“She seems willing to marry Serjah Desfan.” Willing might be too strong a word.
He grunted. “Is she?” He shook his head. “Her attitude alone could jeopardize the peace we’ve all been working so hard to make, but what if she doesn’t go to Mortise?”
Clare frowned. “Why wouldn’t she?”
Grandeur hesitated, and when he spoke his words came slowly. “This can’t be repeated, Clare.”
Her belly tightened, though with nerves or anticipation she wasn’t sure. “Of course,” she whispered.
His expression remained guarded. “My father fears Serene intends to run away. Violating the treaty would spark a war.”
Clare’s eyebrows pulled together. “But, surely she wouldn’t do that.” Serene had her flaws, but the princess wouldn’t betray Devendra.
Grandeur’s eyes raised to Clare’s. “It wouldn’t be the first time she put her needs above Devendra’s. She left for Zennor when she could have made such a difference here in Devendra.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I pray my father is wrong. We need an alliance with Mortise—Devendra’s future depends on it. If Ryden strikes us alone, we would be doomed. Knowing King Henri and his evil spawn, it’s only a matter of time before war comes.” His brow wrinkled. “We have no choice but to ally with Mortise. And yet . . .”
A prickle of unease caught the back of her neck. “What?”
Grandeur swallowed. “There are things Serene has said. Things she’s done since returning from Zennor. I’m afraid she picked up ideas. In my uncle’s kingdom, the firstborn rules, regardless of gender.”
Clare stared. “You think she wants to steal the throne?”
Grandeur’s throat bobbed. “It sounds far-fetched when you say it, but I don’t know her anymore. I haven’t for years. I don’t know what she’s capable of. What if she does marry into the Mortisian line and she stirs them up against us? Or what if my father’s right and she runs, starting a war?” He scrubbed a hand over his angular jaw and exhaled roughly. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to burden you.”
Clare set aside her teacup. “Have you talked to Serene about this?”
He shot her a look. “Oh, yes, we chat all the time.” He shook his head. “If there’s a shred of truth to my fears, she’d only deny it.”
Clare supposed that was true. But as much as she personally disliked Serene, she couldn’t imagine the princess would turn against her own kingdom.
Grandeur eyed her. “May I beg a favor?”
“Of course.”
The skin around his eyes tightened. “Would you be willing to keep an eye on my sister?” Clare blinked, but before she could speak he rushed ahead. “I know you don’t see her often, but it would ease my mind to know you’d tell me if you heard or saw something—anything—that might prove dangerous for Devendra.”
“You . . . want me to spy on Serene?” She had no real loyalty to the princess, yet the thought made the back of her scalp prickle with sudden unease.
Grandeur blew out his breath. “I didn’t mean to make it sound so dramatic. I only hope you’d feel comfortable coming to me if you were to learn anything distressing.”
Clare wet her lips as she leaned back. “Of course.”
His expression tightened. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t,” she said at once. Maybe too quickly.
But Grandeur smiled, and when she saw his tension ease, she felt a little better.
Clare stepped out of the princess’s bedroom and paused when she saw the door to her private study cracked open. Clare had never seen anyone inside the locked room, and alertness sharpened her nerves. She could hear soft movement inside, and since the muted voices of Vera and her sister, Ivonne, came from the dressing room, Clare knew it wasn’t one of the maids.
Thoughts of assassins and rebels flashed through her head, quickening her breath. Clare cut a look across the sitting room, toward the suite’s main door. Should she call the guards?
Before she could, the study door dragged open and Clare came face-to-face with Serene.
The princess seemed just as shocked to see her standing there, though her features pinched almost at once. “Spying?” she asked crisply.
Clare flushed, her mind darting back to the conversation she’d had with Grandeur yesterday. “No.”
Serene arched a dark brow and stepped closer, tugging the door shut behind her. “You have another reason for lurking outside my door?”
Something about the princess’s tone broke through Clare’s nerves. She straightened her spine. “I just stepped out of the bedroom. I wasn’t spying on you.”
The princess rolled her eyes and pulled a key from her pocket. She fit it into the lock and twisted, once again sealing her study. Curiosity pricked Clare; what was she hiding in there?
“I trust you’ve recovered from your first poisoning?” Serene asked.
Clare pulled her eyes from the door. “What?”
The princess turned and pocketed the slim key. “Well, at least your wits don’t seem any more dulled than before. That must be a relief.”
Clare’s eyes narrowed. “There’s no need to be cruel.”
Serene shifted away from the closed door. “Perhaps you’re right. I should throw myself at your feet and sob my thanks continually to you for stealing my life.”
Clare bristled, but kept her voice smooth. “The Night Sigh was actually quite relaxing. Maybe you should order some for yourself.”
Serene snorted. “The kitchen maid has found a backbone. Fates help us all.” She picked her way across the sitting room, halting near the suite’s main door. She glanced over her shoulder. “I suppose I should thank you.”
Clare’s mouth tightened, her fingernails cutting into her palms. “Oh?”
The princess’s eyes narrowed. “I’m trying to be sincere.”
Clare huffed a short laugh. “Really?”
“Yes.” A muscle thrummed along her jaw. “That night in the hallway, before you became my decoy, you did save my life—even if you threw me into the wall.”
Clare stared at her. “What are you saying?”
Serene exhaled, irritation lining the sound. “I’m thanking you.”
Surprise flared. “You are?”
The princess folded her arms. “Yes. But of course that same night you were blinded by my father’s promises and conspired with him to be my imposter, so that mars your record.”
Clare kept her tone mild. “You haven’t actually said thank you.”
Serene rolled her eyes, arms dropping as she pulled open the door and stepped into the hall.
Vera and Ivonne exited the dressing room, carrying dresses to mend. They seemed oblivious to Serene’s visit to the suite and continued chatting with each other as they settled on the settee and began their work.
Clare would have preferred to join them in their simple task, especially since irritation still pricked her after her interaction with Serene, but a thick book on Mortisian culture waited on an end table. All she’d really learned was they had a celebration for everything—even funerals held traditions of feasting, dancing, music, and brightly colored clothes. She didn’t really want to read it, but Ramus would be testing her tomorrow.
Clare plucked up the book and sat in an armchair, grateful for the background noise of the sisters’ easy conversation. It was much better than studying in silence. It reminded her of home.
A quarter hour passed before there was a knock on the suite door. Clare rose before either of the maids could; she needed an excuse to stretch her legs. She pulled open the door and came face to face with Gavril Lank, the stable master’s son. The burns trailing over the side of his face and down his neck caught her eye first, but she lifted her gaze to meet his and offered a smile. Gavril was often stationed outside the princess’s room, especially since Bennick had increased the guard after the Night Sigh attack.
He tipped his head. “Miss Ellington.”
“Please, call me Clare.” She�
�d asked him before, but he seemed determined to be formal.
Gavril lifted a hand, brandishing a small stack of letters. “These arrived for you.”
Clare knew they were from home—no one else would have written to her. Her hand trembled as she reached for the letters and when she flipped them over and saw Thomas’s familiar handwriting, warmth spread through her chest. “I didn’t know I could receive letters,” she whispered.
Gavril frowned. “Why wouldn’t you be able to?”
Clare swallowed, unable to answer. She tightened her hold on the letters and tears stung her eyes as she met Gavril’s gaze. “Thank you.”
The fervency in her voice seemed to take him off-guard. He shuffled his feet, eyebrows pulling downward. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You brought me news from home.” She reached out her free hand and caught his fingers, squeezing gently. “Thank you, Gavril.”
He tensed, a muscle in his jaw flexing. But he didn’t pull away. “I hope it’s good news.”
Clare grinned and released his hand, closing the door when Gavril retreated. Twisting back toward the sitting room, she rifled through the letters. There were three—one each from Thomas, Mark, and Mistress Keller.
Vera’s voice was low and confidential as she spoke to her sister. “Millie said she’s getting worse. The physicians don’t know what else to do.”
Ivonne tugged her needle through the dress she was mending. “There’s no cure for madness. Everyone knows that, and the commander’s abuse drove her insane.”
The commander. The words pierced through Clare’s distraction and her head jerked up from her letters. “What did you say?”
Ivonne and Vera shot her a look, hands freezing in their work. Vera wet her lips. “Nothing.”
Clare’s her eyes narrowed. “Are you talking about Commander Markam?”
The sisters eyed each other, and it was Ivonne who finally straightened in her seat. “Yes.”
“Ivonne,” Vera warned lowly.
“Oh, it’s hardly a secret,” Ivonne said, dropping her mending to her lap as she focused on Clare. “The commander used to beat his wife. And Bennick.”
Ice shot through Clare’s veins and her grip on the letters clenched. “What?”
Vera frowned at her sister, her small nose scrunching. “It’s not our affair.”
Ivonne ignored her, focused solely on Clare. “You met Millie—she’s Lady Markam’s maid and has been for years. She knows the family better than anyone. She says the commander used to abuse Bennick and the lady—and now Lady Markam is insane.”
“She isn’t insane.” Vera glanced uneasily about the room, as if she expected the woman to suddenly appear. “She’s just ill.”
Ivonne’s mouth thinned. “That’s what the commander says. He doesn’t want any stains on his name.”
Clare’s stomach rolled. The images that sparked to mind of a young Bennick—only Mark’s age—being hit by the commander . . . everything inside her screamed. Having felt the commander’s heavy hand, Clare shuddered to think of what he’d done to his wife and child. Fates, was Lady Markam still being abused? She couldn’t believe Bennick would allow that. Even if he’d been helpless against his father once, he certainly wasn’t now. But his hatred of his father made more sense. Clare felt her fury rising.
Vera picked up her sewing, her mouth a thin line. “This isn’t our affair,” she repeated. She turned to Clare. “You should read your letters. We don’t have long before your dance lesson.”
She was right. And while Clare could stand here reeling from the revelations about Bennick’s past, she knew there would be no answers. Not right now, anyway. But she could have news from home, and she craved that.
She sank onto the settee and unfolded the thick parchment of the first letter, written in Thomas’s deliberate script.
Dear Clare,
I hope you’re well. We miss you every day, but things are good. We got even more toys and books and Mistress Keller is teaching us a lot. When will you come visit? I hope soon.
Eliot came by the other night. Don’t worry, Mistress Keller didn’t see him. He wanted to know if we had heard from you and he was worried when we hadn’t. He said you’re in danger, and now I’m worried for you. Please write and let me know you’re safe.
Love, Thomas
Clare frowned as she re-read the lines about Eliot. Why couldn’t he keep his fears to himself? With a sigh, she set the letter aside and opened Mark’s letter. His handwriting was hurried; ink splotched the page and the words were a punch to her gut.
Clare, I miss you. Thomas says you’ll never come back. Please come back.
Mark
“Clare?” Vera asked, brow furrowed in concern.
She flashed a weak smile. “I’m missed, that’s all.”
Compassion lit Vera’s eyes. “Would you like to write replies?”
Clare nodded, still overcome with her rioting emotions.
Vera left the room to fetch writing materials and Clare opened Mistress Keller’s letter. It was a kindly written update on the boys, though she also expressed her worry for them. She encouraged Clare to write and to visit as soon as she was able.
Though Clare wanted to run home and see them now, she knew that wasn’t an option. So she took the supplies Vera brought her and composed letters, including one for Eliot, reusing the same assurances that she was well and pleading for them to be happy. She prayed they’d listen. She couldn’t find the words to tell them she would be accompanying the princess to Mortise. She didn’t know if the king would let her visit them before the journey, but she would prefer to tell them in person if at all possible.
She addressed the four letters, but someone rapped on the door before she could seal them. Wilf in all his terrifying intensity was on the other side, ready to escort them to Mistress Henley for the dance lesson.
Clare wasn’t about to argue with him. She left the unsealed letters on the table and followed Vera and Ivonne out.
Chapter 19
Bennick
Bennick’s meeting with King Newlan was not pleasant. The king was still livid about the Night Sigh incident and that nothing more had been learned about the would-be assassin. The king had also learned about Wilf’s outburst on the training field and he made it clear that one more misstep from Wilf would mark the end of the man’s career.
Bennick had been the princess’s lead bodyguard for two years, but as the king reprimanded him and second-guessed every decision he’d made in the last couple weeks, Bennick had felt like a novice. With Newlan glaring down at him, it didn’t matter that Bennick had worked hard to win his place. It didn’t matter that he’d proven to the king, the princess, himself, and his men that he could manage this position.
When Bennick was finally dismissed he left the spacious throne room and hurried through the halls, trying to shake the dark mood away as he quickened his step. What he needed was to see Clare. He might even reach her in time to escort her to her dance lesson.
Bennick was always eager to see her. Their time in training wasn’t enough, though he relished every moment. It was a good thing Clare was a diligent student; he didn’t think she’d noticed how much he studied her during their sessions. He tried to focus, and the discipline he’d learned in the academy saved him—until he caught her sweet scent as she spun away from him, or her back pressed against his chest. Sometimes all it took was seeing her flushed face, a grin twisting her features as she stared up at him in triumph, the sunlight catching in her hair. Her eyes danced, and he couldn’t breathe.
Clare was beautiful. Bennick had known that the first moment he saw her, even with her stained apron and loose braid. She was soft and kind, strong and resilient. The love she had for her family burned in her eyes and her dedication to them staggered him. She remained undaunted despite the long days and challenging lessons, withstanding even the danger with a quiet confidence that astounded him. The more time he spent with her, the more fascinated he became, and what h
e felt for her . . . that was growing, too, becoming more than mere attraction and treading deeper than friendship.
Gavril stood outside the princess’s open door and Bennick tried to bury the rush of regret. Clare was already gone, or else Wilf would have been at the door.
He greeted Gavril and glanced into the open room. A page stood at a low table in the sitting room, his back to the door.
“Clare received letters from home,” Gavril explained. “When they left, Clare mentioned she’d finished her replies, so I sent for a page.”
“Sir?” The young boy edged forward, holding the folded letters. “They’re not sealed, but the wax is out, like she just forgot. The one I opened looks finished.”
“You read her letter?” Bennick asked, arching a brow.
The boy’s ears reddened. “Not really. I just saw it was signed. Should I seal them?”
“And have you manage to read the rest?” Bennick shook his head and stretched out a hand.
The page passed the letters over and Bennick entered the room. He perched on the edge of the settee and lifted the stick of wax, holding it over a flickering flame to warm it. He sealed the letters, and while the wax finished drying he flipped one over. Clare’s handwriting was small and precise. Not the artistic curls the ladies at court practiced, but elegant in its simplicity. It suited her. His mouth tugged into a smile. Then he noticed the name those careful letters formed and his smile fell.
Eliot Slaton
Tension coiled his shoulders as he scanned the address. The barracks was correct, and the rank. Fates. How did Clare know Eliot Slaton?
Royal Decoy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 1) Page 16