by A. C. Cobble
“Oliver will check into it,” interjected Philip, cutting his wife off before she said too much. “You’re right. The Child’s have been devastated, and it would not be out of character for Josiah.”
Oliver’s face darkened. “Both brothers, in such a short time…”
“Aria Child asked to attend the hunt today,” mentioned Lucinda. “I had the servants arrange a carriage for her, and I believe it is that one over there. I imagine she would have rested well before the hunt. The game she’s interested in gives a more vigorous chase than silver fox. She’ll have to stay rested if she means to edge out her sister. Neither of those girls has ever been on time to anything, but perhaps if Aria deigns to arrive, she can save us the trouble and tell us about her father.”
Oliver glanced at the waiting carriage. “Aria Child’s?”
“Is someone calling for me?” lilted the girl.
Philip smirked as his brother jumped in surprise.
“Have you seen your father this morning, Aria?” questioned Lucinda.
“Yes,” she said, slowing her walk, glancing around the group in confusion. “I breakfasted with him and my sister just a turn of the clock past.”
Oliver let out a sigh of relief.
“There was a fire in the city last night. We believe some peers may have been trapped inside the building,” said Lucinda. “I thought… Your father may know some of the victims. Regardless, the hunt is cancelled until we identify who is missing. I suppose we’ll need to make notifications to their families once we find out.”
Aria Child crossed her arms under her breasts, pushing them tantalizingly high. Philip, wondering how conscious the display was, could see a broad expanse of pale flesh pebbled by the chill air. He craned his neck closer until his wife’s sharp elbow dug into his ribcage.
“That’s too bad,” purred Aria, her eyes fixed on Oliver. “I was hoping for a hard ride today. It can be so difficult to find suitable exercise in the city.”
“I’m sure you’ll manage,” remarked Lucinda crisply.
“Yes, I suppose I will,” responded Aria, giving the princess a wicked, predatory smile.
“Come, Philip,” said Lucinda, grabbing his arm and turning up her nose. “Let’s go inform the others.”
He nodded, his eyes darting between Aria and Oliver. “While you’re here, brother, make the rounds, inquire around, will you?”
Oliver nodded acknowledgement as Philip ducked inside the carriage.
Settling down on one of the padded benches, the prince eyed his wife. Her lips were pursed and she was glaring out the window.
He told her, “I don’t understand why you dislike those girls.”
“I do not like you staring at them,” claimed Lucinda, turning her glare toward him.
He snorted. “A look, that is all. It’s never bothered you in the past. What is it about those two?”
His wife looked back out the window as the carriage lurched into motion.
“Is it because Oliver is bedding them?” wondered Philip.
“Oliver?” questioned Lucinda, not turning to face him. “Why would it have anything to do with him?”
He snorted.
“Oliver is a boy,” said Lucinda. “He plays with his toys as boys do. I am not jealous of any woman who finds herself in his bed.”
“One might be forgiven for thinking such,” remarked the prince, forcing himself to breathe evenly. “There was a time…”
“Why would I be jealous?” asked Lucinda, looking back to Philip and letting her full lips curl into a smile. “I’m married to the prince, the future king. You, m’lord, are the finest catch that Enhover has produced in a generation. There’s no place I’d rather be than in this carriage with you.”
Philip leaned back as the mechanical carriage rumbled out of the court onto the cobblestone-paved city streets. “Why concern yourself with the Child twins, then?”
Lucinda did not answer for a long moment. Then finally, she responded, “As I said, Oliver is a boy with his toys. I imagine those two have quite a bit of fun with him, but one day, he will find new toys. He’ll move on as he always does. I’m afraid those girls have nothing but heartbreak in their future. I’ve tried to warn them, but they won’t listen.”
“Perhaps,” said Philip, “but I think they’ve consummated the fling with eyes wide open. Those girls are no innocent, wilting daisies, wife. If anyone is in for a surprise, I think it will be Oliver. I’m told the baron is rather anxious following his brother’s disappearance. He’s been inquiring about suitable prospects for his daughters. If Oliver isn’t careful, one of those girls is going to truss him up like a fattened hog and drag him thrashing and protesting down the aisle. But until then, they seem to be enjoying themselves.”
“Your brother is quite the adventurer,” replied Lucinda. “I’m sure that is exciting for a young woman.”
“Are you?” asked Philip. When she didn’t respond, he leaned forward and tugged the curtain shut over their small window. “It’s a turn of the clock until we reach the country estate. What do you think, a little adventure?”
“I told you true,” declared Lucinda with a laugh, her hands moving up to the laces of her blouse. “There is no place I’d rather be than right here.”
The Cartographer III
Oliver woke up staring at the plush, embroidered draperies that hung from the posters of his bed. He hated the things. It made him feel like he was sleeping inside one of his grandfather’s old formal jackets, but evidently, it was expected that a peer’s bedchamber be decked in enough of the thick brocade to clothe a small village. That, or Winchester had some cousin who made the damned things.
He sat up, a fist covering a yawn. Through the open door of his bedchamber, he saw firelight flickering in his sitting room. It was dark outside, and he was disoriented for a moment until he remembered what, and who, he’d been doing earlier that day. Evidently, she hadn’t left. It seemed she was unwilling to allow any interlopers onto her territory once she’d claimed his rooms.
He’d spent days avoiding the Child twins, but earlier in the courtyard, he’d been so exhausted he couldn’t figure a way to slip away from Aria’s company. He’d nearly been too exhausted once they’d made it to bed, but he had rallied. Recalling the fervent, frantic exercise, he believed he’d accounted himself well.
Sighing, he didn’t bother to dress and walked to the open door of the sitting room. “Still here?”
“I am,” she said, turning so that a long, pale leg stretched along the chaise, the light of the fire reflecting on her smooth skin. She looked to be wearing one of his shirts and nothing else. “Is that a problem? Are you expecting company?”
“No, I’m not,” he said. “No plans at all, actually.”
“Perfect,” she said, a smile curling her lips.
“Well,” he admitted, running a hand over his head, “Philip asked me to check around and see if anyone was missing, but I’ve got Winchester on it. Gossiping with the servants, he’ll get it done in half the time I could.”
“I know,” she replied. She pointed toward a covered tray on his table. “I asked him to bring us something to eat. Fruits, cheese, and I believe a little bread and nuts. They sent wine as well.”
“Winchester knows my needs.”
“Speaking of needs, you were rather lethargic this morning,” she complained.
“I was up all night,” he said and then held up a hand when she opened her mouth. “Not with another woman, Aria.”
She pouted until he offered her a glass of wine and brought her a bite of cheese and bread. Aria accepted the wine gracefully then opened her mouth for the cheese and bread. She wrapped her lips around his fingers and let her teeth press against his skin.
Grunting, he moved back to the table and poured his own wine, a chill pebbling his bare torso away from the fire.
“Now that you’ve slept all day, perhaps you’re ready to be up all night again?” she asked.
He sipped his wine a
nd studied her.
“I’m not going to let you off as easy as I did this morning,” she warned.
“You rarely do,” he said, stepping toward her.
She held up a hand. “Not yet. This morning, you reeked of smoke, and you bled a little bit onto your sheets. We’ll get you cleaned up, first.”
“I bled?” he wondered, looking down at himself.
“Your elbow,” she advised.
“Ah,” he said, turning his arm to see a dark crimson scab. He must have gotten it scrambling away from the burning mansion the night before. “Just a shallow scrape.”
“Every time I see you, you have a new scar,” remarked Aria. “It’s a bit exciting, I have to admit, but it’s a bit scary as well. What were you doing last night, Oliver?”
“Business of the Crown, I’m afraid. I can’t speak of it. If, ah, if the smoky smell bothers you…”
“Winchester is keeping water on boil for a bath,” she said. “Ring him, and he’ll bring it up.”
Oliver did as she instructed, and in short time, a pair of porters were sloshing steaming water into a large copper bath placed in front of the fire. Oliver ate and drank, watching the baroness as she watched him.
Winchester ducked his head into the room, and Oliver asked for a report.
“Aside from the viscount, no one significant is missing from the palace, m’lord,” he said. “They’re either here or off at the country manor with your brother. There are some worrying updates about those staying in the city, though. A few minor peers, mostly younger sons and daughters. I don’t believe anyone you’re closely acquainted with, though I’m afraid you may know some of them. A few merchants have been reported missing, but those updates are passing through the city watch before they come to the palace, so our information is incomplete. In addition to Viscount Brighton, Adelaide Boughton is missing. Fortunately, the countess is the only one with a seat in the Congress of Lords who we cannot locate, but of course the viscount meant to court your cousin.”
“Lannia won’t notice his absence,” Oliver said and then waved off Winchester.
Adelaide Boughton. The moment his brother had said the name, Oliver had known they wouldn’t be able to find the countess. The slow intonation she’d been speaking atop the dais had masked her voice, but it was her, he had no doubt. No, the only question was why had his brother known to check on her. What was Philip hiding?
With Winchester and the porters out of the room, Aria said, “With my uncle gone, my father is becoming rather nervous. This new incident will do nothing to calm him. He’s not going out, not making his usual appointments. There’s no one left to continue the Child name unless Isabella or I find a prospect that will bear the family crest. A merchant with Company shares but no title might suit my father’s needs.”
“You’re telling me that you intend to be formally courted?” asked Oliver.
“No, I’m telling you I intend Isabella to be formally courted,” she responded, her chin held high. “I told you, Oliver, you will not be done with me so easily.”
“I see,” he mumbled, looking away.
A rap on the door and the two porters topped off the water in the tub.
Winchester returned with them and asked, “Your bath is ready, m’lord. Shall I assist?”
“I believe I can handle that tonight, Winchester,” declared Aria, standing from the chaise and setting her wineglass down. “Oliver seems to have injured himself last night, and I believe a tender hand may help bring him back to health.”
Oliver swallowed.
Aria pulled his shirt over her head and tossed it to the valet. “There’s a bloodstain on the elbow, Winchester.”
“I, ah, I’ll see to the laundry then,” muttered the man, his eyes falling to his feet.
“I think that’s best,” agreed Aria. “I can take it from here.”
Sighing, Oliver refilled his wine and walked across the room like a prisoner to the gibbet. He settled into the hot tub. He wouldn’t lie to himself, he was looking forward to the baroness’ soft hands on his body, but this talk of her father and the family crest made the skin on his back crawl. Both of the twins’ beauty hid a ruthless determination to get what they wanted. He’d been tugged back and forth between them often enough to admit without false arrogance that he was what they wanted. With discussion of prospects and courting looming, he couldn’t help but worry how they’d try to sink their claws into him.
“You seem nervous, m’lord,” whispered the baroness into his ear.
“Do you really mean to bathe me, Aria?”
She knelt beside the tub. “Of course, m’lord.” She pushed him deeper into the water, then her hands, slick with soap, roamed his body.
She’d told him the truth, he knew. She had no intention of letting him go, and he wasn’t sure that was such a bad thing, as long as Isabella could be convinced to find company elsewhere. Aria was a match his brother and father would both approve.
But the hunt for the sorcerers, the risks he was taking, he couldn’t let her…
The thought fled his mind as Aria set down the soap and stepped into the tub, settling down on top of him.
The Priestess II
She eyed the derelict building with a burning itch of trepidation. It’d been years since she’d been inside. Years since she’d spoken to any of the scoundrels who frequented the place. Years since she’d axed the side of her hand into a woman’s throat and then stormed out, unsure if the woman had lived or died.
She imagined the woman had lived, but Sam had woken in a sweat for months after the incident, gasping and worrying that she hadn’t. There’d been no news of a killing in the district, which was no surprise. News rarely escaped the flimsy door or wax paper-covered windows of the Lusty Barnacle.
The Lusty Barnacle, such a stupid name. Half brothel, half pub, and half gambling den. The fact that three halves didn’t equal one whole said everything that needed to be known about the place. It was an exhilarating mixture of everything that a priestess wasn’t supposed to be involved in. It’d been fun, years ago, when she’d last found pleasure rebelling against the expectations of her mentor and the Church. Live in the full current of life, he’d told her. Well, she had. Looking back on that time now, it’d been rather exhausting.
Steeling herself, she stepped toward the crooked door that marked the only public entrance to the wobbling den of depravity. Briefly, as her hand rested on the rusted tin doorknob, she wondered if those she sought would still be there after so many years. Then, she decided they had nowhere else to go. Like her, there was nowhere else in Westundon that they fit in.
She tugged open the door, the thin boards scraping across the threshold as she pulled on it in frustrating fits. A wave of smoke from cheap tobacco and expensive poppy syrup washed over her. She could smell the spilt ale on the floor and the spilt semen on the floors above. Had Duke been there, she would have claimed it smelled like him every time he went out with one of the baronesses, but it wasn’t true. No level of natural wickedness smelled quite like the Lusty Barnacle. Such a stupid name.
Taking a last breath of fresh air, she stepped inside. The interior of the place seemed unchanged, suspiciously so. Scores of intoxicated patrons reveled around the large, open room. Tables and chairs, in various states of disrepair, were scattered about, but only a few of them were in use. In fact, in several places, people were sprawled out on the floor rather than risking the rickety, apt-to-collapse furniture.
Fires were roaring at both ends of the room, adding their own layer of smoke due to the poor ventilation. A number of targets had been painted on the walls for throwing darts or knives, but the wood was so pitted and scarred that it was difficult to see how anyone could determine whether they’d hit a mark.
That didn’t seem to bother those who were playing the games, and the noxious smoke didn’t bother those who were busy producing more of it. They hadn’t come for the ambiance, she supposed. Many had come for the poppy syrup, which, as far as she kn
ew, was still illegal in Enhover. Had a watchman deigned to set foot within a city block of the dilapidated building, they certainly would have smelled the sweet haze, and even if they couldn’t, they were as likely to find a patron under the influence of the poppies as one who was not.
Though, to be fair, there were plenty of those, too. Ale poured like a river back behind the sticky, splinter-studded bar, and for many, that was enough. It was how the Lusty Barnacle had gotten started, she’d been told. Cheap ale and the even cheaper women.
Half a dozen of those women, flimsy clothing doing more to show their bodies than hide them, made their way through the stumbling crowd. After a brief negotiation, they would drag potential customers to the back stairs where they’d lead them up to one of the curtained rooms filled with beds so stained with sweat and sex that it made Sam sick just thinking about it. If the women found someone too intoxicated to handle the other end of the transaction, they’d simply dip their fingers into the unfortunate’s purse and take their fee unnoticed. The girls at the Lusty Barnacle always got paid.
Sam made her way to the back bar where she knew the ale would be shockingly decent. Clean ale, dirty women. That had been the slogan they’d come up with later, after a few years in operation. Sam wondered what Andrew, the barman at the Befuddled Sage, would think of such a thing.
“Ale,” she said, leaning against the bar and placing her elbows carefully on the counter to avoid the jagged splinters that stuck up from it.
A man, bald head reddened by either the drink or the sun, yellow-painted tin hoops dangling from his ears, turned and hauled on a tap, splashing frothy ale into a mug. The man’s arms were as thick as her legs, and his open vest showed hard slabs of muscle. It looked like he spent his days hauling merchandise down at the docks rather than hauling on the taps. She told him as much.