Matwyck’s day had been inordinately tiresome. His calculators had come to him with a discrepancy, and Matwyck had kept the books but sent them away, concluding after several hours of tracing tiny figures himself that General Yurgn was skimming off more of the budget allotted to military matters than Matwyck had agreed to.
With the populace increasingly restive, this was not the time to be shorting the funds for the garrisons! Of late, painted letters had appeared on the sides of buildings, “Matwyck the Usurper” and “Where is our Queen?” Matwyck needed all his soldiers content with their salaries and reassured by having plentiful arms at hand.
Had Yurgn’s greed overwhelmed his senses?
He’d sent for his longtime coconspirator and had a confrontation that had turned ugly. Yurgn maintained that he needed the money and he refused to return it. After much wrangling, however, he agreed to stop plundering the accounts and to come to Matwyck directly with monetary requests.
Matwyck wasn’t confident this promise would hold. Old men die every day, Matwyck thought as his valet dressed him for dinner in his bedroom. But Yurgn’s hold on the army makes him damn near irreplaceable.
Matwyck turned his mind to a more pleasant topic: the intimate supper he had planned with Duchette Lolethia. Lolethia’s pouts and stratagems, which he found so charming, would be on full display. When she casually brushed against him, or leaned over to give him a privileged view down her dress, he knew she was trying to trap him with his own lust. He approved of her clever marshaling of her assets. Besides, who wouldn’t enjoy such a luscious tidbit trying to win his approval?
His valet poured hot water for him to wash his face and handed him a towel.
How will my upcoming engagement and remarriage affect the populace? Can I use the spectacle to divert the masses? Will Lolethia’s beauty charm the nobles?
He snapped his fingers, and his valet handed him his glass of cognac. This servant had learned that Matwyck despised chatter.
Duchette Lolethia was a summer or two younger than Marcot, and Matwyck admitted to himself that she was neither well-educated nor mature. But her immaturity was part of her appeal. Matwyck could foresee molding her into the perfect wife to stand by his side. Besides, Matwyck appreciated her native cunning, so visible in the way she chose the tastiest morsel from each serving plate, the way she insulted old Latlie without the duchess even realizing she’d been snubbed, or the way she would cheat at games while distracting her opponents. The scrupulousness and disapproval that had tainted his marriage to Tirinella would not be a problem in this second union. He would have to keep an eye on this one, though; she was capable of trying to deceive him.
But Matwyck had the Truth Stone in his possession, and if he had doubts about the girl’s loyalty, he could place her hand on the stone. She would quickly learn that she might trick others, but she couldn’t cozen or cuckold him!
While the valet tied his burgundy cravat, Matwyck found himself dreaming up various trinkets that would make Lolethia’s eyes sparkle. And also various scenarios for their wedding night. She had once made a comment about a spirited horse needing a strong master. Matwyck relished repeating this remark over and over in his head; it led him to believe that they might be compatible.
I’ll give that young filly the ride of her life!
The cravat didn’t lie in a neat knot; the Lord Regent tugged it loose angrily and bent for his valet to tie it again.
The one snag in his plans had arisen from her family. Naturally, her mother, Duchess Felethia of Prairyvale, was overjoyed to have her daughter the object of the Lord Regent’s attentions. But the duchess had made it plain she would entertain no talk of marriage until after a full year of mourning for Lolethia’s father, who had died of fever in the spring. Matwyck found this no grave impediment; he rather enjoyed the thought of moons of delay and suspense, observing how far Lolethia would go with her teasing and flirting.
Would she bed him before marriage? He would not pressure her—it must be at her initiative and desire. He might then shame her as wanton, bringing her more under his control.
But when he thought of family complications, his mind turned to Marcot’s stubbornness.
The valet held out his weskit. Matwyck scowled both at his thoughts and because the armhole was not placed at the correct angle for his arm.
Drought damn my son! Nothing moves him from his infatuation with that village girl in Androvale.
Matwyck had made sure to introduce his son to nearly a dozen more suitable women, a few of whom had been given explicit instructions that seduction would be well rewarded. Marcot behaved like a polite gentleman with each, departing as soon as possible from the social event with a feeble excuse.
Matwyck turned his head sideways to look closely at his cheeks in the looking glass.
Should I ring for the barber? No, this bit of stubble looks rough and manly.
His people had intercepted one of the letters Marcot sent and one of the letters she returned. Matwyck had a vague plan of interrupting the correspondence or forging a note from Percia saying she had found another beau. But before he could act decisively his son found a new avenue for posting and receiving his letters that kept them out of the palace and Matwyck’s grasp.
The valet stepped away to fetch the jewelry case while Matwyck stared, unseeing, at the carpet of his bedroom.
A play he’d seen a few moons ago, Devotion and Debts, had centered around filial piety. The young hero, who had dreams of becoming a famous artist, had not listened to his father, who knew that the boy’s real talent lay in increasing agriculture yields and motivating the servants to work harder. Only after their estate had fallen into arrears—and his sister had almost been forced to marry an elderly money changer—had the son realized, almost too late, that the key to his own happiness lay in his submission to his father’s wisdom and guidance. Matwyck had enjoyed the drama and had invited Marcot to attend a repeat performance, but the boy had begged off, claiming he was feeling unwell.
The scamp’s constitution is about to be tested.
Matwyck realized he didn’t particularly like to think of himself as the murderer of Weir girls. If Tirinella were still with him—regarding him with her disapproving eyes and daily winning out the contest for the boy’s love—he might not dare to go this far, because she would have known who was behind the attack. But he could no longer hold out hope that Marcot would waver, and the girl would hardly take a bribe when she could have the husband and the country’s riches too.
I have to act soon. The closer the incident to the wedding date, the more suspicious it will look.
The burgundy color of his garb was brighter than what he usually wore, and these days he was adding more jewelry than he used to wear. He had always disapproved of gaudy show, but he wished to remind Lolethia of his access to riches.
He held out his fingers splayed for his valet to place his rings and then resettled them more comfortably on his fingers. His valet sprayed him with cologne, a scent he’d been told contained “musk,” which purportedly made women grow lustful.
How I’d like to make that minx as hot and hungry as she makes me! She thinks she is baiting me with a hook, but actually, I am the fisherman, reeling her in.
“I will be late,” he told his valet in a brusque tone. “I’ll expect you waiting for me and my nightclothes properly warmed this time.”
Matwyck left his quarters for the salon, pinning a warm smile on his public face.