Chapter 14
Maybe it isn’t the best idea to be sneaking around a marquess’s country estate in the wee hours before dawn, but what’s a girl to do when she still has no proof that any of the lords here this weekend are traitors to the crown?
I can’t let this weekend be a waste of time when time is such a precious commodity.
After Blackmere, Fennor, and Crowell all spent over an hour trying (and failing) to replicate Hex’s near-perfect shots, the men finally went inside for dinner, in which the conversation centered entirely around Candora’s mediocre rugby team and their chances for the World Cup next year.
Bellgaard got as drunk as his son, and the two of them actually seemed to be getting along as they sang the team’s fight song off key and with wild exuberance.
Fennor was quiet the rest of the night and kept his eyes on Crowell more than anyone. Crowell kept pulling Blackmere aside for whispered conversations that were always too short for me to try to catch anything and generally resulted in Blackmere keeping a forced blank expression on his face.
And Hex couldn’t get away from the attention of Rourke, no matter how hard he tried. Rourke is a talker, and he spent the night gabbing to the prince about his family and his job and how much he loves what Freya is doing for Candora.
I can rule out Rourke as an anti-royalist—I don’t think the man has a disingenuous bone in his body—but I’m still unsure about the others.
Northam was likely a pawn at the auction, but that’s only conjecture, and while it’s doubtful Bellgaard would drink so much during an important weekend, he’s too connected to this week’s events to disregard entirely.
As I move carefully down an upper corridor in the house, keeping my steps light because the wood floors have a tendency to creak, I sort through what I heard last night, trying to find any clues about the other men.
Vardane, Crowell, and Blackmere are the most plausible perpetrators, but even then, my reasoning is flimsy.
Testing the first door I come across and finding it unlocked, I slowly twist the handle and push the door open, internally groaning when I take in the enormous washroom on the other side.
Not helpful. I’ve already searched staff areas on the ground floor, pretending I was doing a security sweep if I stumbled upon any of Fennor’s employees, but I didn’t expect to find anything downstairs.
If Fennor has anything to hide, it’ll be in his study.
I’ll see if Callum can get me into Fennor’s computer if I find it, but physical evidence seems more likely.
The main reason we haven’t been able to track down any of the anti-royalists is because their digital footprint is almost nonexistent.
It would only be logical to assume the aristocratic patron would operate the same way.
Am I really expecting to find proof that Fennor is funding the antis? No. But I’ll do my due diligence anyway.
The next room I try is a small library. Dust motes float through the air, and the room smells stuffy from disuse. I’ll search in here later if I have the time, but I move onward, keeping my ears peeled for any sounds of the household waking up.
Passing an empty sitting room, I come across a door that doesn’t open, though picking the lock is easy enough. I slip inside, grinning when I take in the laptop sitting on a large oak desk. “Jackpot.”
I double check that the corridor is empty, then slip into the room and open the computer. It boots up automatically, and when I tap the mouse to get to the lock screen, I can’t stop the surprised curse that falls off my tongue when I realize Fennor doesn’t have a lock on his computer.
“Of all the asinine…” Shaking away the urge to find Fennor and scold him for having such terrible security, I click through folder after folder, looking for anything that could tell me he’s not as clean as I think he is.
There’s nothing. Not even in his estate ledger, which looks so well-kept and detailed that I suddenly want to redo my personal budget when I get back to Invem.
I take a few pictures to send to Callum, curse myself for not bringing a flash drive in case I’ve missed something, then close the computer and search the desk drawers.
Aside from a few pieces of chocolate and a metal figurine of a dragon tucked away behind a box of staples, the most interesting thing in the desk is a Polaroid of Fennor when he was in his teens, I’d guess.
He’s standing next to Queen Ingrid—Freya’s mother—and grinning like it’s the best day of his life. It’s adorably endearing.
This has obviously been a waste of time, but I’m glad to know Fennor isn’t dirty.
He seems decent, for a noble, and probably just wants everyone to have a good time.
Though that doesn’t explain why so many suspects ended up here at the same time, my gut says to cross Fennor off the list and move on.
Ensuring everything is exactly how it was when I arrived, I head for the door but pause to look out the window. It’s a nice view of the back grounds from up here, and the sun is just about to peek over tree-dotted hills. Between the hills and the house is a sprawling field covered in mist, and…
I squint. Someone is in the field, half shrouded in fog.
I can’t think of any good reasons a groundskeeper or anyone else on the staff would be out there this early, and my heart rate picks up speed as I hide against the wall and peek out just enough to get another look at the person without being seen.
My breath catches. It’s Hex. Eyes shut, he fluidly moves through a sort of routine that looks like a mix between Tai Chi and calisthenics, stretching and flexing with equal deliberation.
I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s like each movement focuses on a different limb and muscle as he goes through the motion.
Even with his eyes closed, his balance is perfect, and I can’t look away.
This isn’t the reckless prince I’ve known for more than a decade.
It isn’t someone who goes with the flow and adapts to every situation when he comes into it.
This man, the one who has command over his body, is someone who plans and prepares and knows exactly what he’s doing, and somehow he’s more beautiful than he ever has been.
There’s a fire inside him, dangerous but fully in control.
Why does he hide this side of himself away? I’ve seen bits and pieces of it this week, and it came out in full force last night when I asked if he was with me. Maybe the world wouldn’t think of him as frivolous if he showed them that he’s so much more than what he lets them see.
Than what he lets me see.
And right now he’s letting me see a lot.
This isn’t the first time I’ve seen the prince shirtless, and I know I’m ogling him, but I’m too tired to stop.
How can I when he’s demonstrating just how strong he really is?
His sleek, muscular body, glimmering in the early morning light, is unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
He’s always been physically impressive, but seeing him like this is different.
It’s reminding me of the times he’s surprised me most this week, when he’s shown restraint and control that I don’t normally expect from him.
Hex has never been one to do anything rash, but he’s also rarely taken the time to be entirely deliberate like he is now.
He’s beautiful like this. Not just on the outside.
I curse under my breath as a shiver runs through me, and I want nothing more than to go out to that field and wrap myself up in his strong arms. The way my body responds to the sight of him like this feels like I’m on the verge of stepping off the edge of a cliff without knowing I have a parachute to catch me.
Will I survive the fall if I jump? Only time will tell.
Allowing one last look at the shirtless prince, I take a breath and refocus. While I wait for the lords to wake up, I might as well talk to more of the staff and see if they have any insights on this weekend’s guests.
When I get downstairs to find the household slowly coming to life, I talk to as many of the staff as I can find, asking about security risks and if the guests who stay here ever cause problems or make them nervous.
Most of the staff are too focused on their tasks to tell me much, and everyone seems happy with their employer.
Fennor is well-liked by both nobility and the working class.
Very few of the staff interact with the guests, however, leaving that part to Greywick, who acts as a bridge between the two groups.
The only hint I get of which direction to pursue is the wariness that creeps into the staff’s expressions when they or I mention Greywick’s name. If anyone makes them nervous, he does, though many of them seem glad that he hired me.
They’re glad I’m here, but I don’t know why.
By the time I’ve exhausted my avenues of conversations, it’s late enough in the morning that voices carry through the house from the breakfast room. The lords have risen.
I head that direction but don’t walk into the room just yet. I linger at the door and peek inside, curious to see how the men act when they aren’t being watched by security.
Fennor is just as quiet as he was last night, his smile bright as Northam tells an animated story about some event in the past. Even Vardane looks interested in the tale.
Overall, the men are in good spirits this morning, all of them seated around a large mahogany table with plates of food.
Bellgaard, Rourke, and even Blackmere and Crowell all look content, and I hope that means they’ll be more talkative about relevant topics today.
My eyes find Hex last, and though I know better than to think I’ll find the controlled man I saw in the misty field, it still knocks me off balance to see the way he sits back with his feet on another chair, perfectly relaxed as he laughs at Northam’s story. Hex as he should be.
But the longer I watch, the more I catch pieces of his control. In the way he tosses a berry into his mouth, in the way his eyes constantly scan the room in micro-glances. Now that I know what I’m looking for, even the relaxed way he’s sitting looks deliberate.
My mind jumps back to that first party we went to, when I accused him of being nervous because I could feel the tension in his arm. To the archery competition. To yesterday’s shots, so perfectly aligned with the others.
This control isn’t a new thing.
How have I missed it all this time?
Blackmere says something too soft for me to hear, and though many of the men laugh, Hex’s eyes harden and jump to Crowell, who’s whispering something to Fennor.
I used to think I was an expert in Hex’s expressions, but it’s becoming alarmingly clear that I was an expert in Hex’s mask.
I’ve never seen these tiny expressions that reflect his thoughts as they process and calculate.
When Fennor replies to Crowell, his smile tight and his fingers curled into a fist, Hex watches intently, his eyes narrowing for half a second before he laughs at Northam’s continuing story like he was paying attention the whole time.
“Who are you, Prince?” I murmur to myself.
As if he heard my whisper, Hex looks up and meets my gaze, sending a shock of electricity through me.
Then he smiles, and the electricity transforms into fire because that smile, crookedness and all, is entirely real.
Just like it was last night. Compared to the practiced expressions from a moment ago, it’s impossible to believe otherwise.
As the fire settles in my belly, warm and exciting and far more dangerous than I’d like, I smile back.
I’ve most assuredly jumped off that cliff, and all I can do now is find something to grab on to before I hit the bottom.
If I’m going to have any chance of protecting Freya and Candora as we know it, I need to keep my distance from the prince and trust that he’s doing his part while I do mine.
Whatever I feel for him has to wait until all of this is over and the only thing at risk of destruction is my heart.