by Emma Newman
But none of it was as satisfying as the hush that descended over the Court after their names were announced at the door by the Head Yeoman, and the way all of the residents and guests in the city bowed and curtsied as he and Cathy walked to the thrones. It wasn’t long ago that he’d been seeking to impress them. Now all they wanted was to impress him.
There were none in the Court that gave him serious concern. All could see which way the wind was blowing and how it was wiser to support him than grumble. Besides, no one else was even close to being strong enough to take the throne from him—aside from the Viola, perhaps.
Bertrand Persificola-Viola, free of the social disaster of an older brother now that Freddy was dead, was proving to be every bit the ally he had hoped for. Will had worked hard to keep Bertrand happy, and to reassure him that the Duchess had no plans to undermine his authority over his wife or any other man’s over theirs. It was clear that Bertrand was unimpressed by her, though. One comment from a new Duchess in unusual circumstances could be overlooked, but a second would be seen as a sign of a husband too weak to control her.
Despite the tense journey there, Cathy played her part well whilst the main business of the Court was carried out. Announcements given by Will and his Marquis, Tom Rhoeas-Papaver, were met with quiet approval. He and Tom had spent that afternoon making sure that only the most innocuous matters would be discussed that evening. Tom had counselled him to not let Cathy speak at the Court, but admitted how hard that would be to enforce without the use of offensive Charms. “Strange that she be so keen to talk now she’s Duchess,” he’d said in Will’s study. “In the past you could barely get her to string a sentence together in front of other people.”
“Life in Mundanus changed her,” Will had said.
Tom paused at the door then, his eyes shadowed by a frown. “It seems so.”
Will felt sorry for Tom. When he should have been travelling the world, tasting the delights of Mundanus before establishing his own family, Tom had been desperately hunting for his runaway sister. Whilst Will had been rolling in the surf with his Sicilian lover, Tom had been going from town to town, casting Seeker Charms and fearing that Cathy was dead. What a burden he’d shouldered, only to be married off to an American Poppy before he’d had a taste of real freedom. Will supposed the Papavers needed the money for Cathy’s dowry—and perhaps to pay for all the Charms Tom had used to find Cathy—and as Tom’s hunt had aged him just enough for marriage, it was deemed unnecessary to give him a Grand Tour.
At least he was proving himself to be a capable Marquis. What Tom lacked in worldliness he made up for in bookish leanings, and he had a remarkable memory for details. His wife, Lucy, was nice enough too, and mercifully had excellent social skills with a warmth that counterbalanced Tom’s stiff aloofness. Even though they were all young, Will felt sure he could make this Dukedom work. He had to. His Patroon, Sir Iris, had made it very clear that the family expected him to hold Londinium indefinitely. He had every intention of doing so.
Tom was finishing his summary of business and the room felt calm. Will looked at Cathy, who was staring down at her gloves intently. He could tell she was shaking from the way her earrings sparkled, catching the sprite light with each tremble. She was wearing a new gown, one that looked different but he couldn’t work out exactly how. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and she looked at him, her eyes bright blue against the flush of her cheeks.
“Just remember what we discussed in the carriage,” Will whispered to her. “And when it’s done, we’ll return home and celebrate.”
A flicker of concern crossed her features, as if she feared something, and then Tom announced that the Duchess was to speak.
Will studied the men’s faces in the crowd as she stood. Most were too socially skilled and intelligent to betray any doubts about the Duchess being permitted to address the Court again. One of the Buttercups rolled his eyes at a Wisteria who failed to hide a smile behind a handkerchief before Will noticed it. When the Wisteria noticed his attention on him, any sign of disrespect vanished from his features and he was a model attentive listener.
Cathy cleared her throat. “My husband and I have been in close discussion regarding the Court of Londinium,” she began. Good, thought Will, she remembered the opening line signalling to the gentlemen that she was about to say something he endorsed. Even that line alone had been something she’d resisted. “And we have agreed that the city could benefit from a formal court for the daughters and wives of Londinium. As Duchess, I plan to establish this new salon as a space where women of this city can come together to discuss the issues of the day…” she paused and Will tensed, fearing she was about to go off-script. “…in an…effort to keep conversations with our husbands and fathers free of any idle speculation and questions.”
Will breathed out. Good. It wasn’t how she, Margritte, or any of the others saw the court, but the careful phrasing was designed to nip any male fears in the bud. As he had told Cathy repeatedly in the carriage, it didn’t matter whether it was the spirit of the exercise or not. What mattered was not getting anyone’s backs up before she had a chance to establish it. Once it existed, she could mould it into something of merit.
Will scanned the room. The women looked surprised and uncertain, as did the majority of their husbands.
“Has this ever been done before, your Grace?” one of the Wisterias asked from the back of the room.
“No. It would be a first,” Cathy replied. “Londinium should lead the way in all things and we’re already a city that favours debate and the more intellectual arts.”
Good, Will thought. Keep it up, Cathy.
“I beg your pardon,” the Wisteria continued, “but could you be kind enough to explain how this…salon differs from any of the countless events that the ladies of the city participate in?”
A pause. She was thinking first, that was a good sign. “The ladies of this city enjoy a full social calendar, it’s true. However, a formal salon that encourages better communication regardless of family, social status, or even the size of one’s drawing room is a world apart from a patchwork of conversations shared over tea.”
“Some sort of egalitarian effort, is it?” the Wisteria said. “You mentioned ‘regardless of social status’.”
Cathy smiled. “I am very aware that there are some ladies who are invited to discuss issues of the day more often than others. I believe that every lady has the right to participate in these conversations, for the betterment of herself and her understanding of the issues we face as a city. A formal salon would grant this.”
The muscles in Will’s back knotted. Careful, he thought. Any talk of rights for women was akin to lighting a touch-paper.
“They’ll probably talk about sewing,” said the Buttercup who had already irritated Will. “It might sound noble but that’s all it will be. Embroidery and clothes.”
He watched Cathy’s jaw clench but mercifully, she ignored the comment.
“Will there be a men-only court too, your Grace?” one of the Peonias asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
Surely Cathy had heard that?
“I asked, your Grace, if there are plans to start a court for gentlemen only. If the ladies are to enjoy such a privilege, surely the gentlemen of Londinium shouldn’t be denied it either?”
“You have got to be joking!” Cathy laughed incredulously.
“I assure you, madam, I ask in all seriousness. Why shouldn’t the gentlemen of Londinium be given the same privilege?”
Will watched her fists clench and realised his own were gripping the arms of the throne.
“Oh, let me think,” Cathy began in exactly the tone of voice that meant a storm was on the way. “I know I’m only a feeble-minded woman, so please do forgive me if I have misunderstood, but I thought the gentlemen would be satisfied with the right to own property, to have an income independent of his spouse—even of his family, should he choose to develop it—and the freedom to go where he chooses
, be it in the Nether or Mundanus. And seeing as the gentlemen of Londinium can enjoy Black’s as a male-only club, I had assumed that the need to spend time in the company of men would be satisfied. Am I to understand that you feel underprivileged, sir? Disadvantaged in some way? Pray tell us all why you feel it would be unfair for women to have one new opportunity when so much is denied us.”
The Peonia’s cheeks flushed red. “Pray tell us, madam, why you feel the women of Londinium require such a formal salon. Surely with their carefree lives, there is little of merit to discuss? Nothing that would require a formal court.”
“You can’t think of a single reason why women may need a place where they can voice an opinion without the judgement of men? Are you not demonstrating that need yourself? But then I suppose, if you think women are nothing more than decorative objects without a single thought of merit between their ears, this need would be mystifying.”
Will forced his expression to remain neutral. He couldn’t let any of them see how angry her thoughtless behaviour was making him feel. It was one thing for her to speak this way in the privacy of their own home, but to do so in front of Londinium?
“You are most forthright with your opinions, your Grace,” Bertrand Persificola-Viola said. “I beg you to release our friend from the jaws of your sharp wit.”
“You make it sound as if he is a victim, sir,” Cathy said. “Surely a man cannot be wounded by the opinion and passion of a mere woman?”
The corner of Bertrand’s mouth twitched, as if he were as much amused by her as insulted. No doubt he would make his opinion on the Duchess known very soon, and Will knew he would need careful handling again.
Cathy sat back on her throne, cheeks flushed, still shaking.
“As ever, gentlemen,” Will said, eager to close the proceedings, “you know that I and the Marquis are available at any time to discuss your needs and concerns regarding life in Londinium. The Duchess and I bid you good night.”
He offered his hand to Cathy, who rested hers upon it, and they stepped down from the dais. The assembled parted ahead of them, bowing as they passed, until they reached the doors that were opened by two of Will’s men dressed as pages. Even before the doors closed behind them an uproar of commentary and speculation filled the throne room.
“Not a word,” he whispered to Cathy, and steered her towards the stairs as he struggled to contain all the things he wanted to shout at her. When he was certain no one had left the court to pursue a private conversation, he let go of her hand. “You were rather harsh with the Peonia, Cathy.”
“I merely corrected him. If my brother had done the same, you wouldn’t have batted an eyelid.”
“You humiliated him with your sarcasm.”
“He deserved it. Sexist b—”
He grabbed her hand and pulled her to a stop. “You have to be more careful than that,” he whispered. “I thought after the last time you’d have learned, but what you did in there was ten times worse!”
Her eyes flashed and she twisted her wrist from his grip. “I was holding myself back! Believe me, I could have said much more.”
“You shouldn’t have taken that tone with him.”
She took a step up one of the stairs, putting air between them. “Will, you’re not about to prove the need for this new court by siding with those idiots, are you?”
“I’m not siding with anyone! I have every right to discuss your behaviour. I am the Duke and I am the one who will have to answer for your little display in there.”
“Just stop and listen to yourself! My behaviour? My ‘little display’? I’m a grown woman who expressed an opinion and took a bloody idiot down a peg or two. If you can’t handle that, you’re no better than the rest of them.”
Will drew in a deep breath, using it to cool the anger in his chest. This wasn’t the time or the place to have another row with Cathy. But before he could say anything, a door opened on the floor above and there were footsteps on the stairs. One of the pages rounded the corner and stopped.
“Begging your pardon, your Grace, but Sir Iris has requested your presence immediately.”
Will’s stomach dropped into his shoes. Neither the Patroon nor his wife had been at the Court. How had it got back to him so quickly? “Thank you, I’ll be with you in a moment.” He looked at Cathy. “Go home. Do not talk to anyone about this until I return. This conversation is not over.”
Cathy’s back straightened. “I won’t be talked to like a child, and I refuse to feel bad about what I did in there.”
“I fear Sir Iris will see it very differently.”
“I’d be more than happy to give him a piece of my mind too. I can defend myself, Will. You don’t have to do it for me.”
He sighed, looking up the wide oak stairs, torn between rage and fear. “It’s not you I will have to defend,” he said. “Go home, before you upset anyone else.”
“You know,” she said, “considering that it’s women who are supposed to be weak and emotional, it’s quite a revelation seeing how easily these men are upset.”
She picked up her skirts and marched down the stairs. He watched her go, fearing he’d created a monster. He’d only given her a modest amount of freedom to speak and she was already doing more damage than a drunken Buttercup.
“Your Grace?” The page appeared at the top of the stairs again. “The Patroon was most insistent.”
Will turned and carried his heavy legs towards the roasting he was about to get. There was no doubt about it now; he had to tell the Patroon about the Poppy magic, before Cathy destroyed herself, and him with her.
3
The beer tasted the same, and the pub’s decor was just as dingy as Sam recalled, but something didn’t feel right. Sam looked down into his pint, trying to ignore the feeling that this had been a terrible mistake.
“So he said that if I’d actually taken the time to get a full brief from the client, the architecture wouldn’t have to be redesigned.” Dave was on his third pint and hadn’t noticed that Sam was only halfway through his first. “What a prick! Everyone knows that the client is the last person on Earth who knows what their real requirements are. I could have spent two days on site and been none the wiser. So I…”
The pause in the diatribe made Sam look up from his beer.
“You’re not listening to me,” Dave said.
“I—”
“Nah, I don’t blame you. I’m a boring twat when I get onto work stuff. I just haven’t had anyone I can vent at since you left.”
“Since I was fired.”
“Well, yeah, but who gives a fuck about that now, eh?” Dave grinned, belched loudly, and patted his beer belly. “You should’ve seen the boss’s face when I took in the paper with you on the front page.”
Sam sank a fraction lower in his seat. Only in Bath would his inheritance of Amir Ferran’s empire reach the front page. It was covered in the national press several pages after the latest celebrity and political scandals. He had read two articles presenting mostly fictional accounts of his life, character, and the reasons behind his inheritance from the eccentric multi-billionaire and realised he’d never be able to read a newspaper again.
“So what’s it like then?” Dave leaned in and propped his elbows on the table. He’d put on weight in the weeks since Sam had last seen him but nothing else had changed.
“What?”
“Being a rich bastard.”
Dave was smiling but it made Sam uncomfortable. A gulf had opened between them, one Sam hadn’t considered possible. It was as if Dave was trapped in amber and he was peering into the old life preserved with him, one he could never have again. The last time he’d drunk in this pub he was a computer programmer, coasting through life as his marriage collapsed around him. Since then his wife had been promoted, moved to London, asked for a divorce, and then dropped dead on a tube station platform. Natural causes, they said, but the former Lord Iron, Amir, confirmed that her old boss, Neugent, was somehow responsible. Then Amir pass
ed the mantle to him and now he was sitting in his old local, head of a multi-billion global empire, the new Lord Iron. It still didn’t feel real.
He’d actually had to argue with his head of security to meet up with Dave. They only agreed it was possible if he gave them twenty-four hours’ notice. A car full of his staff had driven down the night before, examined the location, worked out whatever they needed to, and three of them were now seated around the pub. They were all in casual clothes, blending in as well as blokes built like tanks could, carefully watching people come through the door. Each new arrival precipitated a round of texting as they communicated with the coordinator outside, no doubt receiving information about who had just entered. The amount of stuff they could uncover in a matter of seconds freaked Sam out. No doubt they had run the same background checks on him when Amir decided to visit his humble terraced house just a few weeks before.
Sam realised he hadn’t answered Dave’s question. “Weird,” he said. He couldn’t say that while Dave had been moaning about the company Sam used to work for, he was worrying about the activities of just one of the companies he owned, and that had an annual turnover nearly five hundred times larger. He would sound like a dick. “It’s…yeah, weird.”
“But good weird, I bet,” Dave said. “You don’t have to worry any more. You know, about bills and stuff.”
Something in his voice made Sam’s discomfort worsen. Did he need help but couldn’t ask? “Are you okay for money? I can—”
“I didn’t come here hoping for a handout!” Dave caught his voice before it turned into a shout, thankfully.
“I know.”
“I just wanted a drink with an old mate, for Christ’s sake. I’m not a bloody charity case.”
“I know.” Sam became far too aware of the three plainclothes guards, all of whom were looking at him as Dave’s voice rose. He knew that if there was even a hint of something turning ugly they’d intervene, and not in a way that would leave their friendship intact. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to help if I could. You’d do the same for me.”
