Majesty at this time?” he asked, casting a meaningful look at Azriel.

Though it was clear that he was hoping Persephone would ask him to arrange for the removal—and possibly the whipping—of the rogue whose very presence threatened her precious royal reputation, she dismissed the chamberlain with no further command but that she was not to be disturbed except in case of emergency. As soon as the door closed behind him, Persephone grinned at the three servants who'd served her so well in the past.

“Oh, it is so
good
to see you again!” she cried.

All three curtseyed a second time—Martha primly, Meeta excitedly and Meeka without even a passing glance at Azriel, the sight of whom had heretofore ever set the girl's ample bosom heaving.

The instant they rose up again, Meeka started to say something but Martha—who'd always been the most proper of Persephone's servants—quieted her with a sharp look.

Then she turned to Persephone and said, “It is good to see you too, Your Majesty. I have ordered the cooks to send up your supper at once and have arranged for the delivery of fresh linens with which to make up your bed.” Martha cleared her throat before delicately asking, “Shall we, uh, also make up a bed on the floor as in times past?”

Persephone glanced at Azriel, who shrugged as if to say that she could reply any way she liked so long as she remembered that he and his broad shoulders would be joining her in the big bed, come what may. Flushing with anticipation—and knowing that she could trust Martha and the sisters with the truth, at least part of which they'd figure out for themselves the first time they helped her
dress—Persephone said, “A bed on the floor will not be necessary, Martha, for as it happens, Azriel and I were married some months ago, and I am with child.”

“
OH
,
CONGRATULATIONS
,
YOUR
MAJESTY
!” shouted Meeta excitedly.

“Thank you, Meeta,” laughed Persephone. “But you mustn't shout because we've not yet officially announced our good news.”

“Oh! Yes, Your Majesty!” whispered the girl, wideeyed.

Looking pleased
and
relieved, Martha said, “We'll only make up the bed, then. In the meantime, shall we prepare a bath for you?”

Persephone sighed deeply. “Oh, Martha, that would be—”

“No,” interrupted Meeka. “You can't bathe, Your Majesty—not yet.”

“Meeka!”
gasped Martha. “How … how dare you presume to tell your queen what to do!”

“I'm sorry,” said Meeka unrepentantly. “But there
is
something the queen needs to do. Now.”

FORTY-THREE