“I know.” The fan beat faster.
“Lady Constance,” Albert said. “I wonder if Lady Lillian would prefer to part with coin to get her earrings back, rather than turn over her husband’s manifests.”
“Well, of course she would, but McMannis will make far more money from the manifests than Lillian could ever offer him. Besides, there is the embarrassment … McMannis isn’t doing this only for the money.”
“Paying McMannis isn’t what I meant. As it happens, I know some individuals who I’m sure would be willing to retrieve the lady’s stolen property—for a reasonable price. What do you think?”
“I would say it’s not possible. McMannis has those earrings well secured. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wore the things in his own ears when he went to bed at night. There is simply no way to get them from him.”
“I’m not so sure. The individuals I speak of are very talented.”
Lady Constance smiled at him. “Really? What sorts of talents are we speaking of?”
“The sort that shouldn’t be discussed with a respectable lady such as yourself.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Well, Albert Winslow, this is a side of you that I’ve never seen.”
“I, too, am a man of many talents.”
“And how much would such talents cost?”
“Fifty golden royal-stamped tenents would do it.”
“Really?”
“I think so. I would need only to know what the earrings looked like and a small advance on the payment, say twenty? Perhaps she could demand that McMannis provide one of the earrings to prove he had them. I could pass the earring on to my associates, and in no time the pair would be returned.”
“And you can really arrange for such a thing? That would be perfect. Not only will it help out poor Lady Lillian, but she also would then owe me a favor, and we all know how valuable favors can be.” Lady Constance giggled again. Her darting eyes indicated a racing mind. “It is so nice having you back again, Albert. Things were so terribly dull.”
“It’s nice to be back.”
A crash of glass and the ping of pewter caught their attention. Across the room, the Earl of Longbow lay on the floor with Conrad the Red looming over him. The other men at the gala pulled their ladies back protectively, and the music stopped. A castle guard approached and Conrad grabbed the soldier’s sword, pulling it from its sheath and shoving the guard away.
“You pitiful excuse for a man!” Conrad bellowed, brandishing the weapon above his head. “You’re no better than your ancestors—lying cowards, the lot of you.”
“That’s enough!” The voice boomed in the great hall like a crack of thunder.
All heads turned to see the king striding across the room, his grand mantle of purple velvet and ermine fur wafting behind.
“Amrath, don’t try and stop—” Conrad was in the midst of saying when the king slapped the sword from his hand.
“You’ve had too much to drink, old friend.” His Majesty looked down at Heft as Leo helped him to his feet. “You both have.”
“I’m going to end this right now,” Conrad declared with slurred speech. “I’m going to kill that bastard.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort. He’s one of your oldest friends.”
“He’s a blackguard and a snake.”
“He’s also your cousin.”
“I don’t care.”
“Bring him,” the king told Count Pickering.
Together the four left the hall with Conrad still explaining how he would smite Heft Jerl so that his great-great-great-grandfather “smite feel it!”
By the time the music resumed and the dancers were taking position once more, Albert discovered he was alone. Making a quick survey of the room, he spotted Lady Constance leaning into Lady Lillian’s ear, their fans up, covering their faces. Then Lady Lillian’s face rose above the fan, her eyes focused on Albert, and in between the wing beats of the fan, he spotted a smile.
Task one—complete.
The row of waiting carriages stretched along King’s Boulevard. Horses shifted weight; tails swished; hooves stomped. Drivers chatted or napped on their high benches, cloaked in thick blankets. Each wore a hat adorned with pheasant feathers. The carriage lanterns burned, creating a pretty line of twinkling lights that when taken together appeared like a flaming arrow aimed at the castle.
“You know … they won’t stay put.” The voice cut through the night. “You know that.”
From his perch on the driver’s bench of Dunwoodie’s coach, Hadrian watched a group of men in cloaks leaving the castle.
“Sure they will,” a louder, deeper voice replied. “Just need to get them drunker.”
“Drunker? Are you mad? They’re at each other’s throats as it is.”
“Yes, but they can’t fight if they can’t stand.”
The group approached the front gate. Four were gentlemen, well dressed. Two were soldiers of the king. The two guards on station at the gate snapped to attention at their approach and bowed.
“You’re Reuben, right? Richard’s boy?” the loud one asked.
“Yes, sire.” The boy’s reply was barely above a whisper, but in the still night it carried across the moat.
“Good. Now listen, the both of you.” The loud one paused and sighed. “Count Pickering and I are going to take these idiots home so they don’t kill each other. But”—he looked over his shoulder at the castle where every window was bright—“if anyone asks, I want you to say I never left. Tell them I retired for the evening. I’ve put in my time and made my appearance. The rest of the night is mine to do as I please, and it pleases me to spend some time with old friends and be free of my obligations for one blasted evening. Understand?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” both guards replied.
“I already told the queen, and she is going to go to bed. So just tell anyone looking for me that I joined her. Got it? I’ll have a single night’s peace, by Maribor. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The two soldiers who had exited with the four men brought horses from the stables and helped the drunks onto the animals’ backs.
“Come, Leo, the night is crisp, and my backside is in a saddle and not a throne. Let’s go have us a real party.”
“Here! Here!” one of the drunks said.
“Your wish is my command, Your Majesty.”
The group slipped out the gate, rode across the bridge, and clip-clopped off toward the city’s gate.
“King’s gone,” Hadrian said.
“Yeah,” was all he heard from the interior of the coach.
Mr. Pensive Stevens was gone and the old Royce was back. He was in a stalking mood, hood raised.