25. Points
Points
Scarlet
T he breakfast hall is a flurry of activity as I enter, the ornate double doors swinging open to reveal an array of aromas wafting from the long tables laden with food. My gaze is immediately drawn to the new large board dominating one wall, its surface covered in neatly written lines detailing donations and gifts received for each contestant.
I scan the names quickly until my eyes land on mine - Scarlet Marheart. A respectable sum. I quickly skim over the rest of the names and find Rose. Our totals are similar, but hers are from a spread over more donors. I’m sure many from admirers she’s gained while on the job.
Looking over my own list of donors my fiance's name glares back at me, the amount listed next to it like a slap in the face. Heat rushes to my cheeks as anger surges through me. How dare he! Iwon’t accept it. I want nothing to do with him and won't have his money taint my name.
I whirl around, scanning the crowd until I spot one of the event coordinators. "Excuse me!" I call out, waving to catch her attention. The woman turns, a polite smile on her face as she approaches.
"Lady Marheart, how may I assist you?"
"This donation..." I gesture at the board, struggling to keep my tone even. "From Lord Greystone. Is there any way I can refuse it or have it redistributed?"
Her brow furrows slightly. "I'm afraid not. Once a donation has been made, it is final and cannot be returned or transferred."
"But surely there must be some exception?" I protest, my voice rising slightly.
The woman shakes her head apologetically. "I'm sorry, but those are the rules. No exceptions."
I open my mouth to argue further, but a familiar voice cuts through the din.
"There you are, darling."
Lord Greystone strides toward me, that insufferable smirk playing on his lips. Grabbing my hand he drags me behind him to an empty hallways nearby. He holds up a folded newspaper and steps towards me. "You'll never guess what the headline says about us."
I straighten my shoulders, bracing myself as he draws near. Too near, his body crowding into my space in that way he knows I can't refuse. The familiar woodsy scent of his cologne surrounds me as he leans in, his breath warm against my ear.
"Problem, love?" he murmurs, low enough for only me to hear.
I turn my head, our faces inches apart as I fix him with a hard stare. "I won't marry you. I am owned by no one."
One dark brow arches. "I'm your fiancé. Of course you will marry me and do exactly as I say. Or have you forgotten?" His hand slides possessively around my waist, pulling me flush against him.
I try to squirm away, but he's immovable, trapping me against the hard planes of his body. "I will take care of my families own debts," I hiss. "You have enough of your own."
Anger flashes in his eyes, but he smothers it quickly, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "Such concern for me and my finances." His fingers tighten on my hip in subtle warning. "How touching. Afterall, soon they will be yours as well."
Before I can retort, he produces an embossed envelope from his jacket pocket and presses it into my hand. "We're expected at Lord Everton's fete this evening. As my fiancée, your attendance is mandatory." His tone brooks no argument. "I'll see you there, dressed and ready at seven sharp."
With that, he releases me and strides away, leaving me flushed and seething in his wake. My fingers curl tightly around the invitation, crumpling it as I fight the urge to stamp my foot like a petulant child.
The crumpled invitation feels like a lead weight in my hand as I stare at his retreating back. Every fiber of my being screams to throw it at the back of his arrogant head and reject him outright. But a harsh reality settles over me - I haven't won the tournament yet. As much as King Remme's attentions bolstered my confidence, his flirtatious glances don't guarantee me a way out of this wretched situation. For now, playing the dutiful, happy couple is my only viable option, and the thought makes my stomach churn.
Gritting my teeth, I tuck the invitation away, forcing a neutral expression as I make my way back to the crowded hall. Rose smirks at me from across the room, her gaze calculating as if she can sense the inner turmoil roiling beneath my calm facade. I'll not give her the satisfaction of seeing me crack.
Tonight, I'll don the costume of the perfect nobleman's fiancée, all smiles and graciousness on the surface. But beneath, the defiant embers continue to burn bright. This battle isn't over, not by a long shot. I am no fragile butterfly to be mounted and displayed, but a phoenix rising from the ashes of my circumstances.
One way or another, I'll find my freedom from my fiance’s grasp. Even if I have to burn his gilded cage to the ground to do it.
***
The rhythmic clop of horses' hooves on cobblestone heralds the arrival of the ornate carriage, its gleaming black lacquer reflecting the warm glow of the lanterns lining the drive. I smooth my hands over the sumptuous emerald silk of my gown, taking a deep, steadying breath. Tonight's performance begins now.
As the carriage rolls to a stop, the footman swings down and hurries to open the door, offering a white-gloved hand to assist me. I place my fingers lightly on his and step out, the skirts of my dress pooling around my feet. Before me looms the imposing fa?ade of Lord Everton's estate, its grand fa?ade softened by the meticulously tended gardens and artfully placed lantern light.
My gaze is immediately drawn to the figure waiting at the entrance – Lord Greystone, already swaying slightly on his feet, a crystal tumbler in hand. His free arm sweeps out in a grand, if somewhat unsteady, gesture. "My darling Scarlet! You're positively radiant this evening."
I paste on a serene smile, dipping into a shallow curtsy. "You flatter me, my lord."
He snakes an arm around my waist, pulling me flush against him as he leans in, his breath hot and sour with spirits against my cheek. "Let's keep the niceties between us, pet. You know how I detest..." he wavers, catching himself, " detest the need for propriety in our...private dealings."
A shiver runs through me, his words sending a clear message – he expects my full compliance tonight, no matter how boorish or entitled his behavior. Refusal is not an option, not with the tournament and my family's future at stake.
"Of course, darling," I murmur, allowing him to steer me through the arched entranceway.
We're immediately submerged in a sea of finery – brocaded gowns that shimmer with every movement, gentlemen in expertly tailored suits, the air thick with the scents of polish, perfume, and barely-concealed ambition. Nobles and wealthy merchants alike cluster in throngs, speaking in bright, brittle tones that belie the calculating pursuit of status beneath every polished word.
"Lady Marheart!" An older matron in dove gray sweeps toward me, a sickly sweet smile plastered across her lined face. "What a pleasure to see you attending Lord Everton's little...soirée." She casts a pointed look at my fiance, who merely offers a mock salute with his glass.
I summon up my most gracious smile. "The pleasure is all mine, Lady Rutherford. You are too kind."
Her gaze drops in an unmistakable perusal of my gown. "My, that is a striking color on you. Not quite proper for a lady of refinement, but...bold. Quite fitting, given your penchant for theatrics in the tournament so far."
The backhanded compliment stings, but I keep my tone light and airy. "You're too generous. I simply aim to make the most of the opportunities I've been given."
Lady Rutherford releases a tinkling laugh. "Of course, dear girl. Do give us a good show, won't you? My Edgar has quite a stake riding on your continued success. We’ve read wonderful things about your performance in the first two trials. Made quite the impression. We look forward to seeing you personally in action." She leans in conspiratorially. "And if you should happen to require any...additional support, you need only ask."
Of course. They all have bets placed, viewing this entire spectacle through the lens of their own greed. Gritting my teeth in a polite rictus, I incline my head. "You are most generous, my lady. I shall endeavor not to disappoint."
As she sweeps away in a waft of cloyingly sweet perfume, I feel Lord Greystone's arm tighten around my waist, his fingers digging into the pliant silk. "Well handled, pet," he purrs against my ear. "But don't make too many missteps. We've appearances to maintain."
I open my mouth to retort, but a fresh wave of well-wishers descends, eager to ingratiate themselves and press me for details about the upcoming trials. Plastering on my most practiced smile, I wade into their midst, holding court and sprinkling just enough vague promises of entertainment to whet their bloodthirsty interest. All the while, I keep a watchful eye on the man who will torture me this evening, his glass never remaining empty for long as he drifts from group to group, shamelessly flirtatious smiles and wandering hands following in his wake.
Between the ingratiating and the subtle digs, the weight of maintaining my composure grows heavier by the moment. I catch glimpses of furtive movement from the servants drifting through the crowd, their mannerisms and positioning too calculated to be mere chance. Members of the guild, no doubt here on an assignment. This is a high risk event to try running an operation during. What could be worth that risk?
My thoughts are broken by a hush rippling through the crowd, every head turning in unison. My gaze follows and lands on the unmistakable figure of King Remme descending the grand staircase, his golden crown glinting in the candlelight.
The king moves amongst his subjects with regal poise, offering greetings and small smiles, though he keeps a careful distance, never quite making physical contact. His usual bodyguard close behind, whispering in the king’s ear from time to time. I notice his hands remain firmly at his sides, the golden gauntlets of his armor precluding any chance of an accidental touch. When a server offers him a crystal flute of chilled wine, he demurs with a polite shake of his head.
Before I can ponder his peculiar behavior further, a booming voice cuts across the din. "Lady Marheart! A moment of your time, if you please?"
I turn to find Lord Percival Avery bearing down on me, his ample girth straining against the seams of his burgundy velvet doublet. His florid face shines with an excited gleam as he leans far too close for propriety.
"I simply must hear your thoughts on the upcoming trial. The people are positively buzzing over the possibilities!" He lets out a hearty guffaw, bits of spittle flying. "Gave quite the performance in that last bout, you did. Had half the noblewomen in tears at the drama of it all!"
Smothering an inward cringe, I paste on my most polished smile. "You are too kind, my lord. I can only hope to continue providing ample entertainment as the tournament progresses."
As I feed him artfully vague responses about the challenges ahead, my gaze drifts over the crowd once more, searching for that unmistakable golden figure. But the king seems to have vanished amongst the glittering throngs of attendees. An odd sense of disappointment settles in my chest that I can't quite place.
Giving myself an inward shake, I refocus on Lord Avery's rambling monologue. One distraction at a time - first I must maintain this facade long enough to cultivate what favor I can from the attendees. Keeping my courtly mask firmly in place, I politely extricate myself from his company with a few well-practiced pleasantries.
My gaze darts around the crowded ballroom, searching for an escape route. In the far corner, I spy a set of glass-paned doors leading out onto a balcony. Making my excuses, I slip away from the stifling press of bodies and weave my way towards that beckoning promise of fresh air.
Outside, the balcony is mercifully deserted, offering a welcome respite from the cloying atmosphere within. Ornate stone railings give way to a panoramic view of the estate's immaculately landscaped gardens below, the grounds bathed in a warm orange glow from the strategically placed lanterns. A light breeze stirs the gauzy fabric draped over trellises, creating a dreamlike quality to the whole scene.
"There you are." That rich, sonorous voice seems to envelop me like a warm embrace. Turning, I find King Remme approaching with his trademark easy grace, a playful glint in his eye. "I was beginning to worry you'd run off for the evening already."
I can't help but return his teasing smile, though heat prickles at my neck. "And deny myself your charming company? I think not."
He joins me at the railing, near enough that the subtle notes of his cologne - woodsy with a hint of citrus - washes over me. Up close, I can make out the finely etched detailing of his golden armor, candlelight gilding him in an almost ethereal glow.
"You seemed quite...cozy with that Lord Greystone earlier," he remarks, feigning nonchalance even as that piercing stare clouds with something darker. "Despite your public assertions of being unattached."
Is that jealousy I hear? Part of me thrills at stoking such delicious fire in the king. But pragmatism reminds me I must tread carefully - one ill-timed disclosure could see this fragile spark snuffed before it fully ignites.
Holding his weighted gaze, I offer an enigmatic smile. "My situation is...complicated, Your Majesty. That man represents an obligation I find increasingly difficult to accept, despite what circumstances may imply."
The king considers me a long moment, that uncanny perception of his no doubt parsing the deeper truth in my veiled admission. At last, he gives a resigned dip of his chin. "I see. Well then, Lady Scarlet, perhaps I can offer a welcome...diversion from your troubles this evening?" His voice lowers to an intimate murmur as that smoldering look returns.
Maintaining my carefully coy expression, I lean fractionally closer, holding his burning stare. "One can always make room for...diversions, Your Majesty, should the right opportunities arise."
I’m nearly knocked over as an arm plops across my shoulder. The smell of alcohol wafts over me.
"Your Majesty!" Lord Greystone’s feigned joviality grates on my every nerve. "So good of you to grace us with your presence." His grip on me tightens to the point of pain.
King Remme eyes him with thinly veiled disdain. "Lord Greystone. I was merely admiring your...companion's poise, given the circumstances."
Lord Greystone's gaze sharpens, but his smile remains smugly fixed in place. "Yes, well, my Scarlet knows her duty. Don't you, pet?" His fingers dig into the tender flesh of my arm in pointed warning.
I swallow hard, holding King Remme's stare as I murmur my assent. "Of course."
The king holds my gaze a moment longer, his eyes glittering with some indecipherable emotion, before nodding once and moving on to greet the next cluster of guests.
He waits until the king's out of earshot before leaning in close, his whiskey-scented breath hot on my cheek. "Get a grip on that tongue of yours, darling, before you go making trouble for us both."
I open my mouth – to argue, to lash out, I'm not even sure – but a deafening crash slices through the music and laughter, drawing every eye. Near the back of the room, a motionless liveried footman lies crumpled amidst the shattered remnants of a priceless porcelain vase. But it's the skittering of jewels across the marble floor that causes the guests to erupt into shocked exclamations.
And there, fleeing through the debris amid a flurry of skirts and curses, is a familiar face from my dealings in the guild – Tabitha, one of our youngest and most skilled infiltrators, clearly having been caught in the act of some heist or another.
Around me, the crowd erupts into chaos, the unctuous nobility devolving into a frenzied mob of outrage and recrimination. In the maelstrom, I catch Greystone's eye, his mounting rage simmering behind his own rapidly cracking fa?ade of control.
My gaze darts back toward the escape route Tabitha took, the footman she struck down still lying motionless on the floor. Chaos swirls around me in a dizzying spiral of color and sound, but one thought alone rings clear in my mind – I have to help her, heedless of the cost.
I surge forward, buffeted by the crush of bodies, fighting through that churning sea of silk, jewels and fury toward the door. Just as I'm nearly through, a crushing grip seizes my arm, whirling me around to face my fiance's contorted mask of rage.
"And just where do you think you're going?" he snarls, spittle flecking his twisted mouth.
"I…!" I cry, struggling against his unbreakable hold. " Please, Lord Greystone, I need to check something! Make sure no one is hurt."
He lets out a bark of sardonic laughter, grip tightening until I know bruises will mottle my flesh come morning. "You seem to have forgotten your place, pet. You're mine , or have you conveniently forgotten that little fact again? You do exactly as I say when I say."
Frantically, I cast about for any ally, any whisper of sympathy from the assembled crowd, but there is only blind panic and righteous fury leveled at the absent thief. Tabitha is on her own, as is so often the way in our world.
He snatches my chin in his bruising grasp, forcing me to meet his smoldering glare. "Consider this a lesson, my sweet. You will get these silly, noble whims under control, or so help me..." His thumb digs into the tender flesh beneath my jaw in subtle threat. "It’s about time you learned your lesson once and for all."
My breath catches in my throat, the ultimatum and his implications both achingly clear. With a derisive sneer, he releases me, sending me staggering back a step.
The damage is done, the die irrevocably cast. I am once again bound, my wings clipped before I'd even tasted true freedom. Bowing my head in defeat, I permit Lord Greystone to steer me away from the wreckage and the shouts of the newly summoned palace guards, wisps of smoke from the fallen lantern already staining the elegant scene with twinges of ruin.
My defiance remains, that inner spark refusing to be extinguished despite Lord Greystone's best efforts, banked now, but glowing hot. For tonight, I retreat.
But this battle is far from over.