A Brother s price

by Wen Spencer

  Ren jerked in surprise at the word “married.” She hadn’t talked to her sisters about a possible marriage in hopes of staving off any negative reactions before they had a chance to meet Jerin personally.

  Apparently Lylia, Odelia, and, unfortunately, Trini all knew why the Whistlers had been invited to the palace.

  “Completely pigheaded.” Odelia added, hopefully meaning Trini. Odelia lay back on the divan, tossing the ball upward until it nearly touched the ceiling and catching it when it dropped.

  “This is a perfect opportunity, and she’s letting it slip away.” Lylia launched herself out of her seat to rove through Ren’s study with restless energy. “Every nobleman available for us to marry has been raised like a vacuous songbird. Other than ignoring traditions and marrying Cullen, quite frankly, I don’t see another alternative on the market.”

  “ ‘Vacuous.’ Is that really a word?” Odelia asked as the ball rose again in another orbit.

  Ren settled herself on the edge of her desk, trying to smother a smile. Obviously both of them were for marrying Jerin-but then, she had figured they would be. “We can’t marry Cullen.”

  “There’s precedent for royal cousins marrying,” Lylia stated firmly.

  Ren shook her head. “The parents weren’t full siblings in those cases. The bloodlines are too close with us and Cullen. I checked it one time-his mother was full sister to Father.”

  Odelia caught the ball and sat up in one smooth motion. “You two are serious! Cullen? Holy Mothers, you’re both as bad as Trini.”

  “What’s wrong with Cullen?” Lylia asked, jerking up her chin.

  “Besides being more like our brother than our cousin?” Odelia scoffed. Then, apparently realizing that she about to fall into full warfare with Lylia, she threw up her hands. “Forget I said anything. We’re here to talk about Jerin and Trini and Halley.”

  Lylia swallowed her attack, and nodded. “Trini can’t be allowed to get away with this. It would be one thing if she met Jerin and found fault with him, but she’s being completely irrational. We need to get married. She has to be reasonable.”

  Odelia snorted. “Trini is never going to be reasonable when the subject is men.”

  “What Keifer did to her couldn’t have been that bad!” Lylia snapped, then glanced to them, uncertain.

  “Could it?”

  This is going to hurt a little, right, Keifer? Oh, no, Ren, it’s going to hurt a lot! Ren flinched at the memory. At the time she believed the pain had been unavoidable. Since then, she had grown sure that Keifer had enjoyed inflicting much more pain than necessary.

  “Oh, don’t do that!” Lylia snapped at their carefully blanked faces. “Since I was ten. every time I ask about this, everyone gets quiet and then they change the subject. I’m an adult now! I’m a royal princess of the realm. I have a right and a duty to know what happened.”

  Ren sighed. Lylia was right. “You might not remember, but Keifer was very beautiful. Eldest and the others fell in love with his beauty, and didn’t care that he wasn’t very intelligent.”

  “I’ve seen dogs smarter than him,” Odelia muttered, then added wistfully, “But he was beautiful.”

  “Trini was only thirteen,” Ren continued. “She wasn’t interested in men yet, and I think she saw him more clearly than the rest of us. She saw that he was stupid, spoiled, and ill-tempered. She called him a breeding bull. She tried to block the marriage, but she wasn’t an adult yet, and she was vastly outnumbered.”

  “Back then, she was much like you, Lylia.” Sorrow tinged Odelia’s voice. “She had a sharp tongue and she was fearless in using it. She could get him so mad.”

  In the beginning, it would take several minutes of cutting remarks before Keifer would react. Toward the end, a single facial expression from Trini could make Keifer explode. Trini played it as a game, even taking bets that she could get Keifer to throw things at the dinner table or scream in public.

  “So, what happened?” Lylia asked. “What did Keifer doT‘

  Ren swallowed old anger and disgust. “He hit her in the head with a paperweight and, while she was stunned, dragged her to his bed and tied her there. He beat her, and-and serviced her. and everything else he could think of to hurt her.”

  Odelia cataloged the injuries. “He broke her nose and blackened her eyes. He broke two of her fingers, and burned her on one hip, like a cattle brand, for calling him a cow. He was threatening to cut her face when Eldest showed up.”

  Lylia look horrified. “And we didn’t send him back to his sisters?”

  “Eldest got Trini cleaned up and half convinced it was all her fault before our mothers saw her.” Ren swallowed the rage again that her Eldest acted not in the best interest of their sister, but for her own desire to keep Keifer as a husband. “Keifer turned all sweet on Eldest, said he was sorry and that he really didn’t mean to do it, that Trini drove him to it. Eldest was blindly in love with him.”

  “Obviously,” Lylia murmured.

  “So what do we do about Trini?” Odelia flopped back onto the divan. “She’s going to think we’re just like Eldest, in love with a pretty face.”

  “And you’re not?” Ren asked as Odelia tossed her ball skyward again.

  Odelia threw her a surprised look and nearly missed her ball. “No! Well, Jerin’s beautiful, but he’s also very gentle and sweet and caring. After I was attacked, Jerin was like a father comforting his little one.

  Me! I wasn’t a princess of the realm to him. 1 was just a stranger he found half dead in a stream.”

  Lylia sighed. “If Trini would only talk to him. He’s so intelligent for a man.”

  Ren caught herself before she, too, sang Jerin’s praises. “We’re in complete agreement that Jerin isn’t like Keifer and would make an excellent husband. How do we convince Trini?”

  “We don’t,” Odelia said, flinging her ball skyward. “Jerin does. She won’t believe anything we say anyhow.”

  Chapter 11

  On the morning of the Season’s opening ball, a hip bathtub and buckets of warm, scented water were delivered to the suite. After the Whistlers had bathed, dried off, dressed, and eaten a light brunch, a horde of women descended on the suite.

  A manicurist family arrived first, corralling all the Whistlers into having the dirt scraped out from under their nails and their ragged edges trimmed and filed. Eldest, Corelle, and Summer got off with a quick ten-digit service. Jerin found himself propped in a semire-clined position, each limb in the command of a separate plump-cheeked woman. They trimmed, shaped, and ran a pencil of white chalk underneath his finger- and toe-nails to give them a lasting “freshly bathed” appearance. The manicurists voiced dismay that he had gone barefoot when he was younger, leaving ghost calluses on the bottom of his feet. They also tsked over the condition of his hands, and discussed at length the benefits of full-length gloves.

  Eldest vetoed the suggestion of gloves, looking disgusted at the fuss over Jerin’s feet, and chased them out. The hairdressers, however, were waiting in the hall. Since his sisters trimmed their military-style short hair every morning, Eldest elected to retreat with Summer, leaving Corelle to watch over Jerin’s suffering.

  The hairdressers undid his braid, combed out his long hair, trimmed it to an even length, and then washed it.

  Normally his hair took hours to dry. The hairdressers blotted individually coiled sections, again and again, working through a stack of forty or fifty towels. It left his hair slightly damp to the touch. He was reclined once more, his hair carefully arranged on a drying rack, and the hairdresser sisters blew air down over the hair via a crank-driven machine with teardrop-shaped revolving blades. It made him nervous and slightly dizzy to stare up at the spinning blades, and the sound was thunderous.

  It took an hour of cranking the machine before his hair was dry. He had to admit, as they combed it out, that it had never lain so silky straight before. They braided it then, in loose coils woven through with ribbons, strings of small glass beads,
and tiny blue flowers.

  He was allowed tea. Apparently noblemen ran toward being heavyset-and considering how little activity they were allowed, it was small wonder. Perhaps with this in mind, someone had tried to change what had become Jerin’s normal tea to just dry muffins. Corelle sent a youngest Barnes off for a true tea with sandwiches made of chicken and a sweet pickle relish, and little cakes of sweet cream topped with fresh raspberries.

  Lastly came the tailors with his formal ball clothes. At all the fittings, they had allowed him to wear undergarments. He was dismayed when they explained that the clothes were to be worn without underclothes.

  “It’s the fashion,” the tailor murmured, carefully keeping her face averted as she held out the leggings.

  “With underwear on, you won’t… settle… properly into the codpiece. Just slip off your underwear, and into the leggings, and we’ll sew them shut.”

  Jerin balked. “I’ll feel naked. I’ll look naked.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but women like to see what they’re buying. You’ll be fine. All the other men will be wearing leggings just like these. I should know-we’ve made a goodly quarter of them.”

  Corelle scolded him impatiently. “Oh, Jerin, don’t be a crybaby.”

  Jerin supposed this was what Captain Tern had meant when she said their success was riding on his conduct. If he refused to wear the most fashionable clothing, it would be unlikely he’d catch the eye of a well-to-do family.

  I wish 1 could marry Ren.

  He bit his lip on that thought. No one would want to look at a boy with eyes full of tears. So he stripped out of his underwear, stepped into the leggings, and tried not to pout as they explained how to tuck himself into the codpiece’s pouch, and then sewed the fabric shut. The shirt had padded shoulders, curiously shaped sleeves that managed to leave his forearms bare while draping fabric almost to the floor, and a collar open to midchest. At least they let him wear riding boots, with cuffs that faired up around the knee.

  A slight gasp made him look up. Eldest stood in the doorway, looking stunned.

  “Holy Mothers,” Eldest finally murmured. “You’re beautiful.”

  Jerin ducked his head at the praise. “I feel like a midwinter tree with beaded strings and glittering ornaments. All that’s missing are the gingerbread angels.”

  “Jerin!” Eldest came across the room and gave him a quick hug, careful not to muss his hair or crinkle his shirt. “Don’t be a ninny.”

  “I’ve got bells on,” he said, taking a few steps to illustrate his point. The tiny bells sewn into the long sleeves rang as he walked, a faint shimmering sound.

  Eldest shook her head. “I don’t know if I should let you out of this room dressed like that.”

  “I look silly.”

  “You look sensual, beautiful, and erotic. We’ll be beating women off of you.”

  He blushed and went back to the mirror to consider his image. His reflection barely seemed to be him, but did look like someone who could command a brother’s price of four thousand crowns.

  He had been prepared for a fair: women in work clothes, men clustered together for the rare chance to talk to someone of their own sex, children moving like schools of minnows, all contained in a meeting hall, a tent, or a rough dance floor under the stars. Potluck dishes. Amateur musicians mostly playing together.

  He thought it would be like a country fair, just on a grander scale.

  They came down a dim hallway and out a side door to the brightly lit foyer. Stairs cascaded down in vivid red velvet into a ballroom, a shifting sea of the most beautifully dressed people he could imagine.

  Great crystal chandeliers hung overhead, thousands of candles setting fire to the glittering glass prisms.

  Every person was arrayed in silks and satins, diamonds and rubies.

  There were no children. There was no food in evidence. The few men were scattered and closely guarded. Music came from a small orchestra, in tune and on beat.

  Jerin froze at the top of the stairs, wanting to turn and escape back to their rooms.

  Eldest checked at the sight of the whirling dancers, then, hooking her arm with his, led him down the stairs, murmuring, “We’ve got the blood of Queens in us. We’re just as good as they are.”

  Corelle and Summer trailed wordlessly behind, Summer wide-eyed and Corelle looking sour, as if it all was putting a bad taste in her mouth.

  Behind them, Barnes announced loudly, “Miss Eldest Whistler, Master Jerin Whistler, Misses Summer and Corelle Whistler.”

  A handful of women turned at the announcement, glancing up at the Whistlers as they descended the stairs. The women’s gazes flicked over Eldest, then settled on Jerin and stayed. In ones and twos, others glanced their direction and didn’t look away, until dozens of eyes were focused on him.

  “They’re staring,” Jerin whispered.

  Eldest tightened her grip on him. “Of course they are. You’re beautiful. Smile. It’s not like they’re going to eat you.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I’ll rip the heart out of anyone that lifts a fork to you,” Eldest said so only he could hear, all the while giving a tight smile to those looking in their direction.

  “Holy Mothers!” Summer gasped. “Cullen!”

  Jerin missed Cullen at first, expecting to see the boy that climbed in through his window. After a minute of futilely scanning the crowd, he realized that the young man standing demurely behind Eldest Moorland was Cullen. His muddy blond hair had been dyed to a deep rich honey, interwoven with strands of gem-encrusted gold threads, and gathered in loose falls by green silk bows. Eyes down, head slightly bowed, hands clasped before him, his clothes falling in elegant unwrinkled lines, it seemed as if all of what was Cullen had been stripped away and a soulless doll stood in his place.

  Then Cullen lifted his head slightly to peep around, noticed Eldest Moorland was distracted, and saw them watching. He made a face, sticking out his tongue and rolling his eyes, then ducked his head again.

  His fingers, though, wiggled, indicating that they should join him.

  “Scamp,” Eldest Whistler’s tight grin relaxed into a true smile. “Let’s rescue him from his family.”

  “Ah, a husband raid,” Jerin whispered. “What us Whistlers do best.”

  Eldest Moorland greeted them with a nod. “Whistler.”

  Cullen flashed a grin at them and then returned to his demure mask.

  “Moorland.” Eldest Whistler started the social dance. It had been explained to them that by protocol, any woman that wanted to speak to a man had to talk first to his sister. Cullen and Lylia had gone over the accept-able topics for the conversation, and the length needed prior to addressing the brother.

  Luckily, there were no limits set on conversation between men.

  “What happened to you?” Jerin whispered to Cullen.

  “Eldest heard about our walk in the garden and gave me a blistering with her tongue.” Cullen whispered back. “She called me a Dru Hightower. Ha!”

  “A what?”

  Cullen risked glancing up to scan the room, then pointed out an elegant-looking young man, slightly older than the two of them. “In the east corner, in white-as if wrapping dirt up in clean linen could save face.”

  “He was caught kissing a girl?”

  “Worse. He was caught tumbling his betrothed wives’ servants during the betrothal period. It was a huge scandal-not that anyone really blamed him. His betrothed are all bloated toads, warts and all, but his betrothal contract had been signed, his brother’s price paid, so his betrothed had possession of him and everything. All the deal needed was the wedding-and a massive one had been planned. His betrothed hauled him back to his sisters and demanded a repayment.”

  “Did they get it?”

  “Of course. Damaged goods! No way to prove he was clean before the betrothal, and certainly they didn’t want to risk infecting the whole family. They say that one of the servants had been to a crib and caught som
ething other than a baby. They say on his first night with one of his actual betrothed, his Eldest wife discovered sores all over his you-know-what.”

  “Really?”

  Cullen shrugged. “Who knows? People start making stuff up after a while.”

  “I didn’t know wives could demand a repayment.”

  “Happens all the time.”

  Eldest Whistler turned to Cullen. “Your sister has given me permission for this dance.” She held out her hand, palm up. Cullen brightened and reached out to rest his fingertips on hers. They went out onto the dance floor, where other couples were gathering. How odd that the only time a woman and a man could be completely alone was in front of so many watchful eyes.

  “Jerin,” a woman’s voice said, making him turn. Kij Porter stood beside him, smiling. She indicated Summer with her chin as she extended her hand. “Your sister has given me permission for this dance.”

  He glanced to Summer, surprised. Summer gave him a helpless look, as if the older, politically savvy woman had outmaneuvered her. Corelle was nowhere in sight, apparently scouting out the rest of the men.

  Jerin rested his hand on Kij’s warm fingertips and allowed himself be led out onto the dance floor. She took him to the opposite end from where Eldest Whistler waited with Cullen for the music to start. They were deep in conversation, and didn’t notice him joining the dancers.

  “Do you remember your grandfather Prince Alan-non?” Kij asked.

  “Yes.” Out of habit, he avoided giving out too much family information.

  Kij seemed annoyed by the evasive answer. “He lived to be very old?”

  “Nearly seventy.” Jerin reminded himself this wasn’t a country fair; it would be safe to discuss family here. “He was fifteen when my grandmothers…” He swallowed the word “kidnapped.” With the Queens’ coaching, they had come up with a “sweeter” version of his family’s history. He substituted in the word “… found him. We lost him to a fever three years ago.”

  It was an important breeding point that none of his family had died of a weak heart, stroke, or other inherited illness. Only disease and accident had winnowed their ranks.