Consciousness doused Niamh like a bucket of cold water. She flailed awake in bed, her heart hammering against her rib cage, and gasped into the yawning dark.
No. She’d slept the whole day away.
She kicked free of her stifling sheets, stumbled out of bed, and threw open the curtains. Damp air whispered through the window, stirring the wispy hairs around her face. It was still, mercifully, morning—and early enough that the sun had not yet burned away the mist blanketing the lake. Thank the gods she hadn’t overslept. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass and breathed deeply, trying to dispel the last of her nerves. Last night, she’d wasted far too much time.
Last night. Memories of it clung to her like cobwebs.
She’d spoken to Kit in the dreamy half light of the balcony. In his way, he’d comforted her. And then, he’d saved her from her own ruin. Her heart fluttered with—what, shame? Gratitude? She could not place it exactly, nor did she want to. She refused to spare a moment more on any of her complicated feelings about him. He was her client and a prince—an engaged one, at that—not some comely village lad to moon over.
She needed to focus.
Niamh forced herself to sit at her vanity. The sight of her hair dismayed her. Half of it was snarled in a knot atop her head. She’d forgotten to let it down before collapsing into bed last night, and now she must pay the price. She wet it with a small pitcher of water. Then, picking out a wide-tooth comb from the clutter, she began to work out the tangles from ends to roots. The mindless rhythm of it settled her thoughts enough to sort through them. First, she’d deal with her correspondence.
When she finished with her hair, Niamh made her way to the writing desk and sighed at the mess. She still hadn’t received a response from Erin—unsurprisingly, given the state of the post—but she needed to send money back to Ma and Gran. She hated to think of the two of them alone in that cottage with its cracked window and sagging roof: Gran, swaddled in blankets even in summer; Ma, weeding the garden with her swollen, aching hands. More than anything, she wished she could be there to put on the kettle for tea, to shoo her mother inside and kneel in the dirt instead, to while away the evening mending by dim candlelight.
But soon, she would never have to fret over them again.
House servants were typically paid quarterly, but Jack had—rather generously, she thought—agreed to a biweekly schedule. She’d worked in the palace for just over two weeks now, so her payment should be buried in here … somewhere. Oh, why had she not organized all of this sooner? With a groan, she riffled through the papers—a week-old newspaper, countless discarded sketches, a letter she’d started and never finished. By the time she reached the bottom of the pile, a dull panic began to rise up within her. Nothing. Surely, she hadn’t misplaced her pay; not even she would be so careless.
A knock sounded at her door.
Her held breath escaped her. That had to be it now.
“One moment,” she called.
She hurried to the mirror again and blotted at her eyes with her sleeve. They were still a little glassy, but that was nothing being outwardly cheerful couldn’t fix. She pulled on a simple white morning dress and swept back her hair into a loose coil. There. Perfectly presentable.
As brightly as she could, she said, “Good morning,” and opened the door.
But no one was there.
She craned her neck to peer down the eerily quiet hallway. Not even a speck of dust swirled through the thin beams of sunlight trickling through the windows. “Hello?”
Frowning, she glanced down and spotted an envelope at her feet, along with today’s edition of The Daily Chronicle. Niamh gathered the papers up. Her name was written across the front of the envelope in a deliberate hand. Incredulous, she turned it over—and nearly hurled it back onto the floor. The seal on the back winked up at her: an ornate L stamped into black wax.
Lovelace.
The author of The Tattler had written to her. The parchment felt practically incendiary beneath her fingertips. After reading their column—and knowing how much Jack despised it—she knew how dangerous this was. Still, she couldn’t not read it. She peeled off the seal and fumbled to get the letter out.
Dear Miss Niamh Ó Conchobhair,
I hope you will forgive my boldness in introducing myself to you—for I will not be so bold as to presume you know who I am. I call myself Lovelace, and I am the author of a column called The Tattler. My first and foremost aim is to protect the powerless against the powerful by speaking to the court in a language they understand. For better or for worse, that is gossip.
I understand you have not been here long, but since you attended last night’s ball, I assume you are already aware of the Machlish’s plight here in Sootham. The conflict has finally come to a head after many years of frustration—a frustration that has built due to the prince regent’s stubborn refusal to engage with anything beyond the narrow sphere of his household.
Since he was appointed regent, he’s all but isolated himself, avoiding audiences and Parliamentary sessions. He reemerges only to host the social events his father held in Seasons past. But lately, he has shown a single-minded devotion to his brother’s upcoming wedding. I find it terribly strange, considering he and Prince Christopher have not been on good terms for many years.
Perhaps it is all baseless speculation, but it is difficult to believe he is as indifferent to politics as he appears to be. There must be some reason that he insists on turning a blind eye to the unrest brewing around him, and I intend to uncover it. And if he does not agree to meet with Carlile and advocate for reparations in Parliament, then I will use it against him. I have many resources at my disposal, but the prince regent has grown wise to my methods over the years. All of my spies have been dismissed within days of worming their way into his staff.
This is why I write to you. I humbly request your assistance in fighting for the rights of the Machlish in Avaland. There is little I would not do to that end, and I hope you might feel similarly. The prince regent cannot dismiss you. He hired you himself, both for your skill and—I assume—for your heritage. I know he cannot stand the rumors that he mistreats his Machlish staff, so he will want to keep you happy. You have his ear, if not his trust.
I don’t believe the prince regent is an evil man, just an avoidant one. If you want to help me, you may leave a response at midnight in the burnt tree just outside the palace gardens. There is no need to make a decision tonight. I will be watching.
Yours,
Lovelace
Perhaps she was still dreaming.
Because if she wasn’t, then it seemed she’d stumbled into some sort of covert blackmail operation. It was almost … invigorating. Never in her life did she expect something so utterly extraordinary to happen to her. Who would have thought that a girl from a village like Caterlow would be recruited to conspire against the prince regent?
Oh, gods. She’d been recruited to conspire against the prince regent.
But Lovelace had given her a choice, and she did not have to agree. As much as she wanted the Crown to admit its wrongdoing, as much as she wanted to fight alongside her people, she could not risk it. She and her family depended on Jack’s favor and patronage. Besides, she possessed all the subtlety of a flock of peacocks. If she made an earnest effort to spy on the royal family, she’d almost certainly fail. Discovery would mean a death sentence.
The man can’t stand to let a problem go unsolved for five minutes, Kit told her last night, and as you just saw, he’s avoiding all of his at the moment. There has to be some reason.
No, no, no. As curious as she was, she could not embroil herself in the Carmines’ affairs. Now that Jack had been made a fool of in his own home, social pressure would force him to agree to the protesters’ demands. Lovelace had almost certainly skewered him in today’s column. She paged through the newspaper until she found The Tattler.
What an opening night. It seems, to no one’s surprise, that our very own Wayward Son shall be the undisputed star of this Season. Say of him what you will, but he is more of an entertainer than his brother will ever be. After sporting an ill temper all night—and refusing to so much as glance at his fiancée—he took quite a spill down the stairs.
I’ve heard all manner of speculation as to why. Some of you, no doubt, will say he still keeps that custom of his. Others—if you are foolish enough to believe a word of what comes out of Lady E’s mouth—will claim he was creating a distraction. Evidently, she discovered him alone with a young lady on the balcony. A paramour would certainly explain his lack of interest in his lovely bride-to-be … And yet, I am inclined to think that he wanted to take some of the heat off a Certain Someone.
He will need to try harder next time to compete with a Dance-Floor-Turned-Protest-Artwork. I am sad to report that our Castilian guest, an Illustrious Gentleman, did not feel honored by this year’s chalk design. If you were stationed in the northeast corner of the ballroom, you may have overheard the Illustrious Gentleman scolding CS for embarrassing his beloved, obedient daughter, who—and I quote—has never asked for a thing in her life.
If this does not entice CS to meet with Mistress HC, I anticipate this is only the beginning of a very tense Season. No party will be safe—not even yours, dear reader. If you want to spare yourself the humiliation, perhaps consider paying your servants a living wage—or float the idea of reparations to Machland in Parliament’s next session. But who am I to offer advice? I am a humble columnist, not a politician.
That was her in the Tattler.
This Lady E, whoever she was, had seen her. If anyone recalled a girl with a silver lock of hair slipping out of the ballroom around the time of the prince’s “accident,” they’d make the connection. Just like that, her entire life unraveled like a loose stitch pulled and pulled to its end. She’d leave the palace in disgrace. She’d never find work again. She’d return to Caterlow, watching more of her friends leave, until she was left to wither away in that shop while her family slowly starved.
No, she could not spiral yet.
Lovelace did not seem to know that the young lady was her, or else they would have mentioned it in their letter. Still, her heart beat wildly in her throat with exhilarated terror. How close they’d come to exposure. She’d have to be more careful from now on, which meant no spying and certainly never again finding herself alone on a balcony with Kit Carmine.
Easy enough, she thought.
But the problem of her missing payment remained. In the chaos of the past few days, it must have fallen through the cracks. She considered seeking out Mrs. Knight, but Jack had handled all matters of her employment here thus far. The very thought of visiting the prince regent in his study without an invitation mortified her, but what else could she do? Sinclair had told her Jack preferred to manage things himself.
It took only a few wrong turns—and a few desperate pleas for help—for a maid to take pity on her and show her the way to Jack’s study. As Niamh climbed the imperial staircase, the maid called after her, “If you ask me, I’d wait until tomorrow to speak with him. He’s got the prince in there now.”
Well, that did not bode well.
When she at last found the study, Jack’s muffled voice filtered out from within. “I do not have time for this sort of nonsense, Christopher. My court, your future father-in-law, Carlile, that insufferable columnist—even my staff, for God’s sake—are breathing down my neck. And now, you have decided to cause problems. To what can I credit this extraordinary lapse in judgment?”
Kit’s reply came too quietly to hear. Curiosity got the better of her. Niamh crept closer and strained to listen in on their conversation.
“I do not want to hear excuses from you.” Jack drew in a deep breath, gathering his temper like reins in his hands. “I know this has not been an easy transition for you. However—”
“And whose fault is that?”
Jack laughed bitterly. “Who is she?”
“No one.” A petulant, flustered note crept into Kit’s voice. In any other circumstance, Niamh might have laughed. Gods, he was terrible at lying. No wonder he was always so blunt. Then, with a meaner bite, he said, “Who’s to say it’s a woman?”
“Do not play games with me,” Jack replied icily. But the long, considering pause that followed suggested Kit had caught him off guard. “You cannot go gallivanting about with whomever you please in plain sight of Infanta Rosa and her father. You will jeopardize everything I have taken such pains to secure for you, and you will drag your name and mine through the mud. What were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t,” Kit muttered. “Although from what I saw last night, I’m not the only one who needs to worry about dragging our name through the mud.”
“Enough.” Jack sounded dangerous now, his voice pitched low. “You are engaged to the Princess of Castilia, which is far better than you could have hoped for. She is a respectable girl with a strong magical bloodline. I made a list of every eligible young lady on the continent, and she met every single one of my criteria.”
“And was ‘will Kit get along with her?’ on your list?”
“That isn’t important—not to mention an impossible task! I could have brought you the most beautiful, well-bred, meek woman in the world, and you would still find fault with her.”
“I’m marrying her. What’s the problem? Do I have to pretend to be happy about it, too?”
“The problem?” There came the sharp sound of palms slapped hard against a hard surface. “The problem is your attitude. Such arrogance and ill temper are not becoming of a man of your station.”
“I don’t care.” Kit enunciated every word.
“I thought your time away would have given you some perspective, but I see that was naive of me. We both must deal with reality. Your choices have led you here, Christopher, and I cannot protect you from the consequences any longer. You’re an adult, and by God, you’re a Carmine. Now do your duty.”
The door flung open, and Niamh stumbled backward in surprise. Kit stormed out of the room, his face flushed with anger and his hands clenched in fists at his sides.
“And do not think for a second that I will not find this girl,” Jack called after him, “if you insist on carrying on this way!”
Jack appeared in the empty doorframe, his eyes glittering with cold rage. But as soon as Kit was out of sight, all of the fight bled out of him. He sighed exasperatedly and dragged a hand down his face. It fell back to his side, revealing an expression that struck Niamh with a bolt of pity: a crumpled, remorseful exhaustion. She had half a mind to turn back now to avoid handing him yet another problem to deal with. But before she could retreat, Jack noticed her standing there and visibly startled. He stared at her with slow-dawning horror.
Niamh wished she could disappear, if only to spare them both the discomfort. Seeing him again made her feel oddly uneasy. She’d half expected the misfortune wished upon him to hang over him like a shroud, but he looked as he had on the day she’d first met him: balanced on that knife’s edge of harried and composed.
He cleared his throat, and she watched as he neatly filed away every emotion that’d spilled across his face. “Miss O’Connor, what can I do for you?”
He sounded astonishingly pleasant, all things considered. Some masochistic part of her wanted to ask why he’d hired her—to find out if she’d truly earned this honor, or if she was merely his token Machlishwoman. But even if she were bold enough to ask, why court more suffering? “It is nothing important, Your Highness. Shall I come back another time?”
“Nonsense,” he replied briskly. “You’re here now. Come in.”
Tentatively, Niamh followed him inside. There were books and papers stacked intimidatingly high on his desk, and a collection of candles burned down to stubs cluttered the windowsills. A portrait framed in filigreed gold hung in the center of the room. The man glaring out at her looked uncannily like Kit and Jack, save for his green eyes. He had a cruel set to his mouth and an expression fixed forever in disapproval.
KING ALBERT III, the plaque below the frame read. Niamh shuddered. She did not know how Jack could bear the weight of his father’s stare all day.
Behind her, the latch clicked ominously in the silence. Her throat went painfully dry.
“Please,” Jack said. “Sit.”
She obeyed.
Jack settled into the chair behind his desk and regarded her coolly. Sunlight caught all the gold thread in his coat and sparkled on the signet ring on his thumb. Where Kit bristled with thorns, Jack presented an exterior as smooth and inaccessible as stone. It made her feel horribly self-conscious. She’d been so rattled by Lovelace’s column, she’d forgotten to put her hair up properly. She tucked the strand of silver behind her ear and folded her hands in her lap.
“What troubles you?” he asked.
She wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt. “I am terribly sorry to disturb you, sir, with something as trivial as this, but I did not receive my pay this week.”
For a moment, she believed she must’ve spoken in Machlish, or perhaps not at all, for he looked back at her with an entirely blank expression. Then he recovered with a shake of his head. “That is not trivial at all. I’m terribly sorry that happened, and I shall speak with Mrs. Knight immediately about the oversight.”
Niamh tried to keep her shock off her face. Was that really all it would take? With admirable efficiency, he procured an envelope and a quill. “Check?”
“Cash, if you please.” After a moment, she added, “Your Highness.”
“Of course.” He pulled out his own coin purse, retrieved one shining coin, and placed it in her palm. She closed her hand around it, but she swore she saw its brilliance shining through the grooves in her fingers.
“Thank you, sir,” she said breathlessly.
“No, thank you for coming to me with this.” He somehow sounded both sincere and impersonal. “Is there anything else you need?”
“No, that is everything. Thank you again, sir.”
As she made to rise, he said, “Hold a moment.”
She all but collapsed back into her chair. “Sir?”
“I want to apologize for what you overheard earlier.”
Oh. Surely, he did not actually want to apologize. This had to be a test of some sort. “I’m sure you have nothing to apologize for. I did not hear a thing.”
“There is no sense dancing around it.” He sighed wearily. “I understand the nature of your work has given you and my brother an opportunity to become acquainted. I’ve noticed you seem to have a certain sway over him—and my wife, for that matter.”
“Oh, no, I would not go so far as to say that.”
“Your modesty credits you,” he said absently. “I mention it only to ask if Kit seems … well.”
Niamh worried her lip. She knew well enough what he meant, but she dared to ask, “How do you mean, sir?”
“I suppose it is an unusual question.” He looked suddenly troubled, almost embarrassed. It was oddly endearing. “I hate to put you in this position, but I find I have little other recourse to know how he is actually faring.”
“He seems well enough.” Apart from his disillusionment with court life, it was the truth as far as she knew. And a small, selfish part of her wanted to hold on to what little Kit had shared with her. It hardly seemed hers to give away, even to the prince regent. “Is there something the matter?”
Jack smiled humorlessly. “Are you aware of what happened to my father, Miss O’Connor?”
“Vaguely, yes.” Many years ago, the king took ill and never recovered. Few details had escaped the walls of the palace, however, and judging by the guarded expression on Jack’s face, he did not intend to share them now.
“Then you know enough.” He laid his palms flat on his desk, smoothing out an invisible crease. “If I were to die before my father, Parliament would not appoint Kit the regent. He has too much of our father in him. But marriage makes a man more respectable in the eyes of the court. I know he resents my hovering, but I am doing what I must for his own good—and to ensure the continuity of our family’s legacy.”
Jack sat before her, as weathered and solid as the stones on which his legacy was built. How exhausting, she thought, to insist on solving everyone else’s problems alone. To bear the weight of duty and the pressure to protect the ones you loved. She knew something of what that was like.
Over his shoulder, his father’s scornful, painted gaze bore into her. If the king retired eight years ago, Jack couldn’t have been older than two-and-twenty when Parliament appointed him prince regent. She drank in the shadows beneath his eyes and the faint lines etched on his forehead and felt, impossibly, a sense of kinship with him.
“I understand, sir.”
“I’m glad,” he replied stiffly. “I’ve kept you long enough. Going forward, do not indulge my brother’s whims too much. We will need to see him on his wedding day, after all.”
Niamh laughed nervously. “Yes, sir. I will make sure he is visible. At the very least.”
“Thank you, Miss O’Connor. That is a relief.” He checked his pocket watch and frowned. “While I have you here, I should inform you that you’ll be meeting with Infanta Rosa today for a consultation. I’ve agreed to send you to her townhouse. Will ten o’clock suit you?”
It would, and so, she was dismissed.
As Niamh walked back to her chambers, the coin still clasped tightly in her fist, her thoughts swam with what she’d learned. All of Jack’s obsessive single-mindedness on this wedding, his inattentiveness to his staff and the protests, sprang from a duty to his family. She believed him, of course—even admired that kind of devotion. But could that really be the whole truth? If Lovelace had been writing about him for years, then Jack had been ignoring the injustice in his realm long before Kit was betrothed to Infanta Rosa.
No. She could not entertain any doubts. She was a seamstress, not a spy. After she returned from her meeting with Infanta Rosa, she would write to Lovelace and tell them she could not help them. Once Kit was safely married, Jack would set things to rights.
She had to believe that.