A King Awakened

by Cooper Davis

  The man’s eyes gleamed triumphantly; he knew that Alistair could never acknowledge nor deny anything at this table. Not without bringing suspicion upon them all. “I-I . . . I . . . ” Alistair’s natural, painful shyness swamped him whole. He trembled, his face and neck heating under his cravat and collar.

  “You really must find your actual words, Finley. Hmm?” The cad was taunting him, ridiculing him, and it only tangled his agitated tongue even worse.

  Alistair wanted to curse at the fop, although he only had himself to blame. He’d brought this swift breakfast disaster down upon his own head by imbibing before breakfast. But he’d been so nervy, so overwrought since pilfering Blaine’s rooms last night—and finding nothing useful at all.

  Alistair blotted at his brow, dampening with perspiration beneath the morning sunlight, streaming in from the windows. “You are a cad, Lord Vincent.”

  “Perhaps. But what is Lord Julian? Hmm?” The man tapped a finger against his crystal water glass. “That’s the pertinent question at hand. What type of fellow is he, whilst in his most private rooms. And what manner of gentleman is he with, at those times? Or even what manner of gentlemen—plural?”

  Alistair jerked back in his chair and snarled. “I should call you out.”

  “For what? Begging you to defend your beloved’s honor? Or for circling near what we both know to be true.”

  “Wh-which is . . . what?” Alistair gasped, barely finding his breath.

  “That a podgy spinster like you”—the lord scraped a gaze across Alistair’s thickset middle—“couldn’t possibly gain the notice of a beautiful, refined man like Lord Julian. Something is afoot, and I mean to learn how it pertains to our king.” Blaine gave him a smugly satisfied smile. “And when I ferret out the truth? I likewise mean to expose it—and you, Finley. I shall indeed expose you.”

  “Nothing to . . . ” The words died on Alistair’s lips.

  Oh, there was much to expose, beginning with Alistair himself and his bastardy. That he was a by-blow, sired inopportunely by the late king upon a peasant girl. That—contrary to Arend’s belief that they were foster brothers—Alistair was, in fact, the king’s half-brother.

  Yet that secret paled to the one that truly could destroy Arend’s reign: that he kept a concubine in his bed and at the palace, without his Council’s knowledge or approval.

  Lord Vincent stared at Alistair over the rim of his coffee cup, hawkish in his examination. “You can’t even bring yourself to deny that secrets exist in our midst. Damaging ones, ones I could expose—that could bring ruination on our good king.”

  All the air seemed to have left the room, leaving Alistair lightheaded and unsteady. “It’s naught to do with His Majesty.”

  A golden eyebrow shot upward. “All these years, you embraced spinsterhood. And suddenly that’s to change? When all society knows you have but one true love—and it comes from a bottle.”

  Alistair grimaced painfully, reaching for a glass of port that was, of course, not beside him. Not at breakfast, unless he dined quietly in his own rooms, and then he drank his fill, even this early. His fingers stretched and itched, his throat burned with the need to just numb everything. Now, it demanded. Now, man. Wave the footman over, and you can quench this frantic thirst.

  He sipped shakily from his water goblet, and instead said, “My private habits are my own business.”

  Vincent only waved away the statement. “Your peccadillos concern me not at all.” The man sipped his coffee, taking his time with the slow, torturous conversation. “All these years much has been concealed by the Tollemachs. Very much concealed. Important things.”

  “I’ve no notion what you—”

  Lord Vincent deposited his coffee with a clank, the liquid sloshing into the saucer. “But you do. All these years everyone knew these truths. Important, royal truths. About good King Arend Tollemach and his reign. His lineage. Widely, widely known, these truths, I assure you.”

  Alistair hardly knew what to expect, but he drew in a breath and held it, his large chest expanding tightly beneath his waistcoat. He braced for the words that—he knew—would somehow prove ruinous to them all. To Arend, in particular.

  Lord Vincent leaned much closer toward the table. “All of society knows”—the man lowered his voice—“that our fine king is solely inclined to other gentlemen. That he cannot abide a female beneath his loins at all.”

  Alistair blanched. Perhaps at the lewdness, perhaps from shock at such a bold assertion against their ruling monarch. “That’s . . . that’s an old rumor,” he managed, swallowing hard. “He sired Prince Darius” Alistair reached for a sip of water, but his hand shook overmuch, and Blaine let his gaze track to the trembling water goblet.

  “Ah, but don’t see? That’s another truth that’s been widely spoken. Almost openly acknowledged among those who matter most.” Blaine traced a fingertip languidly around the rim of his crystal goblet, eyeing Alistair. “Prince Darius is most likely not even King Arend’s own issue. But rather a bastard, who was sired upon Queen Cordelia when our king—inflamed with male lust—couldn’t put a babe in her regal belly.”

  “What traitorous balderdash!” Finally, Alistair found his voice. Because for all the suffering his brother had known in that bloody miserable marriage, for all the truth about his inclinations, Darius was his true son. Something that mattered to Alistair—of all men—with painful intensity, given his own illegitimacy. “How dare you. Prince Darius is a true prince of the realm. Always has been.” Alistair adored Darius and wasn’t about to allow Blaine to strike in the prince’s direction.

  “Ah, but there’s no way to know for certain, is there? And that’s the thing with rumors about bloodline and heirs. Once they’ve been fanned to life, they’re so very hard to squelch.” Blaine clucked his tongue. “It’s why the Council must force our king to sire more heirs. Because as it stands? It’s believed by some that the Tollemach reign has no legitimacy in Prince Darius.”

  The lord eyed Alistair with a glint, a damning, alarming glint in his pale eyes. Almost as if he were hinting at truths about Alistair himself—ones that only one man in the realm even knew about. His late father’s solicitor, the barrister who had overseen his late sire’s estate, and told him of his bastardy.

  Alistair’s skin turned clammy and he blotted at his forehead. “You impugn your king beneath his own cousin’s roof? At the duke’s own dining table? I should seek out Mardford posthaste. He’d want to learn, I’m quite sure, of your perfidy.”

  “Oh, do you think he’ll believe you? You’re barely more than a working man,” Blaine chided with a wicked wink. “I’ve heard him describe you precisely so.”

  Alistair barely stifled a gasp. The thing of it was, Sam had said that—often, in fact. But he’d been jesting, needling at Alistair who annoyed him for reasons he’d never grasped. But for Sam to apparently have derided him in front of Lord Vincent and so rudely?

  “What else are you, old Finley, but a working man? You’re our king’s man, the fellow who keeps his ledgers and minds after social fetes. The one pops his knuckles, when someone needs to learn what exactly is what, here at the palace.” He gave Alistair a considering glance. “Then again, I wager not. You’re much too soft for such a thing. The whole of you.”

  Alistair slammed a beefy hand onto the table, making the candelabras and glasses shake. Forcing the china into a single quick leap at each place. “I am our king’s own foster brother. Not a-a-a bloody . . . working man!”

  “No,” Blaine said softly, glancing toward the door, “there’s only one fellow staying at this estate who can properly answer to that lusty title, isn’t there? Working man. And I think we both know who that would be.”

  Alistair opened his mouth, ready to shred the arse for that threat against Julian—for practically calling him a whore. A whore. When no other pejorative could possibly hurt Jules more than that one. In fact, Alistair was quite close to arising from his chair and dragging the fool from the dining
room and to the pebbled drive, sending servants for pistols. Dangerously close to defending his friend’s honor thusly—and Arend’s just as ardently.

  There could be no more doubt. Lord Vincent had learned, somehow, that Jules was a hired bed attendant, a pleasure servant. A “working man”, as the lordling had put it, which made Julian sound cheap and rude, as if he smelled of stale cigars and day-old whiskey.

  Alistair opened his mouth to vigorously complain, but Lord Vincent’s expression brightened. His gaze focused over Alistair’s shoulder, toward the doorway behind him. “Oh, gracious! Look, here arrives the fair gentleman in question now. Your beau, Lord Julian, has arrived.”

  Alistair didn’t crane his neck but rose immediately to greet his arriving “beau.”

  When he turned, he found Julian as handsome-beautiful as ever, following in Sam’s wake. His cousin looked grim-faced and irritable, with reddened eyes and dark smudges under his eyes. Alistair couldn’t help regarding the duke with concern. “Your Grace?” he asked but wasn’t sure how to complete the query.

  Sam shook the question off with a grunt and a severe nod. Wholly unlike the man. Wholly. Had something further happened? Something that Alistair might not yet be party to, involving Arend?

  But then the viscount entered the dining room next, and Sam—for all his usual wicked humor and flirtation—seemed to fold inward. His shoulders literally rolled forward and he dropped his ordinarily mischievous gaze. He murmured a semi-articulate greeting to the viscount, but didn’t look up, or offer a smile.

  Lord Colchester’s face paled at the tepid greeting, and he mumbled his way through salutations to Julian and Alistair and even his own brother. He then took the chair farthest from Sam, beside Alistair, leaving a yawning gap between their host at one table end, and the rest of them at the other.

  Sam’s gaze took in that space, squaring itself on Colchester’s profile. His jaw tightened, and he blinked rapidly before tearing his gaze away from the viscount.

  So, that’s what—or rather whom—Sam’s foul temper was about. Maybe. Maybe not. Alistair couldn’t help a fit of fretfulness as he settled into his own seat anew, especially when Lord Vincent grinned at him like the cat who’d gotten the cream.

  I know the truth, that smarmy expression seemed to say. I know what our king is about—and who warms his bed. The male who serves at His Majesty’s command.

  Sam rose again abruptly, and they all bolted back to their feet, chairs scraping outward awkwardly. Sam grunted at them, waving them back into their seats. “Bloody hell, stay astride your chairs, why don’t the lot of you?” They dutifully reclaimed their seats whilst Sam trudged toward the sideboard. “Maybe a decent breakfast will help me,” he said, voice raspy. “My head is fucking killing me.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that, Your Grace,” Julian piped up from where he sat beside Alistair, his expression one of genuine concern. “Perhaps a special tea might help?”

  “No, fellow, nothing will bloody well help!” Sam growled at Julian, without turning back from the array of serving dishes. “Not with . . . this.” The man’s tone was downright morose. Broken. But then he seemed to catch himself in the act of revealing far too much. Sam lightened his tone a shade, saying, “Two bottles of gin simply have a way of leaving a man ragged.”

  “Yes, that’s . . . that is quite a lot, Your Grace,” Colchester piped in. That remark was met with a blistering scowl, tossed over Sam’s shoulder at the viscount. “Yes, then perhaps I should request a third, to consume right here at my grand table. Hmm?”

  “I’d rather you not,” Colchester indicated, gaze fixed on Sam as if no one else sat at that table.

  “I have a wife to admonish me, my lord.” Sam rolled his shoulders but didn’t spare a glance at the viscount.

  Colchester blinked back at that, then swiftly stared down at his lap.

  Sam made his way down the sideboard, plucking sausages and loading coddled eggs and other dishes onto his plate. “Yes, a third bottle might be just the thing for this arse-kicking headache of mine.”

  At that, one of the footmen stepped forward, clearly torn between helping Sam serve his plate or perhaps summoning that gin. Sam all but elbowed the young servant out of the way. “I can see after this myself. For heaven’s sake. I have told you, repeatedly, that I do not like to be so fawned over,” he snapped at the poor fellow.

  The footman bowed and retreated, his expression confused as he again took his place against the wall. Poor lad. He’d soon learn about Sam and his moods, although today’s temper was unusually foul.

  Sam flopped into his seat, then lifted a glance at Alistair. He gave a nod. “How goes it down there, Finley?”

  Alistair hadn’t expected Sam’s attention, not with him so unsteady and irritable. He hated being suddenly on the spot, with Lord Vincent’s hawkish regard from across the table. Thus, Alistair retreated to where he felt most secure: polite formality. “I’m well, Your Grace. Thank you. The breakfast is fine. The morning is . . . just fine, thank you.”

  Sam rolled his eyes and said nothing in response. Alistair had been an idiot, with that inane blathering, here among his only family. Embarrassed, he dropped his gaze to the full plate in front of him, which he’d eagerly served himself earlier. He’d been wholly unrestrained in the portions he’d chosen, too anxious over events to exercise restraint.

  Staring at that plate now, he could see it was ridiculously heaping with the fine breakfast fare. Lord Vincent, who’d been watching him like a raptor, noticed too. He snickered, “Such plump sausages. Hardly blame you for having four of them. Although—I believe I observed you consume at least one already, Mr. Finley.”

  Alistair blushed painfully, his hand moving to his thickish midriff with a self-conscious gesture.

  “Blaine, don’t be an arse,” Sam admonished. “I’ll likely have at least as many sausages before I’m done.” Sam gestured in Lord Vincent’s direction with his fork. “Although, Finley shall likely have his reliable second plateful. Thus, I shan’t compete too briskly with the gentleman’s broad appetites.”

  “Broad indeed.” Blaine snorted, and Alistair’s face heated even more. In that moment, he despised Samuel Tollemach. Loathed the man for turning Alistair into a lampooned figure, when he most wanted to be quiet and observe. “No, I doubt you can compete with all that, Your Grace. When there’s”—Lord Vincent studied Alistair’s plump waist—“so very much of it.”

  An awkward silence ensued. Beside him, Julian patted his forearm, as Alistair sat there, gaze downcast, trying to recompose himself. And failing bitterly at it. He could hear those so-called friends of his, back at university. Calling him, “peasant” because of his epic size and girth. Here, a by-blow seated at a duke’s table, he felt every bit that peasant again. Ashamed. And positively enormous.

  Fury knifed Alistair in his broad-indeed-belly, and he formed fists against his likewise broad-indeed-thighs, trying to quell the indignity and rage. He had always been portly—and he’d only grown portlier still over the last few social seasons. It was impossible to do otherwise, not unless he intended to curb his consumption of spirits. And he had no such plans, ever.

  “Oh, poorly done, Blaine,” Sam chastised at last. “Only I may tease and needle our large-arsed spinster. Because that’s just it. He’s our large-arsed spinster. Not yours. So please do stop insulting the good Mr. Finley.” Alistair dared an upward look at his cousin, and found Sam smiling at him sympathetically. The smile was strained, and never reached his cousin’s eyes, but at least he was trying. Some of Alistair’s anger at the man abated.

  “Besides, some men, I’m told,” said Sam with a wink, “find large-arsed spinsters devilish appealing. Gauging by Finley’s many suitors over the years, the rumor clearly holds water.”

  “Perhaps that explains it,” Blaine said offhandedly, taking a bite of the now-infamous sausage.

  Sam sighed dramatically. “Explains bloody what, Blaine? Don’t bait us all. Say what you bloody well mean.”r />
  Blaine dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “Lord Julian’s obvious enchantment with our Mr. Finley.”

  “Not your Mr. Finley,” Sam corrected again, tone turning arch and shockingly . . . protective. “Our Mr. Finley. Not yours.” The duke widened his eyes at the lordling. “Or did you forget that Mr. Alistair Finley is our own king’s foster brother? No, you could not possibly have done. It’s been brought to your remembrance a few times now. But to be clear, Mr. Finley is, point of fact, my own foster cousin, so please be a decent fellow henceforth.”

  “Apologies,” Blaine said and fell silent, his lips pursed into a taut line. Out of the corner of his eye, Alistair caught the man’s brother searching out Sam, and then a grateful, almost dear smile graced Sam’s lips in response. Alistair couldn’t be imagining a connection between those two, could he? It wasn’t the first time he’d have sworn that the unruly, downright difficult Samuel Tollemach softened whenever that viscount was near.

  Sam swiveled his glance back upon Alistair, nodding encouragingly. “I say, Finley, isn’t it true that only last season you rebuffed two suits from members of the Lord Council?”

  Alistair stared down sharply at his heaping plate of food, flushing painfully. Anyone after “Spinster Finley” was only ever after one thing: access to King Arend Tollemach. “I . . . I am quite sure I’ve no notion what you mean,” he stammered, feeling his face heat.

  “Oh bollocks. The point is, Lord Vincent, that Mr. Finley has had quite his share of suitors.”

  “I never suggested that he didn’t.” The fellow’s gaze took in Alistair’s full form, and he smirked. “I merely wondered why now? Why with Lord Julian, in particular?”

  “Because I care for him,” Jules announced curtly. “And he for me. Enough said on that matter.” Beside him, Julian turned a radiant smile on him. “You look so handsome this morning, Mr. Finley. The tie pin I gave you as a courtship gift looks smashing with that waistcoat.”