Chapter 3
The doors were locked. Charms were set to detect any Brilliant attempting to leave the house. And within the hour, Nic stood to one side of the negotiation chamber wishing he were anywhere else.
The chamber had been a dilapidated dining room with torn and mouldering wallpaper, but like the great hall, three weeks had made a dramatic difference. Now fresh paper adorned the walls, the floor had been polished and the carpets replaced—even the ironwork pillars of the upper balcony gleamed.
In the centre of the grand space, a row of negotiators, scribes, and clerks sat on either side of the long table, the head vowsmiths facing off over a hideous epergne.
On the Monterris side, Master Everel, on the Serral side, Master sa Vare—or rather at present, Lord Ricard Serral, who seemed to have taken over.
“Time to begin?” he said once they were all settled.
“Indeed.” Master Everel gestured across the table. “If Master sa Vare would take his seat.”
Lord Ricard had been leaning on it, but flinched away. “Yes, of course. The table is yours, Master sa Vare.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Dashiell murmured, taking the seat, though if he hoped to be free of Lord Ricard, he was to be disappointed.
The man hovered, looking over his shoulder at the spread of papers.
“For our part,” the young vowsmith said.
“We’re happy to keep this first meeting brief, a mere statement of terms and the initial formalities with the principals. ”
“That is satisfactory to us.” Master Everel’s gaze flitted from the vowsmith across the table to the lord at his back. “Will Lord Ricard Serral be present at future meetings? If so, I must amend the register, as he’s not listed.”
“No, oh no.” Lord Ricard laughed heartily. “I may stick my nose in every now and then, but I trust Master sa Vare to keep us abreast of progress.”
Master Everel made a note. “Then when you are ready, Master sa Vare,” he said, starting the dullest half hour Nic had ever suffered.
The delegations began by each reading and repeating names and details.
Lord Nicholas Francis Monterris, Earl Monterris, born fourth of April, 1791.
Lady Leaf Clementia Serral, born eleventh of July, 1796.
Contract negotiated between House Monterris, headed by Valentine Nicholas Edmund Monterris, His Grace the Duke of Vale, and House Serral, headed by Charles William Algernon Serral, the Most Honourable Marquess of Charborough.
From there, they listed points of discussion.
Financial settlements, land agreements, and Brilliance standing were all to be expected, but Nic hadn’t expected terms like personal aggregate worth or stud agreement—words that sounded dull and innocuous on Dashiell’s lips but made Nic squirm.
Across the room, Lady Leaf Serral smiled faintly, with the distant look of one whose thoughts had wandered somewhere more pleasant.
While the vowsmiths discussed a negotiation framework, two men brought in a pair of letters patent, each a long parchment document set with a heavy seal.
The one by which Charles II had raised the Monterris family to their dukedom, Nic had seen any number of times, but side by side with its Serral counterpart, it looked more tatty and faded than he remembered.
The letters patent granting the Serrals their rank still possessed a golden tinge, with colour lingering in the portrait of William III.
Despite their grandeur, they looked a little ridiculous hanging on easels at the head of the table, as though they were art rather than old documents inked by dead kings, which somehow still possessed the power to control their lives.
Eventually a negotiation framework was agreed upon, but just as Nic thought he might finally be able to escape in search of wine, Lord Ricard Serral cleared his throat. “We also request a full audit of the Monterris family holdings.”
Before he’d even finished speaking, Lord Charborough hissed, “Ricard!”
“I told you I wouldn’t agree to this without one, Charles, and I meant it.”
“Unfortunately,” Master Everel said, looking over his spectacles in a way surely meant to cow the blustering lord, “as the head of the family, only Lord Charborough can make such a request.”
Across the room, the brothers stared at one another, a look containing so many unspoken words that it sucked all air from the room.
Was it possible the Serrals didn’t know how debt-ridden the Dukes of Vale had become?
Nic glanced at his father. Having royal accountants rummaging around for an audit would be a nightmare, yet the duke eyed Lord Ricard with sardonic amusement rather than annoyance.
After several long seconds, Lord Charborough turned from his brother’s fierce gaze with a helpless flail of his hand. “Oh, very well. I request the audit, but it must remain confidential.”
“Don’t want anyone hearing of such unseemly behaviour, Charles?” the duke murmured, a low sound somehow more horrible than his shouting.
Lord Charborough certainly seemed to think so, his expression sliding into a grimace as the delegations made notes. “Are we done now?” he demanded. “I’m hungry and all this nonsense is…” He waved a hand, trying to find the right word. Demeaning, Nic would have chosen. Or perhaps nauseating.
Master Everel pushed back his chair. “Done, my lord, but for the initial binding of the principals, which will take only a moment. If Lady Leaf and Lord Monterris would join us. Master sa Vare?”
Determined to exude a carefree ease, Nic followed Lady Leaf to the centre of the room.
“Hands,” Master Everel said, holding up a contract page that was already covered in inked sigils. Nic lifted a hand over one side of the paper, just as the duke had shown him in their many, many rehearsals. Lady Leaf mirrored the gesture.
“If you would repeat after me, my lady,” Dashiell said at her shoulder. “I make myself known as the Lady Leaf Clementia Serral.”
“I make myself known as the Lady Leaf Clementia Serral,” she repeated, the words turning the network of sigils beneath her hand from ink to gold.
“To this agreement I pledge my word,” Dashiell went on, and this time when the lady repeated, he formed a few sigils with both hands—arme bruss cor ma tevore.
He worked with quick ease, but there was something of an accent to the way he shaped them that was uniquely his, the feel of his magic against Nic’s mind achingly familiar.
Too late Nic realised he was staring, their eyes meeting over the lady’s shoulder as Dashiell said, “And to this union I pledge myself.”
Nic’s heart thudded loudly in his chest, but the moment the words were out of his mouth, Dashiell looked away, leaving Nic feeling exposed, flayed open by words not even meant for him.
“And to this union I pledge myself,” Lady Leaf said.
With her half complete, Dashiell took the paper from Master Everel, though it trembled ever so slightly in the young vowsmith’s hand.
“After me, if you will, Lord Monterris,” Master Everel said.
Nic cleared his throat. “I know it, Master Everel, thank you,” he said, though a more accurate reply would have been “His Grace made me practice it last week until I knew it better than my own name.”
“I make myself known as Lord Nicholas Francis Monterris, Earl Monterris,” he began, sigils flaring gold beneath his hand. “To this agreement I pledge my word, and to this union I pledge myself.” He looked up and, meeting Lady Leaf’s gaze, murmured, “Since I have now proven I do not possess a tail.”
The lady laughed, and as they grinned at one another over the contract, Nic dared to hope that perhaps the lock-in wouldn’t be so bad.
Dashiell lowered the paper. “Now we are finished, Lord Charborough.”
For the second time that day, Nic stood in his dressing room contemplating his new wardrobe, only this time he was on to his third glass of wine and there was no sign of Rowerre.
Just as Nic was thinking he needed a fourth glass before he could decide on a coat, the sitting room door opened only to slam shut.
A few blinks and Rowerre stood in the doorway, profuse apologies pouring from his lips.
“I didn’t mean to keep you waiting, my lord.
Lord Charborough brought so much luggage that every hand was needed, and then I had to wait upon Lord Ricard Serral, for it seems he did not bring his own valet. ”
Before he’d finished, he was across the small room, riffling through Nic’s new waistcoats, barely pausing long enough to take each in.
“Surely one of the footmen could do that?” Nic said. “I can tell my father I am already far too much work for you.”
“Oh no!” Rowerre spun, face paling. “Please don’t tell him I mentioned it. I should not have spoken. Will you wear the new blue, perhaps? Or the red? No, not the red, too strong. Baffling that the tailor thought it suited you.”
Rowerre’s hands shook as he unfolded an exquisite blue waistcoat. “With the cream neckcloth, my lord?”
“Are you all right? Lord Ricard wasn’t a brute to you, was he?”
“A brute? Oh no, not at all, my lord. He was perfectly gentlemanly. Now, you need new stockings. And a fresh shirt. And I shall fetch the oil for your hair, as it will not remain tidy without it no matter what I do.”
Nic smiled at such fussing. Ever since Nic had been a boy, Rowerre had strived to make the best of a poor wardrobe and no money, shielding his young charge from the disappointments of his situation.
And its loneliness. Now he had the latest fashions to play with, Rowerre went to work with gusto, and helping Nic dress seemed to calm his nerves at having been so late.
“I saw Master sa Vare making his way to the drawing room as I was coming up,” Rowerre said as he was fixing Nic’s hair. “He’s grown into a very handsome young man.”
“Yes, he has,” Nic agreed distantly. His valet’s hands paused in his hair, causing Nic to look up, meeting the man’s gaze in the mirror. “What?”