Steel's Edge

FIFTEEN

THE long-distance phaeton shot out of the woods. It was time to wake Sophie. Charlotte touched the girl’s hand, and she awoke instantly, fully alert.

“Look out the window,” Charlotte said.

Sophie leaned toward the wide panel of glass in the phaeton. A vast river stretched before them, its placid waters golden and pearl, reflecting the glory of the setting sun. A flat bridge spanned the endless width of the river, and in the middle of the bridge, thrusting straight out of the water, a castle rose.

Sophie took a sharp breath.

The castle of Pierre de Rivière towered before them like a massive stately mountain of buildings crafted with cream stone. Couched in green trees growing from planters, its walls and countless terraces and balconies all but glowed in the sun. Thin, ornate spires stretched to the sky. Giant windows looked out onto the world from among the textured parapets and ornamental wall carvings so delicate, so light, that the entire enormous structure seemed to float upon the waters of the river.

“It’s so beautiful,” Sophie whispered.

“I hoped you would like it. It’s one of the wonders of the continent.”

The phaeton entered the bridge. The wolfripper dog raised his shaggy head in alarm.

“It’s fine,” Charlotte told him.

She’d suggested leaving the hound at the Camarine estate, but Sophie had hugged him and looked at her as if she’d suggested cutting off an arm. Faced with two pairs of sad puppy eyes, Charlotte had capitulated. She had insisted on a leash, a bath, and a haircut, all of which had failed to turn him into a pampered pet. He still looked like he chased wolves through the woods. They would have to make an effort to walk him, and he would make things less convenient, but it couldn’t be helped.

A high, forlorn cry rolled through the sky, as if the clouds had sung.

“Look!” Charlotte pointed at a bright green spark dropping from the sky.

The spark plummeted, growing, becoming an enormous scaled shape armed with massive wings. The wyvern circled the castle, the sun reflecting from the cabin on its back. Another joined it, then another . . . One by one, they landed on the castle grounds.

“The elite of both realms will be there.” Charlotte smiled. “Are you excited?”

Sophie nodded.

“I’m so glad. Enjoy it,” Charlotte told her. “It’s magic.”

They had work to do, but for now she would just sit here and watch the world of wonder blossom in the child’s eyes, and for a few brief moments, she could be fifteen again, riding in a phaeton to her first ball.

The bridge brought them beneath the portcullis to the main thoroughfare that circled the castle. The phaeton veered right, along a side route, and finally came to a stop in the courtyard before a grand stairway. A familiar man stood on the bottom step, speaking to a noble in a dark doublet. Brennan, Charlotte realized.

Their driver opened the door, and Charlotte stepped out.

“Charlotte!” Angelia called.

Oh Dawn Mother. “Angelia!”

Angelia Ermine swept into her view. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

At the stairway, Brennan turned. His gaze snagged on them. He smiled at the man he was speaking too and strode toward them.

Anxiety pierced Charlotte. She pretended to listen to Angelia. She wore a silk tunic and trousers, both in a beautiful shade of green. The clothes were formfitting and only a hint suggestive, which made them rather prim by the standards of society. She hadn’t counted on meeting Brennan right off the phaeton, but the possibility existed, and she had dressed precisely for that occasion.

“Angelia,” Brennan said.

The other woman spun, surprised. “Robert . . .”

“My dear, I’m most put out.” Brennan took Angelia’s hand and kissed her fingers. “You’ve been denying me the pleasure of your company. One would almost think you were displeased with me.”

Angelia blinked. “Of course not.”

“Who is your friend?”

Angelia produced a charming smile. “Charlotte de Ney al-te Ran.”

Brennan blinked. The name had the desired effect.

“Charlotte, Lord Robert Brennan.”

Charlotte curtsied. “Your Highness.”

“Oh no, please. No titles.” Brennan waved his hand. “My memory may be betraying me, but I’m almost positive I haven’t encountered you before. I would have remembered our meeting.”

“May I tell him?” Angelia asked. “May I?”

“As you wish.”

“Charlotte comes to us from the Ganer College of Medicinal Arts. She has spent quite a long time there.”

“They don’t let us out much.” Charlotte smiled. “It’s almost like a convent.”

Interest sparked in Brennan’s eyes. She was right—the idea of seducing a woman shut off in a convent appealed to him.

“How peculiar,” Brennan said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever met a College escapee.”

“Then I’m flattered to be the first, my lord.”

“Are you a healer?” Brennan asked.

“Only a physician, my lord.” Lucky for her, Ganer College was home to both magic healers and their mundane counterparts. Given that Brennan had gone to visit the Island of Na, he must’ve heard of Silver Death killing people on the island with strange magic. She didn’t want to advertise her talents. He could connect the dots.

“She’s a healer,” Angelia blurted out. “An excellent one.”

Charlotte heaved a small sigh. “Forgive me, my lord. We don’t usually identify ourselves outside of the College.”

“Perfectly understandable. I imagine you would be inundated with requests otherwise.” Brennan glanced at Angelia. “I had no idea you kept such exotic company. I do hope you haven’t been ill, my lady?”

Angelia’s composure crumbled. “Lady Charlotte is a friend,” she squeezed through her teeth. “But now that you mention it, yes, I have been ill. I’ve caught a most unpleasant disease from a most surprising source. I can’t wait to tell you all about it.”

“I would love to hear it, but we’re being rude to your friend.”

“Oh no, not at all,” Charlotte said. “I’m tired from my journey, and I need to do all those small secret female things women do to make themselves presentable before the dinner. Please excuse me.”

“Thank you for your understanding,” Brennan said. “The loss is entirely ours.”

Charlotte curtsied and watched them walk away. Angelia’s spine was rigid like a spear—she was fuming. She was about to reveal to Brennan that he had infected her with Dock Rot, and that conversation couldn’t possibly go well.

“How did it go?” Sophie murmured at her elbow.

“It went well. Now we must lay our trap.”

An hour later, Charlotte paced in her dressing room. Her dress waited on the bed. She wore a long black robe. Her undergarments had been very carefully chosen—she wore the tiniest of black lace panties, a bra that was a collection of translucent lace and black straps, and black stockings held up by thin ribbons simulating leather. She’d had the ensemble custom-made, modeled after some of the sexy garments she had seen advertised in the flyers from the Broken. The outfit wasn’t just seductive, it was erotic, explicit, and raunchy. A woman of her status had no business wearing these kinds of undergarments unless she was aiming to provide very specific entertainment to her lover. Her spike-heeled shoes raised her to dangerous heights. Her hair had been arranged into an elegant wave appropriate to a formal function. Her makeup was perfect, and she was as ready as she could be.

This was a prime opportunity—Brennan still remembered her—and capturing his attention later would be significantly harder. Being unmarried, he would be inundated with women. She had to make an unforgettable impression immediately.

Sophie sat on the bed and watched her pace. “What if he isn’t interested?”

“He will be. Men like Brennan think that every woman is secretly wanton. He loves the juxtaposition of the prim and proper with the dirty and seductive. He loves to corrupt. It makes him feel powerful.”

“How can you walk in those shoes?”

“Practice. Lots of practice.”

“What if he—”

The door swung open, and Jack stuck his head into the crack. “He’s coming!”

Thank you, gods.

The door clicked shut.

“Quick!” Charlotte tossed the robe aside and moved into position in plain view of the door. Sophie grabbed the gown and held it up as if to put it on her.

GEORGE leaned against the column and watched out of the corner of his eye as Brennan walked up the stairs. The Guest Keep resembled the Broken’s hotels in its architecture: a stairway led from the bottom floor to a long landing connecting to a hallway, then another stairway at the opposite end of the landing led to the next higher floor. Each of the visiting bluebloods had been assigned a set of rooms, and the roster of the rooms had been posted at each intersection of stairs and hallways. From his vantage point on the fourth-floor landing, George had an excellent view of the lower stairway and the roster.

Brennan was a third of the way up the stairs.

Kaldar, dressed in the gray-and-blue uniform of the castle staff, walked out of the hallway. He casually stepped to the roster, slid it off the wall, hung a new one in its place, and walked away.

Cutting it close. Kaldar liked to live dangerously.

Brennan conquered the stairs and paused before the roster. The original list put Brennan and the rest of the royal relatives on the fifth floor. This roster placed him on the third.

George pondered Brennan’s back. He was a large man, strong, athletic. Thick, muscular neck. Jack could snap it, but he would have trouble.

This man was responsible for Sophie’s torment. He turned slavers from random raiders to an organized force. His hands were stained with Mémère’s blood. He made it possible for John Drayton to sink so low, he drowned.

A small, furious voice chanted inside George, “Kill him, kill him, kill him . . .” But there would be no killing, not now. No, first there would be public humiliation. Then there would be shame, then anguish, then punishment.

Brennan turned to the right, heading down the hallway toward Charlotte’s room. George concentrated, sending his voice to an undead mouse riding in Jack’s pocket. “He’s coming.”

Brennan disappeared into the hallway. Kaldar strode to the roster, swiped it off the wall, and placed the original in its spot.

THE door swung open.

Charlotte took a deep breath.

Brennan stepped into the suite and stopped. His eyes widened. He gaped at her, his mouth hanging slightly open.

Sophie froze, her face suitably shocked.

Charlotte met Brennan’s gaze. She knew her poise was perfect, but inside she was trembling. She made no attempt to cover up. She simply stood there, as if she were wearing the most conservative of gowns, her expression even.

Brennan’s gaze roamed over her body, pausing on her breasts, her stomach, and finally on the triangle between her legs, barely obscured by translucent black lace. She had his complete attention. A woman of noble name, who was proper in all outward appearances and who had just come out of seclusion, secretly wearing an outfit that would embarrass a professional. He had to take the bait. It was made to order specifically for him.

A long moment passed.

Charlotte raised her eyebrows, and said, her voice perfectly even, “I believe you’re in the wrong room, my lord.”

Brennan blinked as if waking up. A lifetime of experience in etiquette kicked in. “Of course. My apologies, my lady.”

He shut the door.

“Knowing the precisely correct thing to do in every situation, then doing it with unshakable entitlement,” Sophie whispered.

Charlotte’s knees trembled. She collapsed into a chair.

GEORGE watched as Brennan emerged onto the landing and marched to the roster. His face wore a look of intense concentration. He stopped before the roster and stared at it for a long moment.

His room number and Charlotte’s differed by exactly one digit. Hers read 322 and his 522. It had taken a great deal of manipulation on Kaldar’s part to arrange this. Any significant difference between the numbers, and Brennan would’ve smelled a rat.

The man shook his head and started up the stairs. George stepped away from the column, back out of Brennan’s view, and walked away quickly, staying close to the wall. He turned the corner just as Brennan stepped onto the fourth-floor landing.

DINNER was served on one of the massive terraces and consisted of light appetizers.

“I’m hungry,” Sophie murmured.

“It’s expected that after the ball we’ll have a late dinner in our rooms,” Charlotte murmured, and adjusted the strap on Sophie’s left shoulder. This dress, a beautiful variation of blue-gray with a metallic sheen, was a collaboration between her and the dressmaker. Two thin shoulder straps held up a modest linear bodice that hugged Sophie’s slender figure. Thin leaves of pale and darker blue overlapped on the bodice, built from the left side and spreading in a fan to the right. Two gathered lengths of fabric draped over Sophie’s hips, tight enough to accentuate the modest flare of her hips but loose enough to still be appropriate. Past the draped fabric, a wide skirt built from layers of chiffon streamed down to the floor.

It was a refreshing dress, youthful and light, and its style matched Charlotte’s own gown. She’d chosen a blue-green chiffon. Two leaves of silvery fabric served as her sleeves. The pattern continued along her sides, the leaves stretching to hug her, underscoring her waist and the curve of her hips. Tiny silvery dots, each slightly less shiny than the leaves, traced a delicate pattern over her chest and stomach, until finally her skirt flared into layers and layers of weightless chiffon.

Sophie looked beautiful. She herself looked elegant and every inch a blueblood, which is exactly what Charlotte was trying to project. The music was getting louder. Soon the dancing would start. She wasn’t expected to dance but once or twice, but Sophie would enjoy it. And likely cause a stir. Charlotte had asked her to demonstrate a couple of dances, and her footwork was exquisite.

She felt the pressure of someone’s gaze, scanned the gathering, and ran into Richard’s face. He stood across the terrace, in the shadow of a column, and he was looking at her with shock and longing, as if he were thunderstruck. It hurt. It hurt so much to stand there across from him and know that she couldn’t walk over there, she couldn’t touch him or go away with him. Charlotte looked away.

No matter what happened around her, deep inside she always remembered that either of them, or both of them, might not survive this. They were in constant danger, and a happy outcome wasn’t guaranteed. That knowledge pressed on her like an ever-present, crushing burden. She awoke with it, and she went to bed with it. It haunted her through the day. Occasionally, she would get distracted and forget, but inevitably she would remember, and when she did, the fear and anxiety hit her like a punch to the stomach. Her throat closed up, her eyes watered, and her chest hurt. For a few moments, she would hover on the verge of tears and have to talk herself off the cliff.

She missed Richard. She worried about him more than she worried about herself.

She wasn’t made for this, she realized. Some might revel in danger and intrigue, but she just wanted everything to be done. She wanted it to be over. The stress and the pressure chipped at her, and she felt herself cracking under their chisel. The harder the pressure ground, the more she wanted to escape. Last night, she’d dreamed about walking up to Brennan, killing him, and throwing herself from the balcony. In the morning she had been horrified—not by the suicidal fantasy, but because for a brief moment before she returned to reality, she felt relief.

She couldn’t shatter. Too many people depended on her, Sophie, Richard, Tulip . . . Speaking of Sophie, where had she gone?

Charlotte turned and saw a group of young people, all on the cusp of adulthood, surrounding a blueblood in a dark green doublet. He was tall, blond, and strikingly beautiful. He was telling some sort of story, and his face wore the comfortable expression of a practiced speaker. His audience hung on his every word.

Charlotte drifted closer, analyzing his gestures. Not just blood, old blood. Not Adrianglian, definitely a Louisianan bend—he’d raised his hand in an elegant gesture, palm up, index finger almost parallel to the floor, three others bent slightly—a clear tell. Louisianan court etiquette dictated that when the Emperor was present, the nobles carried a token, a small silver coin engraved with his likeness, worn on a chain wound around the fingers. The gesture was designed to display the coin and was so ingrained in the manners of the older families, they made it unconsciously when they presented a point during an argument or acknowledged someone’s else’s point.

She’d drifted close enough to hear him.

“. . . After all, as Ferrah states, excelling in the service of the multitude is the highest calling. The ego can attain its pinnacle only when laboring for the greater good of the majority.”

There were nods and sounds of agreement. He really had them entranced.

“But doesn’t Ferrah also say that compromising one’s ethics is the ultimate betrayal of self,” Sophie’s voice sounded from the back. The group of young people parted, and Charlotte saw her. “And since he defines ethics as the ultimate expression of individuality, his arguments are contradictory and suspect.”

The blueblood looked at her with genuine interest. “The contradiction is present at first glance, yet it disappears if one assumes the moral code of the individual is aligned with the goals of the multitude.”

“But does not the multitude consist of individuals with wildly conflicting moral codes?”

“It does.” The blueblood smiled, clearly enjoying the argument. “But the attitudes of the multitude are aimed at self-preservation; therefore, we have the emergence of common laws: don’t murder, don’t commit adultery, don’t steal. It is that commonality that prompted Ferrah to embark on the examination of multitude and self.”

Sophie frowned. “I was under the impression that Ferrah embarked on the examination of multitude and self because he desired his sister sexually and was upset that society wouldn’t permit him to marry her?”

The young people gasped. The noble laughed. “Whose treasure are you, child?”

“Mine,” Charlotte said.

The noble turned to her and executed a flawless bow. “My lady, my highest compliments. It is rare to see a well-read child in this day and age. May I have the pleasure of your name?”

“Charlotte de Ney al-te Ran.”

The noble straightened. “An ancient name, my lady. I’m Sebastian Lafayette, Comte de Belidor. And this is?”

“Sophie.”

The noble smiled at Sophie. “We must speak more, Sophie.”

Sophie curtsied with perfect grace. “You honor me, my lord.”

“I hope she didn’t upset you, Lord Belidor,” Charlotte said.

The noble turned to her. “Sebastian, please. On the contrary. I often become frustrated at the lack of mettle among the younger generation. It seems that we had . . . not a better education, per se, but perhaps more incentive to use it. They learn, but they hardly think.”

Behind Sebastian, Sophie mouthed something silently.

A woman in the dark blue uniform of the castle staff approached them and bowed, holding a small card out to Charlotte. “Lady de Ney al-te Ran.”

“Excuse me,” Charlotte smiled at Sebastian and took the card. “Thank you.”

On the card beautiful calligraphy letters said, “His Highness Lord Robert Brennan cordially requests the pleasure of your company for the Rioga Dance.”

Charlotte blinked. The Rioga Dance was an old tradition. The floor was cleared, and a single pair—one of whom was of royal blood but never the reigning monarch—danced alone. It was the official start of the ball, and a privilege most women here would kill for, quite literally.

“It’s seems I’m to dance the Rioga,” she said.

“Congratulations.” Sebastian bowed his head. “What an honor.”

Before he straightened, Sophie mouthed something again. What was she trying to say?

“Give way to the Grand Thane!” the crier barked.

Charlotte curtsied. As one, the nobles around her bowed.

A procession spilled out of the doors, led by the Grand Thane, a huge bear of a man, his mane of hair completely silver. The Marchesa of Louisiana, his future bride, who walked next to him, seemed tiny in comparison. She was only five years younger, but she moved with the grace of a much younger woman. Her dress, a shimmering gown of pale cream sparked with tiny lights, as if studded with stars.

Behind them, the immediate members of both families strode side by side. Charlotte glimpsed Brennan directly behind the Grand Thane. He looked positively splendid in a formfitting jacket, its red tone so dark, it was almost black. You terrible bloody bastard.

The procession swept through the gathering. The Grand Thane led the Marchesa to a pair of thronelike chairs. She sat.

The women in the audience rose, Charlotte with them. The Grand Thane took his seat, and the men rose as well.

Brennan stepped forward.

“It’s time, my lady,” the woman who had delivered her invitation said.

Sophie was smiling. There was something deeply disturbing about her smile.

In the circle, Brennan nodded to Charlotte.

“My lady, it’s time,” the woman prompted again.

Sophie’s lips moved again.

Spider.

Sebastian was Spider. Dawn Mother. I am leaving Sophie standing next to Spider.

The opening notes of the Rioga floated on the breeze. Charlotte had no time to stop. All she could do was step forward.

RICHARD pretended to be bored. Next to him, Rene chattered about something with Lorameh and Lady Karin, Rene’s cousin. Soon the dancing would start.

He hadn’t spoken to Charlotte for nine days. Nine days of no contact. George’s birds didn’t really count. Nine days of brooding and sleeping alone, just him and his thoughts, and his thoughts had turned pretty dark. He wanted to see her. He wanted to tell her he loved her and hear that she loved him in return. The moment his mouth didn’t have to make small talk, thoughts of her intruded into his mind. He imagined a life with her. He imagined a life without her. Perhaps he was going crazy.

Brennan walked out into the open expanse of the terrace.

Richard had to fight from grinding his teeth. Being in Brennan’s presence was becoming harder and harder, both because he hated the man and because Brennan’s good fortune brought his own shortcomings into focus. The man who had been given literally every advantage in life, while he himself was given none, used all his resources and talents to profit from the misery of others. He couldn’t wait to bring Brennan down.

“I guess Robert is the sacrificial lamb on the Rioga’s altar,” Rene quipped.

“I wonder who his partner is,” Lorameh said.

“Angelia?” Lady Karin suggested.

“She wishes.” Lorameh laughed.

The music began.

“I do hope he won’t be stood up,” Rene said with mock concern.

The crowd parted, and Charlotte walked out.

The world came to a screeching halt. Her dress flared about her with every step, the diaphanous layers of blue-green fabric thin like gossamer, suggesting the contours of her body, then obscuring them. She didn’t walk, she glided.

“Divine. Who is she?” Lorameh asked from somewhere far.

“Lady de Ney al-te Ran,” Rene said. “Exquisite, no? And such a name.”

“Oh no,” Lady Karin said. “She mustn’t have expected to be asked to dance. Her heels are too high.”

His memory told him that Charlotte couldn’t be as tall as Brennan during the Rioga: he was a man and of royal blood. It would be a critical social blunder. Most people watching her knew it. She had to know it as well.

Without breaking her stride, Charlotte stepped out of her shoes. She didn’t slow down; she didn’t give any indication of what she had done. She simply kept gliding forward, leaving two high-heeled shoes behind her. Sophie scooped them up and melted into the crowd.

Lady Karin gasped. Someone to the left clapped, then someone to the right, and Charlotte curtsied before Brennan to the sound of appreciative applause.

Brennan bowed, offering her his hand. She placed her hand onto his palm.

Sharp pain stabbed Richard between his ribs on the left side. Suddenly, the air grew viscous. He struggled to breathe.

Brennan rose to his full height and rested his arm around Charlotte’s, touching her back.

He was touching her.

The music broke into a fast rhythm, and the two of them spun into the dance, Charlotte’s dress streaming around Brennan like water currents around a rock.

His hands were on her. His fingers were touching her skin. She was touching him. Her hand rested in his. She was smiling. She looked like she was enjoying it. She looked at Brennan, and her face glowed with admiration.

A wave of ice rolled over Richard’s skin and evaporated, burned off by all-consuming anger. He was watching Charlotte and Brennan turn and turn on the dance floor, helpless to do anything about it.

“They look so beautiful together,” Lady Karin said.

“You’ve got to hate the man,” Rene said. “Royal blood, rich, smart, good fighter. You’d think fate would disfigure him just out of the sense of fairness, but no, the bastard is handsome, and the moment a sophisticated, enchanting woman enters society, he snatches her up before any of us even trade two words with her.”

That’s right. Brennan was handsome, rich, with royal pedigree. And who was Richard? A penniless swamp rat with a sword and a stolen face.

In his mind, Richard stepped out onto the dance floor. He held his own sword in his hand, not Casside’s weak rapier. He cut in between them, spun in a burst of magic and steel, and Brennan’s head rolled off his shoulders onto the floor.

Charlotte gasped. He walked over to her . . .

The music ended, and he heard his own heartbeat, too loud, like the toll of some giant bell. Brennan was bowing. Charlotte curtsied. Brennan straightened. The emotion on his face was unmistakable: it was the primal need of a man who had found a woman he had to have.

People applauded. It sounded like a storm to Richard’s ears. She never said she loved him. She gave him her body in the cabin, perhaps in a moment of weakness, but she never promised anything to him. And if she had, promises were often broken.

Brennan led Charlotte over to the Grand Thane and the Marchesa. She curtsied again, a deep, graceful bow. The Marchesa said something. Charlotte replied. Brennan grinned, displaying even teeth.

The crowd turned into a smudge of faces, the voices blended into a loud hum, and Brennan’s face and those gleaming teeth came into sharp focus.

Richard pictured driving the blade of his sword into Brennan’s eye. Everything within him wanted Brennan’s blood. He stood poised on the edge of his blade, fighting to keep his balance.

“Casside, are you unwell?” Lorameh asked, looking at him very carefully. “You haven’t said a word.”

Answer, you fool. Say something.

He forced his lips to move. “I have a headache. I think I shall retire.”

“It’s the flowers,” Lorameh said. “That much perfume and pollen mixing together, it’s a wonder the lot of us haven’t collapsed from breathing it in. Let’s get a drink, my friend.”

Richard willed himself to move, but his feet remained rooted to the floor.

“Come now,” Lorameh said. “You’ll feel better after some fresher air and a bit of wine.”

Staying here, watching the two of them, would do nothing except put him at risk of jeopardizing everything. Richard turned, snapping the chain of jealousy and pain that anchored him in place, and followed Lorameh into the castle, where drinks had been set out.

CHARLOTTE wiggled her toes in the ceramic footbath. Dancing barefoot across the ancient stone wasn’t the most pleasant of experiences. She’d stepped twice on some sharp pebble, and the dirt of the stones, although they had been cleaned, was now permanently embedded in her feet. She’d soaped them, scrubbed, and even tried a pumice stone, but the dirt remained. Finally, she had resorted to soaking.

It went so much better than expected. She had made an impression on Brennan and coincidentally a favorable impression upon the Marchesa. Brennan was feeling distinctly possessive. He held on to her a few moments too long after the dance and seemed unwilling to step away from her side. She finally excused herself to the washroom. He waited nearby, but she’d bet that a lone royal cousin wouldn’t remain unattended for too long, and she proved right. A group of Louisianan ladies surrounded him, and she quietly made her escape.

She found Sophie at Spider-Sebastian’s table, attentively listening as he debated some point of Louisianan politics with some older man and his entourage. While they made their good nights and said thank-yous for the stream of compliments received, Charlotte composed a devastating chewing-out in her head, which she delivered the moment they stepped into their quarters and shut the door. Sophie listened to every word and at the end hugged her, said, “Thank you, you’re the best,” and disappeared into her room.

Charlotte stood by the door, staring at it for a little while, not sure what to do, and went to take a shower. And now she was soaking her feet.

Charlotte slumped back in her chair. The room was quiet and dark around her. The glass doors to the balcony were open, and the night wind sifted through the gauzy white drapes. A big, pale moon lit the sky and the stone rail of the balcony. Beyond it, the river stretched, reflecting the moonlight.

How did she even end up here? Eight weeks ago she was just plain Charlotte living her life quietly in the Edge. Now she was attending a royal wedding, her name out in the open. She thought of Lady Augustine. Her surrogate mother wouldn’t have approved of airing out the name. The moment her adoption was made public, she’d become a target for the enterprising social climbers. But then the name was the least of her worries. She’d broken her oath. Lady Augustine would be horrified to know how far her star pupil had fallen.

A rope dropped from above, stretching to the balcony.

Charlotte blinked.

The rope was still there.

Feet in dark boots slid into her view, followed by long, lean legs, followed by narrow hips, a muscular chest clothed in dark fabric. Richard.

Her heart pounded in her chest. She tried to get up and splashed water all over the plush white rug. Damn it. And now she was swearing in her head. Wonderful.

Charlotte stepped out of the bath and ran to the balcony on her toes.

He landed on the rail.

“What are you doing?” she hissed in a loud whisper.

“I had to see you.”

“What? Get on that rope. You’re going to ruin everything.”

“Brennan isn’t everything.”

His face was sharpened, almost contorted, by desperation.

“What is it?” she whispered. “Did something bad happen? Are you hurt?”

He jumped off the rail, pulled her inside the room, and clamped her to him. His mouth found hers, hot, possessive, and demanding. He kissed her as if this was the last time he would see her.

For a moment she almost melted, but alarm won out. “Richard, you’re scaring me.”

“Let’s go away,” he whispered. “Let’s just leave, you and me.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I don’t want to lose you. I love you, Charlotte. Come with me.”

She studied his face. “Are you jealous of Brennan?”

“Yes.”

Oh, for the love of . . . “Richard!”

“I know that I can’t give you a title or riches or—”

She put her hand on his mouth. “Shut up. I have a title and riches. You don’t get to abort the plan because you didn’t like that I danced with him.”

“You liked it,” he said through her hand.

“No, I didn’t.”

“You looked like you were enjoying it.”

“I was supposed to look like I enjoyed it, you moron. It’s called ‘acting.’”

He looked at her, clearly at a loss for words.

“If you can go under the knife risking death, I can dance with Brennan and parade in front of him in my underwear.”

“What?”

She shouldn’t have said that.

“Charlotte?”

“I let him see me half-undressed. I’ll model it for you later if you wish. Now you need to get out!” She pushed him onto the balcony. “Get out, get out, get out. And take your rope with you. You’re too old for this. I’m too old for this.” She shut the glass doors.

He stood for a long moment, then jumped, caught the rope, and pulled himself up.

Charlotte fell backward onto the bed. Idiot. Moron. He scaled the wall for her like some sort of robber-prince from an adventure novel. Climbed a rope in a fit of jealousy. Really, who climbs a rope?

A knock sounded through her door. Now what? She walked over, pulling her thin robe tighter around herself, and checked the glass window in the door. Brennan.

“This is highly improper,” she said through the door.

“I’m a highly improper man.”

“Who shall remain in the hallway.”

“Charlotte, I just wish to talk.”

“One moment.”

Charlotte walked over to a communicator and dialed the castle staff. The gears spun and a man’s face appeared above the copper half sphere. “At your service, my lady.”

“Robert Brennan is at my door. He wishes to have a conversation. I require an escort.”

The man turned away for a moment and faced her again. “The escort has been dispatched. They will be at your door in twenty seconds.”

“Thank you.”

She walked over to the door and peered through the glass. Moments crawled by. She counted to twenty in her head. At eighteen, a man and a woman in castle uniform rounded the corner and came to a halt by her door.

Charlotte unlocked it.

Brennan sighed. “Chaperones? Are we children?”

“We are adults, which is exactly why I require witnesses.”

He grinned. “Do I scare you, Charlotte?”

“Your Highness, I’ve seen things that would turn most people’s hair white overnight. I don’t fear you. I’m simply being prudent.”

He tilted his head. “You undo your hair at night.”

“Of course.” Wearing her hair down wasn’t one of the best hairstyles for her. She looked much better with an updo, but her scalp did have to rest at some point.

“Why did you leave?”

“My ward had enough excitement for the evening.”

“The little girl? Who is she to you?”

“She’s the daughter of a friend. Her mother is dead, and her father is unfit to care for her.”

Brennan shook his head. “This would be so much better without an audience.”

“And that’s precisely why we have one.”

“I’d like to continue our acquaintance,” he said.

“Are you fond of tea in the morning?”

“I could be.”

“In that case, I could give a morning tea tomorrow at ten.”

“In that case, I would definitely attend. Who else will be there?”

“My ward and I. If you’re planning to attend, perhaps I will invite a couple of other people to maintain propriety.”

“You seem to be very concerned with propriety.”

You seem to be very concerned with making a profit on selling children into slavery. “There are times when I can be inappropriate.”

A small, hungry light sparked in Brennan’s eyes. “How inappropriate?”

“If you bide your time, perhaps I’ll show you.”

He grinned. “You’re going to make it into a game, aren’t you?”

“If you choose to look at it that way.”

“I love games.” He leaned forward, picked up her hand, and kissed her fingers. “I never lose.”

She leaned toward him and said, pronouncing the words very clearly, “Go to bed, Your Highness.”

He smiled, a self-satisfied, happy baring of teeth, and headed down the hallway.

“Thank you,” she said to the escort.

“Of course, my lady,” they chorused.

Charlotte shut the door, locked it, turned, and ran into Richard.

“I told you to leave.”

He stared at the door with that familiar predatory focus. “I’m going to kill him.”

“No, you won’t. You will climb your rope and leave.”

He wasn’t listening to her. He wasn’t even looking at her. He simply moved to the door, and she knew that she had to stop him now, or he would chase after Brennan and fight him, and their entire scheme would crumble.

Charlotte grasped the back of his head and pulled him down toward her. Kissing him was like drinking spiced wine—the heat of him dashed through her, burning through her body. Immediately, she wanted him.

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. His tongue touched hers, and she shivered. When she opened her eyes, he was looking at her, and this time he did see her.

“You have to leave,” she whispered.

“No.”

“Yes. You must go. What if he goes to find Casside, and you’re gone?”

His eyes turned dark.

“Look at me, Richard. You cannot kill Brennan until we expose him. You can’t do it, or it was all for nothing.” She kissed him again, trying to pull him away from the destructive anger. “You have nothing to worry about.”

He blinked, like a man waking up from a deep sleep, focusing on her.

“You have nothing to worry about,” she repeated. “I love you, Richard. Go.”

“What?”

“I said I love you, you fool.”

“When this is over—”

“Yes,” she told him.

He stared at her.

“The answer is yes, Richard. Yes, I will go with you and live with you in your Lair, because I love you. Now you must leave. Get out of here!”

She pushed him out to the balcony, shut the doors, and made sure to lock them.

Richard looked at her from behind the glass. He had the strangest look on his face, a kind of stunned amazement.

“Go!” she mouthed at him.

“I love you, too,” he mouthed, then jumped and climbed back up his rope.

She crossed the room, fell on her bed, and put a pillow over her face. She felt hot and giddy. He loved her. It made everything worth it.

What if he stopped being there? What if something happened, and he was gone?

The anxiety shot her in the heart. Here it is again. Hello there.

Please, she prayed silently. Please, please, please, let it be all right. Please, let it all work out.

Please.