A King Awakened

by Cooper Davis

  “That’s not what qualifies as legal ‘consummation’,” Arend said, shaking off the remark. “Maybe in Agadir, but not in this realm. That much I do have quite right.”

  Finley rubbed at his eyes tiredly. “Did you ensure the maids wouldn’t find anything when they changed the linens?” he inquired, glancing betwixt them swiftly. “Nothing damns a gentleman quite like stiff sheets.”

  “We . . . did not.” Arend chewed his lip. For the first time since Finley appeared, the king’s cocksure tone wavered.

  Alistair gave a long-suffering exhalation, folding beefy arms across his chest. “Perhaps, Julian, you were more cautious, what with your training? Surely you thought to vouchsafe your king’s reputation, knowing his throne is imperiled.”

  Julian dropped his gaze; things had been far too passionate—and Arend much too reassuring about the duke’s discreet household staff—for him to be mindful of the linens. Or the mingled proof of their lovemaking.

  “I see,” Finley said. “Then maids, footmen—even your own blasted linens and counterpane—could attest to consummation. Perhaps even Julian himself could be brought to testify to the concubinage’s legitimacy.”

  Julian shook his head fervently. “I would never—”

  “Of course not. Most paid servants never would,” Alistair told him stiffly, “and yet when enough coin or pressure is applied, they inevitably do spill their bedroom tales.”

  “I—I honestly can’t believe you just said that to me, Mr. Finley,” Julian sputtered. “You . . . you are my friend. Or I’ve believed you to be.”

  “On the contrary, Lord Julian. I am your faux paramour. Naught more.” There was a vaguely hurt expression to the man’s guarded gaze. “We are neither confidants nor conspiratorial allies. I serve His Majesty, as do you.”

  But the fleeting sadness in Finley’s gaze revealed another truth. After a decade at Sapphor, Julian understood male friendship, and Alistair Finley was, indeed, his friend. But they’d humiliated him by engaging sensually when Jules was meant to be awaiting Finley’s own arrival—his beau, supposedly. Fictitious courtship or not, their display had nevertheless wounded the fellow.

  Jules grimaced as he watched Finley neatly recompose himself—he tugged down his waistcoat, adjusted his frock coat with a crisp tug. He was the picture of sartorial handsomeness, but somehow didn’t understand his own beauty. All because of his stout size.

  Julian moved to Finley’s side and gently touched his arm. In a much-lowered voice, one he hoped Arend wouldn’t overhear, he whispered, “I did not mean to scandalize or shame you, dear sir. And you are most decidedly my friend. I only hope that I remain yours?”

  Finley stared at Julian’s hand, then with a stiff gesture gave it a reassuring pat. “His Majesty would say I’m prone to conservativism on some matters,” he replied. “Chiefly his reputation.”

  Jules inclined his head dutifully. “Mr. Finley, on my honor, no such public indiscretion shall happen again. I can’t fathom how it happened here, honestly.”

  “What I can’t fathom,” Finley interjected, shocking Jules with a robust laugh, “is how it happened at all. You were most vexed with my foster brother only an hour previous.”

  At these words Arend, who had been silent for a long time, gave a low chuckle. “Fin, if you’d ever had a paramour, you’d know that—given Julian’s earlier pique—sensual congress was the most likely outcome. Not the least.”

  Oh, dear, Julian thought at once. With Alistair’s pride already wounded, pointing out the fact that he’d not had a beau was the wrong tack altogether.

  The high color on Finley’s cheeks turned ruddier, and he sputtered, “I . . . I am not an utter prig nor a total innocent. Even as you, at present, are a total arse.” He turned from them both and began to trudge away with heavy steps.

  Arend leapt after him, capturing his arm. “Alistair! Come now! That wasn’t meant to prick at your pride.”

  Alistair spun on him, overheated and breathless. “Have you any notion what you’ve done? Have you, Arend? You’ve created a disaster of such titanic proportions that even I cannot swoop in and put it to rights.”

  “You’re the only one who witnessed us,” Arend began, but Finley stormed closer, cutting him off.

  “A new queen and a marriage by summer’s end?” he cried. “Isn’t that what you told them all?”

  Arend winced. “It wasn’t quite—”

  “Oh, but wasn’t it? And before you answer, sire, you should know that I’ve already heard how you announced just such a plan at luncheon. In the presence of Lord Vincent, no less.”

  The two men faced off. “I don’t expect you to mop up after me, Fin,” Arend said. “You should, however, remember that you’re my secretary, and that despite our intimate friendship and familial tie, you serve at His Majesty’s pleasure.”

  Even Julian blinked at that.

  “Aye, I remain in your service,” Finley said coolly. “Until the day you’re off your throne, and another monarch wears your crown. Which I can only assume must be your express intention, Your Majesty.”

  Arend huffed, scowling at his foster brother. “You can be quite the bastard,” Arend cursed. Then he held out his hands in clear surrender. “And a tetchy one at that, when you hold the moral high ground.”

  “Which is usually where I stand, in all matters.” Finley raised an elegant black brow, a hint of a smile tugging at his full mouth. “Even so, I’m heartened by the petulant name-calling. Whenever you resort to such commonness, it signals your compliance. And that’s what is needed just now.”

  “You’re saying we can right this?” Arend searched Alistair’s face. “Despite the hash I’ve made of things?”

  “I’m saying that with your cooperation”—Finley reached to straighten Arend’s necktie—“and Lord Julian’s, we might yet solve your predicament.”

  Julian asked, “Will you still claim that I broke off our attachment, Mr. Finley? As you suggested earlier?”

  “Now, I like that idea,” Arend interjected rousingly.

  Finley shook his head. “Not just yet. For now, our ‘courtship’ provides a shield. Because I have a plan and we’ll need a shield . . . whilst we set about a bit of detective work this evening.” Finley reached for his pocket watch, popping it open. “Only two hours until dinner gong, so I must lay out my strategy for you both.”

  Chapter Nine

  After dinner, everyone gathered in the grand drawing room, a stately, almost masculine place, filled with leather chairs and exquisite carpets. The entire room was decorated in deep hues, ones that transformed to warm claret by firelight. The scene would have been lovely—downright cozy—if Arend weren’t so on edge.

  Attempt to learn all that you can from Viscount Colchester, Alistair had urged him. Consider yourself a spymaster, acting under your own aegis. That’s what Alistair had advised him, as he’d laid out his plans for their detective work this evening. Then he’d added, “I will escape early this evening, and slip into Lord Vincent’s rooms, if I’m able. Nose around, see what I might find.”

  And so, as planned, Arend had engaged Viscount Colchester in a game of cards. It was just the pair of them off in this nook, sheltered behind two towering palms. Across the expansive room, Lucy and Julian sat at the piano, inclining their heads conspiratorially. Watching them, Arend almost believed Julian might find a permanent place in his life and family. Almost.

  “Your Majesty, I have raised your wager.” Colchester’s remark brought Arend’s dreamy-eyed attention back to the table. He needed to be more circumspect.

  “Ah, so you have.” Arend studied his cards—a quick effort to hide his discomposure—then pushed his bet across the baize tabletop.

  Colchester examined his own hand with a mirthful laugh. “Aren’t the royal coffers teeming with enough coin, sire?” He rubbed his clean-shaven jaw as if dumbfounded. “A swift sacking indeed.”

  Arend laughed sympathetically. “Mr. Finley so rarely allows me access to the ledgers
, I’m forced to purloin other gentlemen’s coin—whenever and however I’m able.”

  Colchester swept the cards into a stack, then began shuffling. “Finley does seem every bit the quartermaster. So reserved and solemn. But it’s the quiet types they always caution us about, is it not? Although”—Colchester’s gaze alighted on Julian—“perhaps Lord Julian never heard that warning.”

  Arend made a great production of straightening a toppled stack of chips. “I’m happy that the two of them seem to get on,” he said, sounding as bland as he could manage. “I wonder if they shall indeed marry.”

  “Would that outcome disappoint you, sire?” Colchester kept his expression mild.

  Arend nearly knocked over the stack of chips. “Whyever should that—I would not . . . .” He coughed, struggling to find a suitable response. “I’d never begrudge Fin any happiness, particularly not in courtship. Lord Julian seems a sporting enough fellow.”

  Colchester gave him a strangely sympathetic smile. “My sincere apologies if I pressed too delicately close.”

  “Too close to what?” Struggling to shield his unsteady reaction, Arend reached for his wine.

  “Allow me to explain myself.” Colchester set his cards aside and drew his chair a bit closer. “You see, I knew your late wife in my youth, which gives me a certain . . . perspective on the marriage that was forced upon you.”

  Arend’s neck flamed hot beneath his cravat. He could barely hear anything, save the blood rushing in his own ears. “Pardon me, my lord, but I don’t recall Cordelia ever mentioning you.”

  “I’m not surprised.” The viscount reached for his port glass and took a sip, gaze turning vaguely distant. “Forgive me for saying so, Your Majesty, but there was no love lost between the two of us.”

  Arend gave a blunt snort. “No need to ask my forgiveness on that count. There wasn’t much love lost between Cordelia and anyone. At least not anyone who legitimately knew her,” he added, remembering the throngs who’d gathered to mourn as her cortege passed by.

  “She wasn’t particularly fond of me—after a time. Not once I rebuffed her . . . ah, interest,” Colchester said. “But let’s leave it there, shall we?”

  Arend set down his cards, fascinated. “Oh, let’s not. Do you mean to say that you resisted Cordelia’s feminine wiles?”

  Colchester nodded. “A few years before becoming betrothed to you, she spent half a summer in dogged pursuit of me.” The gentleman shrugged. “Of course, king trumps viscount quite handily, so she landed on top. I’m sure she regarded her fortunes thusly.”

  “I’m curious. Why didn’t you reciprocate her interest? After all, the outside package was quite comely.” She might have been unable to stir Arend’s passions, but Cordelia’s pursuit had often proved intoxicating to even the most stalwart of men—at least, those so inclined.

  “It was my hope, in those heady days of youth, to marry a particular gentleman.” Suddenly pensive, Colchester traced a gloved fingertip on the tabletop. “But in the end, my father saw me betrothed to a female—as most papas of the peerage are wont to do.” The viscount met and held Arend’s gaze significantly. “But you’re likewise familiar with the burdens of lineage . . . and broken betrothals.”

  “You . . . .” Arend blinked, his breath catching. You know of Prince Darien? He couldn’t voice the words, not when this exchange might be a trap.

  The viscount smiled sympathetically. “There are no secrets among the nobility, sire. Or, rather, there are many—but most are told in time.”

  There are no secrets among the nobility. Was Colchester cautioning him about Julian? About their clandestine concubinage?

  Arend decided to feint. “You had a particular young man you wished to marry?”

  “There was someone, yes.” The viscount’s gaze assumed a faraway cast, a tender smile on his lips. “But, alas, our lives took different paths.” The smile faded. “There was duty and obligation for me, as well, sire.”

  “What”—Arend swallowed hard—“what of your brother? He seems most taken with Lord Julian.” He’d not even meant to bleat the question, the words escaping his mouth breathlessly, like he was a jealous, lovesick pup.

  Arend glanced across the room at Lord Vincent, who had the gall to run his tongue across his upper lip while gazing at Julian. Arend thought he might cast up his accounts. “Yes, sire, my brother shares our inclinations, as you can plainly see. And yet . . . ” The viscount studied his sibling warily. “Unlike me, Vincent’s not burdened with the need to sire heirs. Or pass along a title.” And then, almost grimly, Colchester added, “I suspect he believes Lord Julian might make a fine husband.”

  “But Julian”—Arend cleared his throat—“Lord Julian is clearly off the market.”

  Something in the knowing way Colchester caught and held Arend’s gaze made his face flame hot. “My lord, perhaps you’re merely seeking some sort of incriminating revelation—much as your brother’s done all day,” Arend said, a bit testily.

  “No, Your Majesty, assuredly not.” Colchester shook his head vigorously. “I’d never seek, nor wield, your confidences to calamitous effect. And I am a staunch monarchist, as your cousin will surely attest.” Colchester searched his face, expression earnest. “The duke knows how very loyal I am to the Tollemachs—and to you, King Arend.”

  Arend inclined his head, flushing at the intensity of the lord’s pledge. “Indeed, my cousin does speak very highly of you. And that you have his good esteem? It means quite much to me.”

  Colchester beamed, his freckled face spreading in a wide smile. “Your Majesty, I’m honored. And grateful. Truly, your cousin has proved a welcome . . . confidant? Of sorts. The duke, I mean. Mardford.” Colchester’s face turned puce and he made a great production of staring at the baize tabletop.

  But when the viscount lifted his gaze anew? By God, there was something there. Something directed toward Samuel—and wasn’t entirely platonic, whatever that thing might be. Capital fellow, indeed, he thought, recalling Sam’s description of the viscount prior to the party.

  Arend chuckled despite himself. “Duke or no, I wouldn’t necessarily trust Sam any farther than you can see him. You do know what a rascal he is?”

  “No need to warn me off. I’ve known your cousin for many years. My estate is only separated from Ferndale by two others. We renewed our youthful friendship when my wife became ill a few years ago.” Colchester tipped his chin upward, declaring loyalty more loudly than any words he might’ve uttered in Sam’s defense.

  Oh, yes, there was something there, all right. Arend had noticed Sam’s odd interactions with the viscount earlier in the day—what could only be described as a desire to impress the man. There was, for instance, Sam’s ridiculous efforts at showing off during lunch, with all that bragging about his wine cellar, of all things.

  Arend shifted in his seat, suddenly aware that he was perhaps connected to the viscount in ways he’d not initially imagined. The realization dragged Arend’s gaze to Julian, who had been quietly singing earlier, and then stopped, playing the pianoforte along with Lucy.

  Now, he stood anew, Lucy smiling up at him encouragingly “Julian, truly. We all wish to hear you sing much more.” Then, in a lowered voice—but one that Arend still heard—she added, “Now that he is gone.”

  He, being Lord Vincent who had departed the room a few moments earlier.

  Julian smiled down sweetly at Lucy, and began to sing. The notes curved upward on a spiral staircase of possibility, much stronger than when Lord Vincent had still been in the room.

  Arend leaned forward in his chair, rapt. He couldn’t discern the Agadirian lyrics, not against their underpinning of operatic trills. But that hardly mattered. All thoughts of mutinies and spymaster techniques momentarily forgotten, he was ensorcelled, swept up and away by Julian’s musical enchantment.

  His concubine was a delicate songbird. A songbird that was unaware of its fragile-glass melody; that its crystalline spell could break at the slightest touch or
resistance. Julian belonged with the Royal Opera, not here, not as a recent matriculant of a sensual temple. How had he ever landed at Sapphor with that voice? His future should have taken a radically different course.

  Bathed in candlelight, his appearance even more golden than usual, Julian had never appeared more stunning than he did right now—with that voice, that mesmerizing melody, wrapping itself about Arend like his lover’s own arms.

  Colchester laughed knowingly, his own gaze directed toward the piano. “He is very lovely. I’ve rarely seen a more handsome man, and I’ve traveled abroad quite often in my time. That Agadirian blood is quite something, isn’t it?”

  There it was again, the undisguised fishing as pertained to Julian. Colchester clearly suspected that he meant more to Arend than mere friend.

  Arend wanted to trust the viscount, an instinct that was further fostered by Sam’s unequivocal approval of the man. Drawing in a steadying breath, he asked in a low voice, “Are you prying now—or merely conversing?”

  “I’m warning you,” Colchester replied, his gaze unblinking, “in a roundabout fashion.”

  Arend nailed the viscount with a piercing stare. “State your mind plainly. No need for circuitous paths, sir. What do you mean to say?”

  Placing one gloved palm upon the baize, the viscount bent nearer. “Plainly? I loathe how the Lords’ Council is endeavoring to cuckold and control you, sire. Your throne, your life, your family. Nor do I approve of their demands. A man should be free to court—or marry—as he’s inclined, and not be required to endure a forced match.” Folding his cards together and placing them facedown upon the table, Colchester went on. “You’re right to distrust my brother, sire, and not just about Lord Julian.” His tone was grim and edged with caution. “Relations Vincent and I may be, but you witnessed his treachery firsthand at luncheon.”

  “Treachery?” Arend set down his own cards. “Explain your meaning, my lord.”