Servant of the Crown (The Crown of Tremontane Book 1)

by Melissa McShane

  “It’s one of my better traits,” Zara said. “Did Anthony show you the palace?”

  “Most of it, I think.”

  “Not the most important part,” Anthony growled. “Zara, did you know that librarian who looks like a walking skeleton wouldn’t let us into the Library?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he has his head stuck up his—”

  “Anthony, if you don’t like me saying it, I don’t think you should either.”

  Anthony gave Alison a sour look. “His only reason was ‘because I said so’.”

  Zara took another bite of salad. “That’s odd. Alison, why might he refuse someone entrance?”

  “Why do you ask me?”

  “Because of the three of us at this table, you are the expert on this subject. Is there some reason it might be necessary to protect a library from outsiders?”

  “If you were worried about vandalism—but that would only mean restricting access to people who knew how to handle the books, and I think I’d qualify for that latter category.” Zara nodded. “The possibility of theft. A decaying collection that shouldn’t be handled, but even then you could permit access under supervision. It sounds to me as if Bancroft just wants control. Some people are like that.”

  “Indeed.” Zara took another bite. Alison applied herself to her food and cast about for something she could say to royalty. She glanced at Anthony, who made a face at her. She nearly choked on her mouthful of food and had to cover her mouth with her napkin, thought about kicking him under the table, and realized her nervousness was beginning to evaporate.

  “I’m interested in the Library’s new acquisitions,” Zara said abruptly. “I understand the publishing industry has made great strides in the last thirty years, since the development of the new printing Devices.”

  “It’s true. Quinn Press alone will publish almost five hundred new titles this year thanks to the new Devisery. And we expect that number to grow exponentially as we improve our processes.”

  “Is that what you do, then? Processes?”

  “No, I’m an editor. And I handle odd jobs for my father.”

  “And yet I understand you studied at the Scholia. Why not take the robe? You seem more than capable of the work.”

  “Thank you, Zara, but there’s more to it than the studying.” How to put this politely? “The Scholia is as much a political entity as a scholastic one. Taking the robe means…knowing the right people. Having the right opinions. I was interested in becoming a librarian, yes, but not at that cost. I just loved books and wanted to share them with others. So I became an editor.”

  “I suppose being in and out of your father’s business all your life had something to do with that,” Anthony said.

  “Probably. And there’s a certain pleasure in being able to shape someone else’s words.”

  “Not control them, then?” Zara asked.

  “Some editors do. Some authors need that. I like having a partnership with my authors. Though sometimes that’s just not possible.” She rolled her eyes at Anthony, who laughed.

  “I’m missing something,” Zara said.

  “The playwright I told you about,” Anthony said. “Alison is his editor.”

  “Forgive me,” said Zara, “but would there even be an interest in reading plays as opposed to seeing them performed?”

  “There’s a great deal of interest here in Aurilien, where there are so few real theaters. People don’t often have the chance to see performances, but the plays are still powerful literature.”

  “Zara, I still think you should sponsor a theater,” Anthony said.

  “I said I’d consider it. I do have other things to worry about, brother. Alison, would a book of plays by this man be something the Royal Library should acquire?”

  “Oh, definitely,” Alison said, then added, “provided you could convince Bancroft they were worthy literature. Access to the Library isn’t all he controls. They haven’t bought a new book in two years.”

  “Really.” Zara pushed her plate away. “How strange. The Royal Library is supposed to acquire new books all the time. I wonder that Bancroft’s standards are so high.” She tapped her finger against her lips. “Very strange.”

  “It’s not all that’s strange,” Anthony said. “Alison says the environment is all wrong for storing books, and there are books missing from the catalog.”

  Zara looked Alison’s way. “Are there,” she said in that same tone. “Missing, or destroyed?”

  “They say destroyed. But I suppose some may have gone missing over time. It’s a very old library.”

  “But ten years ago the environment was perfect. How could it have changed?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t been inside to see.”

  “Maybe I should look into this.” Zara signaled to the server to bring dessert. “I feel I’ve left the Library to the care of the Scholia Masters without taking a personal interest.”

  “I’m sure you have so many other things to think about,” Alison said.

  “We’re the caretakers of the oldest collection of literary history in the country. I should at least be aware of what’s going on inside it. Alison, thank you for bringing this to my attention.”

  “I—it’s my pleasure.”

  Zara cocked an eyebrow at her. “I know perfectly well you simply care too much about books to let this go. I’m surprised I haven’t had a complaint about you from Bancroft, given what I’ve heard about how persistent you are. No, don’t be embarrassed, it was a compliment. I don’t like the man much myself.” She finished her dessert and waved away the server’s offer of coffee. “I have to go back to work. Please stay as long as you like.” She exited via the same invisible door she’d come in by.

  Anthony and Alison looked at each other. “She’s like a force of nature,” Alison said.

  “Yes, a tidal wave sweeping everything in her path,” Anthony agreed. “Will you take coffee?”

  “Please.”

  They chatted about trivialities for a while, then they rose and Anthony escorted Alison back to the Dowager’s apartments. “Thank you again for the tour, and dinner,” Alison said. “And I still think trying to get me into the Library was the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

  “Think how much nicer it would have been if it had worked,” Anthony said, his eyes twinkling with good humor. He took her hand and kissed the back of it, lightly. “I’m going into the country for a few days, but would you like to go riding again next week? Before the weather turns too cold?”

  His hand was warm and dry in hers and she had a moment’s inexplicable discomfort that passed so quickly she barely had time to acknowledge it. She was suddenly conscious of the guards, both female, standing sentinel on either side of the Dowager’s door. “I would like that very much,” she said.

  “Then I’ll see you next week,” he said, releasing her, and held the door for her. She stood in the antechamber, which was empty, for a few seconds, breathing in the scent of poppies arranged in the tall vase in the center of the room. It was irrational for her to feel bereft just because she wouldn’t see her friend for a few days. It was a mistake for her to depend so much on one relationship for her entertainment. Well, she didn’t, though, did she? She had the other ladies, they were friends, and the Dowager had turned out to be so kind and understanding. And it wasn’t as if she would have nothing else to do: she would make calls with the Dowager day after tomorrow, and then the Dowager was hosting a supper for her friends and she would…oh, no, she would have to make conversation. But they were all going out tomorrow…to a concert, something awful with people tooting horns or flutes. And the Queen’s birthday gala was in five days, and that meant wearing full court attire, with the rigid frame under her silk skirt that made it stand out two feet in every direction and swayed like a bell with her legs for the clapper. She went into her room and shut the door hard behind her. It seemed the only thing she had to look forward to in the near future was going to the t
heater to talk business with Doyle, and even he would want her to go over investment proposals she didn’t want to consider right now. She thought about riding in the Park with Anthony, of sweet little Ebon Night and how wonderful it felt to race in the crisp cold air, and wished next week would arrive tomorrow.

  Chapter Ten

  Alison sat in Mirabella d’Arden’s salon, a poorly lit room draped in blue gauze, and tried not to fidget. Her gown of mint green silk patterned with pink rosebuds was a little too thin for the chilly room. From what the Dowager had said of Lady d’Arden—or, more accurately, what she hadn’t said—Alison gathered that Lady d’Arden believed in the healthful properties of cold air and had only installed heating Devices in her home when her husband protested. Alison was sure the Devices were turned to their lowest setting now. She tried to focus on the poetry reading, which was actually very good; she should suggest to their father they court the author away from Struthers & Fine. Shereen Wilson was a better poet, but it wouldn’t hurt for Quinn Press to cultivate more than just the one.

  Two seats away, Elisabeth Vandenhout stifled a yawn, which forced Alison to stifle a smile. Elisabeth didn’t like readings, and Alison rather guiltily found the woman’s discomfort enjoyable. It was even better tonight, because yesterday morning Elisabeth had said something catty about Alison and her nonexistent romantic relationship with Anthony North, and Alison, caught off guard, had blushed and stumbled over her words in response, and then everyone had begun teasing her until the Dowager suggested gently that perhaps they could find better things to do with their time. The other four ladies hadn’t taken it any further, but Elisabeth had found several opportunities to needle her since then, infuriating Alison. She felt at a loss to know how to respond. No, she wasn’t in love with Anthony, but it felt so…wrong…to vehemently deny it, as if that denial was a repudiation of the relationship they did have. Worse, every time Elisabeth brought up the topic, Alison was reminded of the fact that her friend was gone and she missed him more than she’d expected. She’d begun counting the days until he returned, though doing so made her angry at herself for being so needy and sentimental. She turned her attention back to the poetry, which was robust and non-sentimental. It had been a surprise to her that the Dowager counted this poet among her favorites.

  The lights came up just a little, enough to indicate there would be a short break, and Alison stood and tried to stretch without actually stretching. She left her place and wandered around the room, looking at the artwork Lady d’Arden had on display, portraits of d’Ardens throughout history.

  “Milady Countess, how good to see you again.”

  She turned to find Alexander Bishop at her elbow, his long, sneering face attempting a pleasant smile. “Hello, Mister Bishop, and how are you this evening?” Alison said, hoping her smile looked more genuine than his did.

  “Much better, now,” he said, taking her half-heartedly offered hand and bowing over it. Anthony would want me to be polite to his friend, she reminded herself, and kept her smile as friendly as she could manage. “Do you enjoy poetry, then?” he continued.

  “I do, though I prefer novels. I understand his Highness is in the country; did you not choose to join him?” It was the only conversational gambit she could think of, though saying it gave her the same empty feeling that always struck her when she remembered Anthony would be gone for another three days.

  “Tony knows I dislike the country,” Bishop said, taking her arm and beginning to circle the room without asking if she cared to join him. “I’m a creature of the city. Never go into the country except on business. What of you?”

  “I…yes, I prefer the city myself,” Alison said, “or at least I don’t mind visiting the country at times, but there are so many more things to do in cities.”

  “Like the theater?” Bishop’s sneering face turned his smile into something nastier, as if enjoying the theater was something only naïve, unsophisticated people did. The empty feeling turned cold.

  “I do enjoy the theater, yes. Have you never attended a performance? Perhaps it is something you would like.”

  “Possibly. You’ve certainly turned Tony into an aficionado. Haven’t heard him so enthusiastic for years. Not since he was squiring Lydia Brown about town. Now she kept him on his toes.”

  The cold feeling turned to ice. “I’m afraid I’m not acquainted with Miss Brown.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t be, would you? Not really your sort of people. Tony thought he was in love with her, for a time. Kept her in good style. Good thing for him his grand passions never last long. He’s always choosing the least suitable women to bestow his affections on.”

  “Is he?” It was hard to talk through the frozen mask.

  “He’s just very good at knowing exactly what a woman wants to hear,” Bishop said, lowering his voice as if it were a profound secret. Then his expression went guilty. “I apologize,” he said. “I should not have said anything so indecent to you. Please forgive me.”

  “I was not offended, Mister Bishop,” Alison managed. “His Highness’s personal life is of little interest to me. As his friend, of course I don’t feel I should pass judgment on any mistakes he might have made.”

  “Very generous of you. I’m surprised you can call him a friend. I don’t think Tony’s ever had a female friend he wasn’t trying to—that is, his interest in women has always been romantic.”

  “I suppose nothing is impossible, is it?” She had a terrible urge to slap him, and thought wildly, Zara might make me appear in public with him, and had to hold back a laugh. A look of anger crossed Bishop’s face briefly, then the sneering smile reappeared. “We do have more things in common than I believed two months ago,” she added.

  “Obviously,” he said, then looked around as the lights dimmed again. “May I escort you back to your seat?”

  “Thank you, Mister Bishop, I would appreciate that,” she said, but when she was again seated she watched him walk away and tried to keep from freezing over entirely. That guilty expression had been fake, she was certain of it, and everything about that conversation had been carefully planned by Bishop. He’d wanted to make her uncomfortable, though why he’d thought telling her about Anthony’s affairs would discomfit her, she wasn’t sure. Possibly he’d thought her the kind of simpering maiden for whom any discussion of sex, any mention of illicit affairs that strained someone’s family bonds, was embarrassing. Besides, why bring up something that was in the past? She hadn’t heard of Anthony having any sexual affairs recently, but then he wouldn’t mention anything like that to her, would he? And even if he did, it wasn’t as if she’d stop being his friend, much as the idea appalled her.

  Wait. That was what Bishop wanted. He wanted her to be horrified by Anthony’s affairs and shun him. Why under heaven would Bishop do something like that? Was he really so threatened by her friendship with Anthony? Apparently he was one of those people who couldn’t bear their closest friends to have any other friendships, as if friendship were something that was diluted the more friends you had. Alison looked across the room at where Bishop sat, looking with some interest at the reader, and felt her dislike of him flower into hatred. She had one true friendship in Aurilien and he was trying to destroy it out of spite.

  She tried to listen to the reading, but couldn’t stop picturing his sneering, ugly face, speaking those ugly words. Whatever Anthony might have done in the past, she was certain he’d put it behind him. Mostly certain, anyway. Certain enough that she wasn’t going to hate him for it now. If she were going to be angry with Anthony over anything, it was that he held this awful man in such high esteem. He couldn’t know what Bishop was really like, or he would sever the connection. And she certainly couldn’t tell Anthony the truth, because he’d just become angry with her the way he had on the way home from the races. The poetry was flat and uninspired now. How strange that she’d ever found it appealing.

  She sat, hands clenched in her lap, until the reading was over, then contributed to the di
scussion on the way back to the palace with frozen, curt responses. The Dowager and Elisabeth were both riding in the other carriage, for which she was grateful; the Dowager would know something was wrong, and try to coax it out of her, and Elisabeth would needle her until Alison snapped. Finally safe in her own suite, she dressed for bed and took the comb from Belle’s hand to comb her own hair until she felt calm enough to sleep. It wasn’t true. Anthony wasn’t like that anymore. He wasn’t the man she’d slapped at the Equinox Ball; that was a face he’d worn out of habit, concealing his true self, kind and honest and a true friend. She clung to those thoughts as she climbed into bed, then slept, and had disturbing dreams she only remembered filmy shreds of when she woke the next morning.

  Alison held her arms slightly away from her body and tried not to inhale as Belle tightened her corset strings a little more. The bodice of her court dress stood on the bed opposite her, actually stood thanks to its heavy blue and gold embroidery and the thousands of tiny gold beads stitched in patterns all across it. The sapphire blue skirt, also covered in starburst patterns of gold beads, stood next to the bed. Its rigid frame of thin wood kept it as upright as she was constrained to be by the corset. The whole ensemble was stiff and formal and she wished she could send it to the ball in her place.

  Belle dressed Alison’s hair in the equally stiff and formal style traditional for this garb, though she let one curly tress hang over Alison’s right shoulder in defiance of tradition. The bodice was cut a little too low for Alison’s comfort, but she had to admit she looked very good in blue. For the first time in years, she wore her Countess’s tiara of twined silver and gold wire framing a cabochon-cut fire opal that didn’t strictly match the rest of her attire, but it was, again, tradition.

  “Oh, milady, you are so beautiful,” Belle whispered, as if Alison’s beauty might disappear if she spoke too loudly.

  “Thank you, Belle. I love what you’ve done with my hair.” Alison touched it gingerly and felt it move not at all. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to dance in this dress.”