Stranger to the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  “Marvelous,” he agreed. “Would you care to refresh yourself before the second act?”

  “I will, yes,” she said. She hoped the guards wouldn’t insist on going into the water closet with her.

  But it turned out they were satisfied with clearing the refreshing room and waiting outside for her. Again, she felt odd at how all these people went out of their way to accede to her wishes. She’d never felt more like the Queen than at that moment, as if Elspeth North didn’t exist.

  Argent waited in the box for her, as if he hadn’t moved. “So,” he said cheerfully, “what did you think?”

  “It’s not over yet,” she said with a smile.

  “Well said.” Argent turned his attention to the stage as the lights once more dimmed and the music came up. Elspeth watched the performance, but with only half her attention. The rest was reserved for the man sitting next to her. It was true, he did occasionally fix his gaze on her rather than on the performers. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. He was nice, and clever, but she couldn’t tell if he liked her—or, rather, if he liked her more than just as a casual acquaintance. And she didn’t know if she wanted him to. Or if she was expecting too much from a first social outing.

  Face it, she told herself, he’s not the one. How she could tell this from only a couple of hours’ interaction, most of it spent sitting in silence watching the opera, she didn’t know. But much as he was interesting and clever, when she contemplated seeing him again, it was with a feeling of indifference. That surely couldn’t bode well for a romance.

  She applauded when the performance came to an end, but the lieutenant gestured to her to wait when she would have risen. “We’ll let the crowds clear a bit, your Majesty,” she said. Elspeth agreed. Even without Faraday’s concerns about her safety, she didn’t like the idea of pressing through all those crowds, or of making her guards shove people out of the way.

  Argent was an excellent conversationalist, and she enjoyed talking about the opera until it was time to leave. “I do regret that there’s only one opera company in Aurilien,” she said as they descended the stairs together. “It would be so enjoyable to see another.”

  “I wish I could arrange it for you, your Majesty,” Argent said with a smile Elspeth had no trouble reading. Her heart sank. It looked like Argent thought they’d made more of a connection than Elspeth felt. She’d never been so glad that custom dictated the Queen had to ask for the pleasure of someone’s company.

  The ride back to the palace was quiet, now that Elspeth was nervous about encouraging Argent. She couldn’t tell if she was sending the right signals or just being rude. “Should we…take you home?” she asked nervously. What if he expected her to invite him to another social event? Or, heaven forbid, back to the east wing for more conversation?

  “That would be welcome, your Majesty,” Argent said. “I was instructed to attend on you at the palace rather than have your Majesty come to my home, so I took a hackney. This would save me having to hail another.”

  He hadn’t sounded put out. Good. “I appreciate your willingness to accommodate my security.”

  “It’s no problem. Anything for your Majesty.”

  There was the smile again. Oh, this was awkward, though apparently only for Elspeth.

  Argent gave the driver directions, and soon they rattled to a stop in front of one of the great stone mansions on the hill overlooking Aurilien. “Thank you again for the pleasure of your company,” Elspeth said.

  “I look forward to seeing you again, your Majesty, perhaps at your birthday gala? If you’re willing to save a dance for me.”

  Elspeth blushed at the thought. She’d been learning to dance, but this felt more intimate than a simple waltz or gavotte. “I…suppose so,” she said.

  “Then…good night, your Majesty,” Argent said, and now he took her gloved hand and squeezed it lightly. He was gone before she could react.

  She leaned back on the cushions and tried to calm her rapidly beating heart. She was more convinced than ever that Argent wasn’t the man for her, but…was this her fault? She’d spoken freely, she’d held his hand—for a second or two, but still—had she accidentally encouraged him? She groaned and covered her face with her hands. She was almost certain she wasn’t obligated to continue the relationship, even if she had encouraged him, but she didn’t know any graceful way of telling him she wasn’t interested, and he didn’t deserve to be threatened by her guards.

  Those guards escorted her in silence to the east wing, which was normal—she suspected they had instructions not to be distracted from their duties by conversation—but tonight their silence felt different. Lieutenant Anselm in particular Elspeth suspected of wanting to interrogate her about Argent.

  It hadn’t occurred to her until that moment that the reason everyone in Tremontane might feel entitled to pry into her personal life was that her personal life, so far as it extended to her choice of Consort, affected them. She knew from reading the black leather book that a Consort had certain government responsibilities beyond just breeding, if she could be indelicate about it, and of course a Consort would have influence on the Queen. So she not only had a duty to herself to choose the right man, she had a duty to her country as well. Her discomfort increased until by the time they reached the east wing, she was ready to run to her room and hide.

  Veronica had already gone to bed, thank heaven, so Elspeth hurried through the drawing room to her suite and shut the door behind her as if closing the gates against the barbarian Ruskalder horde. She closed her eyes and tried to calm herself. This wasn’t a disaster. She’d figured out how to manage her Council, and how to control Simkins; she could figure out how to convey the message that she wasn’t interested to one man.

  She pulled the bell rope and kicked off her shoes. They were more comfortable than any of her others. Maybe she needed to plan her wardrobe around them. That reminded her that she would need yet another new gown for her birthday gala. She wondered if the day would ever come that her wardrobe was complete. Probably not in her lifetime.

  The suite door opened, and Honey entered. “Your Majesty, did you have a good time? Here, let me help you. Was he handsome? I wish I could have seen him!”

  “He was handsome,” Elspeth admitted, “but I don’t think I’ll see him again.”

  Honey’s hands, busy unbuttoning the dress, stilled. “You don’t mean he rejected you, your Majesty? He couldn’t possibly!”

  “No, Honey, I mean I didn’t feel…I don’t know. He was very nice, but I’m not interested.”

  Honey finished with the buttons and helped Elspeth slide the dress off over her head. “You mean there wasn’t a spark,” she said.

  “That’s a very good way to put it. No spark.” Elspeth shrugged into her night gown and sighed. “I thought…he really is very handsome, and nice, and I like talking to him, but…I don’t think I should encourage him when there’s no chance he’s the right one.”

  “You shouldn’t feel obligated to like anyone, your Majesty.” Honey carried the dress into the wardrobe to hang it up. “That’s true even for girls who aren’t Queens.”

  “I feel awful for encouraging him, but I really didn’t mean to.” Elspeth climbed into bed. It was so much nicer not to need the little stepstool. “And I think I promised to dance with him at the gala. Oh, Honey, I feel so muddled.”

  “Dancing’s not so bad, your Majesty,” Honey said. She gathered up Elspeth’s shoes, but stood there holding them. “Dancing’s as much politeness as anything else. Except for dancing twice with the same man.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Hasn’t anyone told you the two-dance rule?” Honey bent to pick up the pouf of gauze that was Elspeth’s overdress. “You only dance once with a person, because two dances says you’re interested in him. And two dances in a row is how you say you’re courting or even betrothed.”

  “I’m so glad you told me that!” That would be a mistake nobody would forget. “But I still don’t know m
any dances, so I’m not likely to do that.”

  “There are so many men who’d like to be Consort, your Majesty,” Honey said. She went into the dressing room with the shoes and the overdress. “One of them is bound to be perfect for you,” she added, her voice muffled.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Elspeth murmured. Suppose she got tired, someday, of waiting for the right man, and settled for someone good enough? She mentally slapped herself. This was one man, one event, and she’d known going in that there was a chance he wasn’t the one. She needed to stop thinking of this as a race, start enjoying herself, and take some time to learn what she wanted from a romance.

  Honey said goodnight and left. Elspeth rang the other bell, and soon Shirley appeared with a pot of chocolate and cream. Elspeth drank happily, then settled into her pillows while Shirley put out the light. It occurred to her that she must be settling in to her role as Queen if she could spare mental energy enough to fret over finding a Consort. Cheered by that thought, she drifted off to sleep.

  17

  Elspeth stood at the end of the Long Gallery, gazing at her portrait, and wondered if Queens could arrange to have artists assassinated. Her chin, despite her fears, wasn’t held too high, her hands looked natural clasped in her lap, she looked like herself—if herself was haughty, vain, arrogant, and convinced she ruled more of the world than Tremontane. The artist had given her a gleam in her eyes that followed the viewer, demanding they stop and pay homage to her. It was the worst painting she’d ever seen.

  “You see why it’s unacceptable,” she told Faraday, who stood beside her, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. “It looks nothing like me.”

  “It looks exactly like you,” Faraday said. “I’m not sure what the problem is.”

  “Are you saying I routinely look like I’m about to order a mass execution? Because if that’s the case, then yes, it looks like me.”

  Faraday turned to examine Elspeth’s face. Then he went back to looking at the painting. “You get that look,” he said, “when you’re tired of listening to your councilors debate and wish you were elsewhere. You also frequently turn that look on me when I’ve told you something perfectly reasonable you don’t like. Just because you don’t have a mirror handy on those occasions doesn’t make it any less true.”

  Elspeth scowled. “I do not,” she said, but weakly. “Besides, my point is that this is how I’m going to be immortalized, and I don’t think it’s a fair representation. I want a different artist. This one had it in for me.”

  “If your Majesty demands another sitting, of course we will arrange it.”

  “Stop that. I’m not being unreasonable.”

  “I didn’t say you were.”

  “No, but you only call me Your Majesty when you’re ready for a fight.”

  Faraday closed his eyes and tilted his head back, clearly praying for patience. “It’s up to you if you want to spend another several weeks sitting for a portrait, which I know you love,” he said. “But you asked for my honest opinion, and I’ve given it to you. Mistress Bennegret captured your spirit, and I think you know that and you’re a little embarrassed at being exposed to the world.”

  Elspeth turned her attention back to the painting and cursed Faraday silently for being right. “Fine,” she said. “But I’m never looking at this thing again.”

  “That’s your prerogative. Now, can we return to the north wing? I do have other duties.”

  “I’m sorry. You’re the first person I saw I could count on to give me an honest reaction. Everyone else who saw it just gushed about how the artist made my hair glow.” Elspeth tugged on a lock of said hair, which felt particularly unmanageable that day.

  “Mistress Bennegret does have a way with light,” Faraday agreed. “Would you like me to bring the final birthday gala guest list for your approval this afternoon?”

  “I’m not sure why. I don’t know more than a fraction of the names on it. What’s the purpose of me approving it? I mean in terms of tradition, or law, or whatever it is that says I should.”

  “The purpose is to make sure nobody is invited whom the Queen would rather not encounter on her special day.”

  “Oh. That actually makes sense.”

  Faraday gave a little half-smile. “Surprisingly, most of our traditions have their beginnings in common sense.”

  “Really? What’s the common sense that says the Queen has to declare her interest in someone, and not the other way around? That one’s enshrined in law.”

  “It protects the Queen, or King, from being overwhelmed by suitors. It also allows the Queen to control whom she chooses to bestow her affections on. You can’t tell me you don’t appreciate that.”

  Elspeth glanced at him; he was still smiling that crooked half-smile. “You’re right. That does make sense. But it seems pretty hard on the Queen, in a culture where it’s expected the man will make the advances. What happens if there’s someone who’d be perfect for the Queen if only she knew he was interested?”

  They rounded a corner and approached the steps to the north wing. “That would be difficult,” Faraday agreed. “His only recourse would be to wait, and hope she noticed him.”

  “Which might never happen.” Elspeth sighed. “And now I’m discouraged.”

  “You have plenty of time to find a Consort,” Faraday said. “Don’t think of it as a duty. Courtship is supposed to be fun.”

  “Maybe for you,” Elspeth said. “You don’t have a whole country speculating on what it means that you chose to dance with Mister Somebody and not Lord Somebody Else.”

  “True.” Faraday stopped outside his office. “I can only suggest you not listen to the rumors. And don’t let it make you impatient to choose a husband just to get them to stop.”

  “You’re very sensible.”

  Elspeth continued down the hall to her own office. As she neared the door, Simkins stepped out of her office, the one immediately across the hall from Elspeth’s, and stood waiting. “Your Majesty, Lord Harrington is here. He has no appointment, but you have some time before your one o’clock appointment.”

  “That’s fine. I—where is he?”

  “In your office.”

  Elspeth regarded the closed door. “I think,” she said reflectively, “in future you shouldn’t allow anyone to wait for me unattended in my office. I trust Lord Harrington, but doesn’t it allow for the possibility of abuse?”

  Simkins flushed. “I beg your pardon, your Majesty, of course it does. I thought—but you’re right, even if Lord Harrington is above reproach, we cannot say the same of everyone.”

  “That was my thought exactly. It’s all right, Miss Simkins, we both should have thought of it. So, going forward—”

  “No one is to wait in your office unattended,” Simkins agreed. She opened the door for Elspeth.

  Lord Harrington was looking out the window toward the east wing, just visible to the extreme right. Despite what she’d said to Simkins, Elspeth cast a quick eye over her desk. Nothing appeared to be out of place. “Thank you for waiting, Lord Harrington,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

  “May I sit?” Lord Harrington said.

  Elspeth took her seat and indicated Lord Harrington should do the same.

  “I have bad news,” he said. “My agents in Ruskald have been silent for over two weeks. Normally, this wouldn’t be a concern, as it takes almost that much time for messages to arrive from Ranstjad. But during times of heightened international tension, they communicate more frequently. It wasn’t until today that I finally heard from one of them. And the message was the worst possible news: an agent has disappeared, presumably because King Osjan discovered his existence and had him killed.”

  Elspeth drew in a startled breath. “Can he do that?”

  Lord Harrington smiled. “My agents operate without government acknowledgement, which means without government protection. If Osjan identifies one of them, he can’t make a stink about it because we’ll deny the agent bel
ongs to us, but in return, we can’t make our own stink if he tortures or kills the agent, because he isn’t officially ours.”

  “But Osjan wouldn’t do that unless he believed the agent really did belong to us, right? And now he knows we’re watching him.”

  “He knew that already. We have confidential agents in every country, just as they all have agents here. What we have to assume is that he knows everything the agent knew.”

  Elspeth’s hand closed on a letter opener as if it could defend her. “Which is…what?”

  Lord Harrington looked grim. “This particular agent fortunately didn’t know any of our plans to mount a defense against a Ruskalder attack. But he was aware that the plans exist—specifically, that we know what the Ruskalder intend. That will almost certainly push Osjan into aggressing on us.”

  “You mean war.”

  He shook his head. “Not yet. Osjan won’t move troops into our territory. He’ll just fill that empty territory in the Riverlands with his forces, waiting for us to falter. And if we do, then…” He spread his hands wide, indicating the obvious conclusion.

  “Then…am I right that we need to move our own troops into position in Barony Daxtry and Barony Avory? Matching what they’re doing, essentially?”

  “That’s exactly what I was going to suggest. The point is—well, mainly we need to have troops in place to fight off the Ruskalder if it comes to war. But the other thing this accomplishes is to show King Osjan how good our intelligence is. If we move troops now, before his are in place, that tells him we have more agents reporting on his actions, and he might think twice before trying to surprise us.”

  That made sense. “All right,” Elspeth said, “I—you need me to authorize moving the troops, yes? Or is that something General Beckett can do?”

  “We only need your authorization to wage war. General Beckett is free to move troops through Tremontane as needed. But I thought you should be aware of what’s going on.”

  “Thank you, Lord Harrington. I’m beginning to understand the politics of international relations, and I owe that to you.”