Chapter 2 #2
I haven’t seen her since, or at least not in person.
Admittedly, she appears on many screens or newspaper photographs in Stelland, usually smiling blandly beside her politician husband.
Lady Porter is also one of my aunt’s very favorite names to drop in conversation, a prestigious connection to reassert her relevance, if ever it’s in question.
“Yes,” I admit, eyeing the woman before me warily. “What about her?”
Pursing her lips, Araminta lets out a disapproving sigh. “She and her husband, Lord Porter—you remember Lord Porter, don’t you?”
Dying or not, that question doesn’t save her from my exasperated look. “Yes.”
Araminta isn’t troubled by my attitude. “Well, I was invited to a dinner party there a few nights ago, and Lord Porter mentioned how they’ve found themselves in need of a new head of security for their home estate, Thornhurst. Apparently, the man they have has been asking to retire, and the computers and such need to be updated.
Naturally, I suggested you. With your experience, they were very interested.
” She smiles triumphantly. “I told them you would be happy to help.”
For fuck’s sake.
“How very kind of you to volunteer me for a job I don’t want.”
The lack of enthusiasm has her attention. Frowning, she leans forward, glowering at me. “Why ever not? You’ve just told me you aren’t employed. Surely such an opportunity would be quite beneficial to you.”
It’s exactly like Araminta Ashwell to assume I—as a non-royal, ordinary human being—would be beside myself for an opportunity such as this. While elections are nearly a year away, the polls appear promising for Lord Porter, which would make working for him excellent for my resume.
There’s only one problem: I don’t give a shit about my resume.
“I’m not unemployed, I’m taking leave. It’s an intense job.” And, more importantly, one that can’t be done without a clear head. Not responsibly, anyway.
Araminta’s answering stare is withering.
“You never had problems with being in the guard before. Is it the queen?” An eager glint appears in her eyes as she poses the question.
“I’ve wondered if she isn’t quite as sweet as everyone makes her out to be.
Tell me honestly, is she an opportunistic little harlot? ”
How have we strayed so far from the point of this conversation in such a short period?
Willing my voice to remain steady, I attempt to get us back on track. “The queen is not an opportunistic little harlot, and I am very sorry you’ll disappoint the Porters, however”—I fix her with a stern look—“I am not interested.”
Silence.
“Haven’t I just told you I’m dying?”
I lean back, crossing one leg over another. “Very sorry to hear. Happens to us all.”
She tries again. “Lord Porter will very likely be elected Prime Minister.”
“Good for Lord Porter.”
Araminta splutters. “It’s really quite important, Damien. Honestly, I’m surprised at you. They’re practically family.”
Though not for the reason she intended, this is the blow that lands the hardest, and my mouth is dry as I open it to voice my retort. “I have enough family.”
Fucking family. With the complicated range of emotions I’ve associated with the word, it’s a wonder it means anything at all to me anymore. This impression is solidified as Araminta’s lips flatten into a line and she leans forward, obviously finished with my show of defiance.
“Well then,” she declares. “If you’re unwilling to take care of yourself, I’ll have to do it for you.”
This statement is a little ironic, considering it’s issued by a woman who had the butler take me to the emergency room for stitches when I fell off my bike at age thirteen.
“Do tell,” I counter, “how are you planning to do that?”
My aunt’s lip curls. “By making you my heir.”
I stare at her as the poorly veiled threat sets in, stretching this afternoon’s range of emotions to include betrayal and fury as well. What she’s saying… Of all the fucked-up fruit I’ve tasted from the Ashwell family tree thus far, this very well might be the worst of it all.
“I won’t accept that,” I spit, the words as meaningless as my aunt’s facade of giving a damn about my welfare.
As she just told me she plans to make the whole thing public to prevent the king from pulling the plug on the lavish funeral arrangements, whether or not I accept the inheritance, the damage will be done.
Princess Araminta leaving her fortune to an unknown, former member of the royal household would never go unnoticed.
The room swims around us as my vision narrows, closing in on the selfish woman sitting before me. “What you’re doing is blackmail,” I hiss. “You realize that, don’t you? You are blackmailing me, Araminta.”
Dismissing this with a scoff, she leans over to select another pastry. “Don’t be so dramatic.”
I let out a choking noise. “Dramatic? You know—” My voice has risen in my panic, and a warning glance from my aunt has me lowering it again, gritting out each word through bared teeth. “You know I’ve never wanted any part of it. I do not want to be an Ashwell.”
And who, seeing this very scene, could blame me for it?
For so long, my anonymity was protected by the uniform I wore and the careful distance I kept from the spotlight. Now that I’ve taken it off, and with Araminta threatening to shed a bright light on me… It wouldn’t hold up.
Secrets do not remain secrets when the entire country is looking for them, and I, the illegitimate son of a long-dead king, would never know another moment’s peace as long as I lived if anyone knew my true identity.
Settling back in her seat, my aunt gazes at me. “Well then,” she says, lifting her bony chin. “I suggest you take the job.”