Servant of the Crown (The Crown of Tremontane Book 1)

by Melissa McShane

  “QUINN!”

  The man who approached her was a giant, tall and muscular with the beginnings of a pot belly and a balding head that rose from the circle of his remaining hair, which was long and shaggy as if in compensation. Alison took a deep breath and reminded herself that she did not want to antagonize this man, that he was a major reason for the Waxwold Theater’s success, and it didn’t matter if he yelled at her or made outrageously false accusations—

  “You have let me down for the last time! Where are the proofs for my book? I specifically told your father I expected to see those proofs three weeks ago! This is an outrage! I demand my money back!” The peculiar green carpet slippers he wore flapped off his heels, and as he approached Alison could see more clearly that his hair and scalp were greasy. He always claimed genius could not be chained by worldly expectations of physical appearance. Too bad for everyone around him that he was every bit the genius he thought he was.

  Alison took another deep breath. “Mister Flanagan, we are the ones who pay you. And you know the proofs were delayed because you refused to let us have the final draft.” Alison realized her jaw was clenched and tried to relax it. She had no idea what North, standing beside her, made of this scene. “As I recall, you insisted on ‘one last change’ that turned into fifteen last changes. I assure you—”

  “I don’t want your assurances, Quinn, I want to see my book. I want to hold it in my hands and caress its leather-bound cover and watch it sell a thousand copies and retire to bed at night knowing my reputation is secure. If you can’t handle this, I’ll take it to Knoxbury instead.”

  “Mister Flanagan, Knoxbury refused to work with you anymore,” Alison said, hearing her voice rise an octave. “So did Struthers & Fine. Quinn Press is the only one—”

  “Don’t try to threaten me, Quinn, I swear—”

  “Excuse me,” said North loudly. “Did you write the play we just saw?”

  Flanagan halted in mid-rant. “Who are you?”

  “Uh…Tony Sutherland. I’m a friend of the Countess’s.”

  “Which Countess? You mean Quinn? Am I supposed to care?”

  “I just wanted to shake your hand, Mister Flanagan.” North grabbed the large man’s hand and pumped it enthusiastically. “Your play was simply astonishing. I don’t know when I’ve laughed so hard. You have a tremendous gift. Is…Quinn…publishing a book of your plays? I know I’d buy it. I’d have to buy several copies so I could share your gift with everyone I know. Really amazing, sir.”

  Alison stood dumbfounded. It would have been too much, coming from anyone else. But it seemed the Prince’s ability to stroke someone’s ego actually worked on some people. Flanagan preened and soaked up the compliments as if he were a sponge. A dirty, scabby sponge.

  “Young man, I always enjoy meeting an admirer. Did you know I wrote act two, scene two on a tablecloth at a tiny restaurant on Belafleur Street? It’s true. I have to write where and when the mood strikes me.” He put his arm around North’s shoulders and steered him away from Alison. Alison watched them in bemusement. Had North done that on purpose? No, surely not. But either way, Alison was free of Flanagan’s tirades for a while.

  She greeted the actors and congratulated them on their performance, asked about rehearsals for After the Spring Rains Fall, then covertly observed North and Flanagan. Flanagan was holding forth about something; by the gestures, he was talking about Horatia Virga and how cruel Alison was for forcing him to use light Devices to mimic flames instead of simply lighting a fire on the set, which would be more realistic. She ought to rescue North from Flanagan’s grimy clutches soon, but it was satisfying—a guilty satisfaction, but still—to see him trapped into listening to Flanagan’s ranting, like balancing the scales from the unpleasant supper she’d endured.

  “Sicced him on the Prince, did you?” Doyle said into her ear, his breath tickling her cheek and making her jump.

  “The—no, of course he’s not the Prince.”

  “Of course not. He’s only got the most well-known face in Aurilien. Please, Allie, give me a little credit.”

  “Sorry, Doyle. I just thought he’d be more comfortable if he could be anonymous for a while.” She turned to look at Doyle, who was watching the interplay between North and Flanagan. North was nodding enthusiastically and saying something, and Flanagan was nodding along with him. “Have you ever known Jerald to shut up long enough to listen to anyone but himself?”

  “Your Prince certainly seems to have made himself at home. And what are you doing with him, anyway? Don’t take this wrong, but you’re not really his type.”

  “It’s a long story.” Flanagan had apparently told a joke, because the Prince was roaring with unrestrained, clearly unfeigned laughter. It was…unexpected. Completely out of character for the man she’d sat through supper with. North glanced around, caught her eye, and smiled, a natural, engaging smile that had nothing sensual about it. Caught off guard, she smiled back. Not even a leer, she thought. Who knew there was someone nice under that swaggering exterior?

  “Well, I’d like to hear that story someday, but for now I’m just going to be grateful Jerald’s not ranting at me,” Doyle said, clapping Alison on the shoulder. “Come down here sometime, we’ve got business to discuss. I still want you to look at those investor proposals.”

  “It’s too soon for more growth.”

  “Don’t say that until you’ve seen the paperwork, all right? Are you planning to bring your friend ‘Tony’ back again?”

  Alison looked back at North, who was shaking Flanagan’s hand again with no apparent distaste for its unwashed state. “I…don’t know. Maybe. Is everyone going to know who he really is?”

  Doyle shrugged. “I’ll keep it quiet if I can. Most of these people don’t move in the sort of circles your Prince does. And sometimes it does these royal types good to get away from the foofaraw for a bit. If he can keep Jerald occupied like that, he can come any time he likes.”

  North approached Alison, nodded to Doyle, and said, “It’s rather later than I planned, Countess, so if you wouldn’t mind…?” He offered her his arm. After a moment’s consideration, Alison took it.

  “My proofs, Quinn!” Flanagan shouted, but it was a half-hearted shout and he’d turned away to accost someone else before she’d even responded.

  “Later, Allie. Nice to meet you…Tony.” Doyle saluted them both with a casual wave, then North drew Alison along, through the lobby and out to their waiting carriage. Alison was a little surprised to see it still drawn up a short distance from the theater. Probably when one was royalty, one could demand that sort of service. North assisted her into the carriage and then sat opposite her. He grinned at her, his eyes bright.

  “That was exhilarating,” he said. “Meeting someone as brilliant as Mister Flanagan—I had no idea writing plays could be so exciting.”

  “We are talking about the same Jerald Flanagan, aren’t we?” said Alison. “The man who’s so convinced of his own genius that he signs his autograph on random pieces of paper and forces them on people?”

  “Is that true?”

  “I wish it weren’t.”

  “All right, I can see what you mean. He is arrogant. But I really do think he’s brilliant. Once you parse out the egotism—”

  “Which is one in every three sentences.”

  “—yes, that’s right, but after that it’s astonishing how much he knows about the theater. At least…well, it’s not as if I know very much, but he certainly seems knowledgeable.”

  “I have to admit he is,” Alison said with a yawn. It must be nearly midnight. What would the Dowager think? “Do you remember what I said about working with authors who need their egos coddled? He’s three of them.”

  North laughed. It was such a genuine sound that Alison smiled. “Your ladyship,” he said, more formally, “I thoroughly enjoyed this evening. Quite a surprise, actually.”

  “I agree on both counts.” Alison looked out the window because she could feel
his eyes on her. He sounded sincere, but if he was back to leering, she didn’t want to know about it. “I’m pleased you enjoyed the theater so much. I love the place. When I come to Aurilien, I spend most of my time there.”

  “I can see why.” He paused, then said, “May I pay you the compliment of saying I enjoy your company?”

  There was a note in his voice she hadn’t heard before, and it surprised her into looking at him. He wasn’t watching her at all. He was looking out the window. “Thank you,” she said, remembering that genuine smile. “I…I believe I enjoy yours as well.”

  Chapter Five

  Alison only needed directions once this time, and she was fairly certain she would be able to find her own way back to the Dowager’s apartment from the Library. The scriptorium was as empty as before, with only a handful of people reading at the desks and one very small apprentice mopping up an ink spill. The skeletal librarian wasn’t there. A librarian Alison hadn’t seen on her first visit, young and too thin with a prematurely receding hairline, stood behind the long desk; he looked up when the door opened, glanced at her, then did a comical double-take and stared at her, his mouth slightly open as if he were starring in a slapstick farce and had just seen the leading actress simper her way on stage. Alison kept her eyes averted and went immediately to the catalog. Attention from someone as innocuous as this young man seemed to be was less objectionable than, for example, Anthony North undressing her with his eyes, but she hated knowing that nothing she said or did was ever going to be more important to some people than the way she filled out a dress.

  She paged slowly through the catalog, conscious enough of the librarian’s gaze on her that she had trouble focusing on the listings. A title caught her eye in passing, and she turned back to read it again. Heaven Unbounded, the first novel ever printed, two hundred and seven years old—and this was the first edition. She kept herself from skipping to the desk; she was a sedate and proper woman who deserved to be entrusted with something so valuable. “I would like to borrow one of your books,” she told the librarian, who had begun reddening as soon as he realized she was approaching him and was now the color of a ripe tomato all the way to his distant hairline. Not only farce, but bad farce. Alison felt a little sorry for him.

  “We…I’m so sorry…we don’t lend out the books,” the young man whispered, a little more quietly than the Library warranted. He glanced around the room as if afraid someone might hear him.

  “You don’t?” Alison tempered her surprise. Of course they wouldn’t risk loaning books to people, who might do heaven knew what to them even by accident. The fact that Alison Quinn had never in her life damaged a book, accidentally or on purpose, wouldn’t matter. And shouldn’t. It was a good, if frustrating, policy. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Can I look at one of them, in here?”

  He nodded and fumbled around for a pencil and a scrap of paper. “Write the title and the author, if there is one, and I’ll bring it to you if I can.”

  Mulling over that “if I can,” Alison wrote down the information and handed it to him. He bobbed his head a few times, opened his mouth as if to say something, then hurried away to unlock the Library door. That lock still annoyed Alison. What did they think was going to happen to the books, with all the librarians watching the door like foxes skulking around a rabbit hole?

  Time passed. The young man didn’t return. Alison tapped her fingers on the desk. She reached beyond its top and found some more paper and began doodling. More time passed. It was probably close to twenty minutes before the librarian returned, empty-handed. “We don’t have it,” he whispered.

  “You don’t have it?” Alison exclaimed, a trifle too loudly for the room, and the librarian cringed. “How—what’s your name?”

  “…Edwin?”

  Are you sure? “Edwin, explain to me how you don’t have a book that’s listed in your catalog.”

  “I…we….” Edwin went to the catalog and ran his finger down the page. “Sometimes books get old and too damaged to fix, and we have to destroy them.” Alison shuddered. “But it’s too hard to find them in the catalog, so we just wait until….” He drew through the entry carefully with his pencil.

  “But to just destroy—” Alison began.

  “Is there a problem?” the skeletal librarian said, his unique scent warning her of his presence half a second before he spoke. It was surprising he didn’t rattle when he walked. He looked down his bony nose at Alison. “I remember you,” he said. It didn’t look like it was a pleasant memory.

  “I’m just…this lady wanted a book we don’t have anymore, and I was just fixing the catalog. Like you told us to,” Edwin said. He’d gone from red to pale and wasn’t meeting anyone’s eyes now.

  “Very good, Edwin. You may return to your duties now,” the skeletal man said. He turned to Alison. “My apologies—”

  “Alison Quinn, Countess of Waxwold,” she said, “and I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “I am Master Charles Bancroft, Scholar and Royal Librarian,” he said, and Alison heard every one of those capital letters. “We do try to keep our catalog up to date, but with all the books we handle….” His voice trailed off as if what he hadn’t said was so obvious he hadn’t needed to say it.

  “I’m a little surprised you only have one copy of Heaven Unbounded. It’s such an important part of literary history—”

  “As I believe I told you on our first meeting, our space is limited and we must restrict the titles we acquire. I’m sorry you were disappointed. Perhaps you might come another day.”

  It was such an unequivocal dismissal Alison was halfway down the hall before she realized what had happened. She stood there in the dim light of the hall and fumed. Can’t find the books I want, can’t borrow the books they don’t have, she thought, and continued onward at a furious pace. Bancroft was enough to sour a lesser person on reading entirely. But Alison Quinn didn’t give up so easily. He might think he was lord and master of his tiny domain, but it was still the Royal Library and she had a perfect right to be there.

  She arrived at the Dowager’s apartment out of breath, with her hair falling down a little in the back. The guards looked at her only long enough to identify her, though she was certain they were both amused at her condition. Let them laugh, if in fact their humorless faces could make that expression. In her suite, she threw herself into the sitting room chair and kicked her feet out in front of her. She still had an hour before dinner and nothing to do. Reading seemed like too much work, and she was still frustrated at not having seen Heaven Unbounded.

  “This came for you, milady,” Belle said, emerging from the dressing room with a folded and sealed note in her hand. Alison accepted it and turned it over. The word “Countess” was scrawled across the front, no name, and it was sealed with a blob of dark blue wax into which was pressed the seal of the royal house of North. Alison groaned. Of course he would choose today of all days to impose on her. She counted backward—one week to the day. She groaned again and broke the seal with some force, and read,

  Your ladyship,

  Might I request the pleasure of your company at one o’clock this afternoon for a ride in the Park? My apologies for the short notice, but I have been in the country these last five days and I think Zara will be upset if we fail to meet her conditions. I hope you will enjoy the mount I have chosen for you.

  Anthony North

  She groaned a third time, but weakly. A ride in the Park wouldn’t be so bad. He’d have fewer opportunities to shower her with flowery compliments, and it had been a while since she’d ridden. And it would be extremely public, enough that the Queen might decide to end her penance early. “Belle,” she said, crumpling the paper, “would you ready my riding habit? It seems I’ll have need of it today.”

  At one o’clock exactly she arrived at the palace stables, located to the west of the palace complex and easy to find by the rich stink of manure and the musk of dozens of horses in a relatively small space. There were s
everal rows of stalls, most of them occupied by horses of every imaginable color who observed her as she passed, some tossing their heads as if in welcome. Her shining boots kicked up straw and dust, but not much of it, and she sidled past a young woman sweeping the packed earth between the stalls who stopped to bow to her. “Can you tell me where the Prince is?” Alison asked.

  “In the yard, milady,” the woman said, pointing. “Past the carriage houses.”

  The carriage houses were brown and black buildings the size of barns, with peaked roofs shingled in short wooden planks. One of them had its door flung wide open and several men were trundling out the Dowager’s white coach, its white canvas top folded back, glossy except where its sides were spattered with mud. Alison gave them a wide berth and found, beyond the carriage, the Prince and a couple of stable hands who held the reins of two elegant horses.

  “Milady Countess! You’re as beautiful as ever,” North exclaimed. “I must say that riding habit suits you very well.” His eyes were surveying her body, lingering on her hips where the habit fit most closely.

  “I don’t believe you must say it, but I thank you for the compliment, your Highness,” Alison replied with a frozen smile. She had hoped their visit to the theater had changed him, but it appeared she wasn’t going to see that man again. That disappointed her. He’d been so much nicer, so enthusiastic about the play and even about Flanagan—it hadn’t been awful, spending time with him. Instead she was going to endure an hour with the Prince and his unwanted attentions.

  “This is Pacer,” North said, indicating a chestnut gelding with a somewhat longer than average face. “Pacer, say hello to her ladyship.”

  To her surprise, Pacer bobbed his head up and down, exactly as if he’d understood North’s words. “He’s very intelligent,” North said, smiling at her surprise. “I think he’s not happy with being confined to the streets and the Park, so I take him out every so often for a ride in the countryside. I’d suggest we do that, but there wouldn’t be anyone around to witness. So I hope you don’t mind the Park.”