Chapter Fifteen
“The trade agreement with Meridian is standard protocol.” Darragh flipped through the contract for what felt like the hundredth time. “It’s the same tariff structure we’ve used for five years. I don’t understand why they’re suddenly demanding renegotiation.”
“Because they can.” Lord Corvin, Meridian’s chief negotiator, smiled without warmth. “You wish to maintain favorable relations before the World Council summit, yes? Then you’ll find our revised terms reasonable.”
Bastard. Darragh kept his expression neutral. “We’ll review your proposals overnight and reconvene tomorrow morning.”
“I’m afraid my schedule only allows for this afternoon.” Corvin checked his pocket watch with exaggerated care. “Perhaps if Safe Harbor valued punctuality as much as we do…”
“This afternoon is fine.” Darragh bit down on several choice responses. “We’ll break for lunch and resume at one.”
The moment Corvin left the council chamber, Darragh slumped in his chair. “He’s deliberately making this difficult.”
“Yes.” Helena gathered the contract documents. “He wants to test your patience before the summit. See how far he can push.”
“It’s working.” Darragh rubbed his temples. “How many more sessions today?”
“Three. Meridian until five, then the grain merchants at six, then the northern border dispute at seven.” Helena consulted her notes. “You also have Count Villiers arriving tonight from Westmarch.”
Darragh groaned. “I forgot about Villiers. Can we reschedule?”
“He’s been traveling for four days specifically for this visit.” Thomas looked up from his own stack of papers. “Minor noble, routine diplomatic courtesy. We could have Lord… I beg your pardon, King Consort Finn host the welcome dinner?”
“Finn?” Darragh hesitated. “He’s never done an official dinner alone.”
“It’s just Count Villiers and his wife,” Thomas said. “They require nothing more than a simple courtesy meal, which is hardly complicated. I can brief the king consort on the basics this afternoon.”
Darragh weighed his options. The Meridian negotiations couldn’t be delayed - Corvin would take that as weakness. The grain merchants had already rescheduled twice. And Villiers was indeed a minor count - his visit was more a formality than anything critical.
“All right.” Darragh nodded. “Ask Finn if he’s willing. Make sure he knows it’s optional.”
“I’ll go now.” Thomas stood. “He was in the conservatory earlier, working on something with the head gardener.”
/~/~/~/~/
The afternoon dragged. Corvin objected to every clause, questioned every number, and generally behaved like an ass wrapped in diplomatic language. By the time they broke at five, Darragh’s jaw ached from clenching it.
The grain merchants were easier but still exhausting - complaints about storage fees, transport costs, and dock schedules.
Darragh approved their requests and sent them away happy, then immediately dove into maps of the northern border where two villages were arguing over grazing rights that should have been settled a generation ago.
“Your Majesty.” A servant appeared in the doorway. “Count Villiers has arrived. King Consort Finn is greeting him now.”
“Good.” Darragh didn’t look up from the disputed boundary lines. “Send my apologies for missing the welcome. I’ll join dinner as soon as I can.”
He managed to escape the border negotiations at eight-thirty, his head pounding and his stomach empty. The formal dining room was on the opposite side of the castle - he took the servants’ corridors to save time, straightening his collar as he walked.
The dining room doors were closed. Through them, Darragh heard the murmur of conversation, the clink of silver on china. He pushed through with an apologetic smile already arranged on his face.
The temperature in the room could have frozen wine.
Count Villiers sat rigidly at the table, his expression carved from ice.
His wife, Lady Marguerite, stared at her plate with the fixed concentration of someone trying very hard to be elsewhere.
Finn looked pale and miserable at the head of the table, a forced smile plastered on his face.
“Count Villiers, Lady Marguerite.” Darragh crossed to them smoothly, years of court training taking over. “My deepest apologies for my tardiness. The Meridian negotiations ran longer than anticipated.”
“Your Majesty.” Villiers stood and bowed with precise correctness. “We understand the demands of kingship.”
The words were polite. The tone suggested Darragh had personally insulted the man’s ancestors.
“Please, sit.” Darragh took his own seat, catching Finn’s eye. What happened? Finn’s shoulders hunched fractionally. Everything.
The next hour was an exercise in diplomatic damage control.
Darragh steered the conversation to neutral topics - the weather, the count’s journey, and Safe Harbor’s preparations for the summit.
Villiers responded with cold courtesy. Lady Marguerite barely spoke.
Finn said almost nothing, his usual warmth completely gone.
When the dessert course finally ended, Darragh rose. “Thank you for honoring us with your visit. I hope you’ll find your accommodations comfortable.”
“I’m certain they will be adequate.” Villiers bowed again, that same precise distance. “We’ll depart tomorrow morning, if that’s acceptable.”
“Of course.” Darragh maintained his pleasant expression. “Safe travels.”
The moment the count and his wife left, Darragh turned to Helena, who’d been observing from the side of the room. “My office. Now.”
/~/~/~/~/
“Tell me.”
Helena closed the office door behind them. “King Consort Finn seated Count Villiers below his proper rank.”
Darragh’s stomach dropped. “How far below?”
“Three places. He put Lord Jameson’s daughter above him.” Helena’s expression was carefully neutral. “The count took it as a deliberate slight.”
“Finn wouldn’t…”
“I know. But the count doesn’t know your husband’s background.” Helena moved to the sideboard and poured two glasses of wine. “There’s more. During the first course, King Consort Finn made a joke about ‘stuffy nobility who care more about titles than people.’ The count took it personally.”
“Hell.” Darragh accepted the wine and drank half of it. “What else?”
“The wine you’re drinking. It’s from the Belmont region.” Helena paused. “Count Villiers’s family has been feuding with Belmont for two generations over a contested inheritance. Serving Belmont wine to Villiers is…”
“An insult.” Darragh set down his glass. “Three separate insults in one dinner.”
“Each one individually might be forgiven as an honest mistake.” Helena sipped her own wine. “Together, they suggest deliberate disrespect. The count believes you assigned your husband to deliver a message.”
“That’s insane. Finn didn’t know…”
“I’m aware. So is Thomas, and so is anyone who knows King Consort Finn.” Helena’s voice gentled slightly. “But Count Villiers doesn’t know him. He sees the king’s consort making multiple errors that all happen to offend him specifically, and he draws conclusions.”
Darragh scrubbed his hands over his face. “Can we fix this?”
“I’ll draft a letter of apology. Blame the seating on a clerical error, the joke on cultural differences, the wine on an inexperienced sommelier.” Helena sat across from him. “Villiers is a minor count. This won’t damage Safe Harbor’s reputation significantly. But Darragh...”
“Say it.”
“The World Council summit is in five months. Delegates from multiple kingdoms will be watching your every move, and analyzing every interaction.” Helena met his eyes. “King Consort Finn is wonderful. But he’s not ready for that stage.”
“Then we’ll get him ready.”
“Will we?” Helena’s expression turned sympathetic. “You married him because you liked him the way he is, because he doesn’t perform or pretend. Can you teach him to navigate court politics without changing those very qualities you love?”
Darragh had no answer.
/~/~/~/~/
Finn was in their sitting room, still in his formal dinner clothes, staring at nothing.
“Hey.” Darragh closed the door quietly. “You all right?”
“I’m sorry.” Finn didn’t look at him. “I know I messed up. I just don’t know how badly.”
“It’s fixable.” Darragh crossed to him and sat on the arm of Finn’s chair. “One dinner with a minor count doesn’t matter. We’ll smooth it over.”
“Helena told you.” Finn’s voice was flat. “About the seating, the joke, the wine. The hat trick of incompetence.”
“Thomas went over the protocol with you?”
“He did. I wrote everything down.” Finn pulled a crumpled paper from his pocket, covered in notes.
“Count Villiers, fourth seat from the head. I remember writing it. But when I was actually arranging people, I got confused about whether to count from my left or right. Then Lady Jameson’s daughter was upset about being seated so far down, and I thought four seats were too many anyway because it seemed rude to put someone that far away when we had space closer.
..” he trailed off. “I didn’t know I was insulting him. I was trying to be polite.”
“I know.” Darragh took the paper and smoothed it out. “And the joke?”
“I thought it would lighten the mood. Everyone was so stiff and formal, barely talking. I was trying to...” Finn laughed bitterly. “It doesn’t matter what I was trying to do. It matters what I did.”
“The wine wasn’t your fault. Nobody told you about the Belmont feud.”
“Nobody should have to tell me everything that can possibly go wrong!” Finn surged to his feet, pacing. “That’s the problem, Darragh. I don’t have the background, the training, the instincts for this. I told you from the beginning I’d be terrible. I told you I’d embarrass you.”
“You didn’t embarrass me.”