Chapter 15
Astrid:
Anything to report, Prince?
Hex:
Is there a reason you’re texting me from the other side of the room?
Astrid:
I highly doubt it would turn out well for either of us if I verbally asked you if Crowell has said anything suspicious when he’s sitting a few feet from you.
Hex chuckles softly and looks at Crowell, who’s sitting next to him at the poker table in the billiards room. When he lifts his eyes to where I’m standing at the edge of the room, there’s amusement in them, but he looks tired too.
That’s really why I texted him. It’s been a whirlwind day packed with horseback riding, hearty meals, a questionable round of cricket, and now a five-man poker game that so far has lasted nearly two hours and doesn’t seem to be stopping anytime soon.
I haven’t been privy to many of the day’s conversations, and neither have I had a chance to convene with Hex, who has checked his phone enough times throughout the day that I’m positive he still hasn’t heard anything from his twin.
Yes, I want to know what the other men have been talking about, but I’m worried about the prince. Both of them, honestly. Wherever Sander is, he might be in trouble, and that’s going to keep distracting Hex and put the investigation at risk. I need Hex in prime form, and he clearly isn’t right now.
Bellgaard grumbles something and tosses his cards onto the table, then drains his glass and stands. “Enough for me.” He doesn’t even look at me as he passes me on his way out of the room.
That leaves Crowell, Blackmere, Hex, and Fennor at the table.
Rourke has been keeping a still very drunk Northam company on the other side of the room tonight, and Vardane has been on the phone with his wife for at least an hour by this point.
From the little I’ve heard of his conversation, he’s annoyed with her for pushing him to attend the retreat when he would rather be at home with her.
In fact, Vardane hasn’t participated much in the day’s conversations in general, and if he’s at all involved with the anti-royalists, he’s doing a great job of hiding it.
They all are. Assuming, of course, any of these men are involved in the first place.
I’m still waiting for proof. Of any kind.
My phone buzzes with a message, and I have to stifle a laugh when I read it.
Hex:
Bellgaard was about to owe me the same amount I owe Northam. It would have been deliciously poetic.
I roll my eyes and type my response.
Astrid:
You haven’t paid Northam yet? No wonder he’s drinking so much.
Hex:
Nah. I’m still recovering from that painting I bought you.
Astrid:
With our luck, that painting had nothing to do with anything and you just have terrible artistic taste.
Hex:
Don‘t tell me that.
I meet his gaze again, and there’s some genuine worry in his expression before he plasters on a smile and makes his bet.
Northam bursts into song a moment later. His singing is unintelligible thanks to the tears that join it, prompting Blackmere and Crowell to roll their eyes.
Fennor sighs and gets to his feet. “I fold,” he says, crossing the room and crouching in front of the sofa where Northam is sing-sobbing. “How about I get you up to bed, my friend?”
It takes some nudging, but eventually Northam lets Fennor lift him to his feet and guide him out of the room, though he doesn’t stop singing as they go.
I offer a sympathetic smile as they pass.
I feel bad for the guy; with his debt, his father’s disapproval, and whatever forced him to bid on the painting, he seems to be neck-deep in trouble with no way out.
Vardane follows them out, muttering something about turning in early. It’s after ten, so hardly early, but I won’t stop him. My gut is telling me to stay focused on the two men still playing poker with the prince. Even though they’re almost silent right now as they slowly play the round of cards.
Grabbing my phone, I switch to my text thread with Callum and ask if he’s found anything on the recordings from my bugs so far.
Callum:
Nothing. Except that Crowell thinks way too highly of himself.
That’s not going to do anything to help me, and neither is it surprising. For a second son of a viscount with an incredibly low chance of inheriting wealth or power, he acts like he’s on par with Blackmere—the heir to the most prestigious dukedom in Candora.
“Miss Storme?”
I look up at the timid question, lifting an eyebrow when I see Rourke standing just a few feet away.
We haven’t talked yet this weekend—we haven’t had a reason to—and since Callum hasn’t dug up anything suspicious about the man, I haven’t paid him much attention. “Mr. Rourke,” I say and give him a nod.
“Could…” He glances at the poker table, where all three remaining men are watching us with inscrutable expressions. “I wonder if I could have a quick word with you. In private.”
I’d rather not leave Blackmere and Crowell to their own devices, but Hex can handle them.
“Er, yeah, alright.” I turn to follow him out into the hall, but my eyes catch on the terrified look on Hex’s face as he realizes I’m leaving the room.
It stops me in my tracks for only a moment, until Crowell leans closer to him and says something.
It distracts the prince enough for me to slip out of the room without his eyes on me.
Rourke walks halfway down the corridor before he stops and shoves his hands into his pockets, looking so nervous that I’m instantly on edge. “Thank you,” he says, his tone weak. “I… You used to work for Queen Freya, yeah?”
I nod. Maybe I should have been paying more attention to the man if that’s how this conversation is starting. Folding my arms, I keep my body relaxed and lift an eyebrow. “For a few months. Why?”
“Well, I…” Chewing on his lips, he checks to make sure the corridor is still empty. “I just wondered if you ever heard anything when you were at the queen’s side.”
Vitte, is Rourke an anti-royalist trying to ascertain what I might know about their organization? If he is, he’s terrible at discretion. “Such as?”
He clears his throat and can’t hold still as he stands there shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Some of my clients have been…nervous, let’s say.”
“Nervous?” I wrinkle my nose. “About the queen?”
“No!” He reaches out, like he’s going to touch my arm, but thinks better of it and returns his hand to his pocket. “No, of course not. Her Majesty is doing a fantastic job.”
This conversation is feeling more and more like a waste of time. “Then why are your clients nervous?”
“That’s the thing. I don’t know. But it’s like they’re preparing for something.”
A tingle runs down my spine, and I study the man for a few seconds. Everything about him, from his nerves to his confusion, feels genuine, and the fact that he’s trusting me with whatever he knows makes me want to trust him in return.
“Preparing,” I repeat, stepping closer and lowering my voice. “For what? Preparing how?”
He shrugs. “Adjusting wills, creating trust funds. Anything to ensure financial stability for themselves and their children. It’s like…
” He frowns. “It’s like they’re expecting the whole government structure to change.
And I wondered if you ever heard the queen talking about her plans in that regard.
If I knew how to better help my clients plan ahead… ”
My thoughts are reeling as I take in what he’s saying. His clients are almost exclusively among the nobility, and he wouldn’t be worried about a small percentage hedging their assets. No, it would have to be a significant portion for him to work up the courage to ask about potential state secrets.
“No,” I say eventually, struggling to stay present instead of slipping fully into my mental puzzle to see where these new pieces might fit. “I never heard anything like that.”
“Ah.” Rourke looks more disappointed than I expect him to. “I hoped… When Fennor suggested I talk to you, I wondered if he knew you would have an answer for me. Thanks anyway.” He turns to continue down the hall to the stairs.
“Wait.” I search for the best way to ask my question. “Is Lord Fennor one of the ones who’s worried? Is he in trouble?”
Rourke purses his lips and checks the corridor again before he replies. “I wish I could say no. But that’s not my place to—”
“I was hired to keep everyone at this retreat safe, Mr. Rourke.” I can’t say for sure if that’s the real reason Greywick invited me here, but I won’t split hairs. “I’m not one to fail at my job. If someone is in danger and there’s something I can do…”
Frowning, Rourke steps close to me again. “Fennor is a good friend to me. First man to hire me after I passed my exams, and he’s influential. He connected me to nearly all of my other clients, you know.”
What does this have to do with anything? I don’t ask, hoping he’ll keep talking unprompted.
He does. “People who don’t know him well see him as nothing but a man out for a good time, but he’s more intelligent than anyone gives him credit for.
” There’s genuine fondness in his voice, a small smile breaking through the nerves.
“He likes for people to enjoy themselves, yeah, but it runs deeper than that. Sometimes I think, without Fennor, many of his peers would have gone down more precarious paths than they have, but people listen to him. Follow his example because they trust him. He cares about them, you know? Cares about Candora and what makes our country special.”
“Tradition,” I say, thinking about the painting Hex bought at the auction. The one that led us here.
“The people,” Rourke corrects. I look at him, and he smiles in a way that makes me wonder if there’s more to him than he lets people see, just like Fennor and Hex.
Just like me. “Maybe tradition has always been at the heart of Candora, but I think that’s because it’s what brings us all together.
We’re a small country, and if we don’t look out for each other, how do we keep going? ”
I can’t hold back a smile. “That’s a nice sentiment.”