Chapter Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Eight
I don’t know how Henry imagines I can simply act as if my entire life up till just last week hasn’t been a lie, but he does.
I can’t yet bring myself to call him Father.
I’m not even sure he wants me to—but at least the children of kings are still expected to use their formal titles in public spaces, so I am safe from any awkwardness for now.
The realization that everyone around me knew the truth before I did comes in the days that follow.
Even Renard knew. He knew my deepest secret before I did, and he used it against me.
Against my crew. The utter violation of it makes my innards twist into nauseating knots.
I hate him more with every passing day. And I miss my crew, and my dear captain.
Every time I think of it, my heart starts racing and I fear I will be sick.
At least one good thing has come of it: Thomas is officially my valet, and I do like him a great deal. Something about him feels like home—the same way the twins felt like home. There is a camaraderie between us that is at once painful and beautiful.
Even now he is setting my nerves at ease simply by annoying me as he expertly plaits my hair back. “Are you certain you won’t wear a wig, Your Highness?”
“I’m not sure you’re supposed to call me that,” I point out. “I’m not a prince.”
“But you are His Majesty’s son.”
“Not officially,” I remind Thomas. “And yes, I’m sure I won’t wear a wig. I don’t have a title or a place in the House, so I don’t have to wear a stuffy wig.” Thomas gives an exasperated sigh, and I smile. “I’ll let you rouge my cheeks if that will placate you.”
Thomas laughs at that and steps around me after tying a ribbon into the bottom of my plait. “I’m not going to rouge your cheeks, my lord. You already look like a rake without a wig, simply because you are one. Rouging your cheeks would only heighten the effect.”
This startles a laugh out of me. The only time I feel normal is when Thomas is around to bicker with me.
I like that he is comfortable enough to do so, because I need that.
It feels familiar, and safe, and so long as I am doing verbal battle with Thomas over meaningless things like my choice of clothes or hairstyle, I’m not thinking about how my life is in shambles or how my recklessness likely got the crew of the Deliverance killed.
The only true family I have ever known, and their blood is on my hands. Viscount Falmouth was right about one thing—I am cursed.
It has been days with no news, despite my asking every day. I truly fear the worst—that if they did survive, each day that passes is another they could be hanged at the executioner’s dock. While I sit here, being dressed for a goddamned ball.
The ball tonight will be held in the Orangery, a pavilion built in the gardens next to the palace.
I let Thomas pull me to my feet so he can smooth out my silk jacket.
He has selected indigo for me to wear, which is a bold choice.
I’m sure I’ll get a few looks for it—but I imagine he wouldn’t have chosen a royal color for me to parade about in without the king’s suggesting it.
I stare at the shape of myself in the mirror as he checks me over for any flaws.
I almost look the part of a prince tonight—a bastard prince, but a prince nonetheless.
I wonder what the Christopher-Henry of nine months ago might have thought of this revelation.
I think I would have relished the news, had it come before my great escape into the world—before I learned what familial love feels like.
I suck in a breath and blink my eyes to keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks.
I let Thomas and the room around me fade away as I stare into my mother’s face gazing back at me in the mirror.
I wonder if Tristan fell to his death from the rigging, like in my nightmares, or if he was arrested and hanged like the rest of them.
Would they have been merciful to him, if they realized he wasn’t entirely as he appeared?
Would that even be merciful, to allow him to live while the rest were hanged?
And what about Billy and Naeem? What about Jacoby and all the other men I didn’t have time to get to know firsthand?
Were they sold and sent back to the colonies?
The very thought makes me sick.
I turn, startling Thomas with my sudden movement. I don’t stop to apologize, though—I push past him and grab the pitcher of clean water from the washbasin. But before I can pour some out, Thomas snatches the pitcher away.
“Oh, no you don’t!” he says, setting it down and ushering me away from the basin. “I won’t have you getting these silks wet with another of your fits. Have some tea.”
“I don’t want tea.”
“Then have some wine.”
I glance to the decanter full of wine on the small tray Thomas smuggled in for me after walking into my room following Henry’s confession and finding me crying on the floor.
I nod and pour a small glass from the decanter.
It’s a robust, sweet red wine with a hint of oak and cloves.
I sip at the glass until my nerves are calmed, then finish off the rest in one gulp.
“I’m ready,” I say with a sigh.
“Are you?”
I give a humorless laugh and turn to face Thomas. “Am I?” I ask ruefully, holding my arms out for inspection.
He smiles. “You look ready to cause a scandal tonight.”
At that, my smile turns genuine. “Perfect.”
Though it is thrown in honor of Saint Nicholas Day, the ball is clearly an excuse for King Henry to show me off like I’m a shiny new jewel gifted by a foreign sovereign.
I am formally announced on my own merit as “the Honorable Christopher-Henry Davenport.” Notably, my father’s viscountcy is not mentioned.
My ex-father…?
I step into the Orangery in my indigo suit, with a gold silk cape draped across one shoulder, clasped with a chain of rubies that would sink me were I to jump into deep waters.
Christopher-Henry might have marveled at his reflection in it.
He might have felt powerful. He might have felt dashing.
Instead I feel the weight of my shame in this cape.
Not only because my initial reaction was to marvel at it as it was presented for my approval, but because this display of wealth and finery is, in itself, deeply shameful.
I did nothing to earn these jewels—and neither did Henry.
We were merely born to them, by sheer happenstance.
King Henry sits atop the throne in his wig and crown, Queen Eleanor on his right in a gold silk gown and a crown of holly and rubies. Both are swathed in ermine fur. Neither of them earned that, either.
I kneel before the king first, and as he stretches out his hand, I rise and approach the dais to kiss the ruby ring on his finger. I stand and turn to Eleanor, then bow to her as deeply as I bowed to her husband. “Your Majesties,” I say in greeting. “Happy Christmas.”
Henry, for what it’s worth, smiles dotingly at me. Eleanor is unimpressed, which shouldn’t come as a surprise if she’s newly discovered the same truth as I, but I feel a pang of loss for the love she once had for me nevertheless.
I want to ask once more about the fate of my crew, but I am quickly crowded by another dignitary waiting to be announced to the throne.
For a moment I say nothing. I watch as he bows and makes his introduction, and then, all at once, I can no longer stand aside.
I step forward and look at Henry. “Your Majesty, I beseech a moment of your time.”
Eleanor’s gaze jerks to my face with a mix of horror and fury, but she schools her features well and turns to Henry, who is smiling as calmly as ever. “We will speak later.”
“But—”
“You would disobey your king?” Eleanor demands.
More than a few heads rise to glance my way, and my face is instantly aflame with humiliation. I clench my teeth and shake my head, bowing deeply to them both. “Forgive me, Your Majesties. Later is fine.” Swallowing down my grief and shame, I duck away into the crowd.
I find champagne first and Kitty second. She kisses my cheeks and takes my arm as she leads me over to Francis. Thank Christ for Katherine Stuart. I brace myself against her strength, her sweetness, and take a moment to calm my battering pulse before fixing on my social smile.
“Francis, you remember Kit.”
“Christopher-Henry,” he corrects her, a small reminder to be less familiar with me. I don’t blame him; if I were him, I too would feel threatened by me. Especially as I am now, with his wife on my arm.
I bow my head, but I am not sure how deep I am meant to bow to him. He outranks me as a marquess, but only if I am still in line to be a viscount. Henry hasn’t told me where I stand. “A pleasure, Marquess.”
“God, please don’t,” he mumbles. “Francis is perfectly fine.”
Well, he’s not a humorless ass after all.
I’m relieved to have found him and Kitty so I needn’t socialize without them at my side.
We move around the Orangery together, and I do my best to engage in polite conversation.
I have always hated small talk with the peerage, but now it is agonizing torture.
Every shallow compliment I receive makes me grit my teeth and sets my pulse racing.
Kitty saves me more than once from saying something unsuitable.
“God,” I mutter when we are finally alone with fresh glasses of champagne. “Would this have been our life if we’d married?”
“You’ve always been quite good at it,” Kitty reminds me.
“That was then,” I mutter.
“Are you so different now?”
I don’t know how to answer that. Yes! Yes, of course I am. And no, I suppose I’m not.
At that moment I see him. Despite everything I have been through, despite everything I have learned, despite the nine-month chasm that lies between us, the sight of my once father, Viscount Falmouth, still strikes fear and inadequacy into my heart the instant our gazes meet.