Of Marriage and Murder ✔️ | Of Crimes and Crowns Book 1

nine : of tea and talks

He strode purposefully towards the parlour, checkbook and fountain pen still in hand. Having stayed up so late the past night had caused the man to lose track of time, and he'd only just recalled both his rendezvous with the queen and his financial obligations.

When he made it to the parlour, Natasha was already there. She greeted him cheerfully, with a warm embrace and a smile that seemed strained, not quite reaching her eyes.

A maid approached him. "Would you prefer tea or coffee?"

"Coffee, if you please," he responded, placing the checkbook and pen on the fine table linens, careful not to spill ink onto the pale cloth. "With two sugars and one cream."

"I never understand how you can stand the stuff," she confessed, as the maid began filling his cup with the steaming dark liquid and dropping two teaspoons of the white powder, followed by a dollop of cream, into it. "No matter what you add to it, there will always be a foul taste in one's mouth."

"It's honest," he stated, taking the delicate cup from the servant. "It always retains its taste, and never tries to hide how bitter it is - the sweeteners and cream are merely window dressing."

"I suppose," Natasha responded skeptically, pursing her lips. She lifted the teapot and added more Xiangjin tea to her cup, before lifting it to her mouth and blowing the steam away from it, a white flag unfurling. "Whatever are you doing with that check book?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," he answered, taking a long sip of his diluted coffee.

"You aren't writing off another mistress, are you?" She teased, nudging his foot with hers beneath the lavishly set table. "Has your brother finally managed to wrangle you into marrying an acceptable girl?"

"No," he answered curtly, thinking of the only girl he'd ever wanted to marry. Her dark waves of hair, her flashing eyes, her bell-like laugh. Amber, he thought sadly, as he had many times before. That I could only have saved you - that I had run away with you, at the first opportunity. "No, I doubt you'll see me at the altar anytime soon."

Until after I've completed my mission... and your husband is dead.

"Then who is the money for, if I may be so bold?" The queen asked, leaning forwards.

"I'm afraid you'll find my answer quite dull - prosaic, even." He stirred his coffee with an idle hand. "I'm simply writing a cheque to my furrier. You know how the Arlean winters can be."

"Yes, I know very well how chilling the weather of my own country can be," she remarked sardonically. "Haven't you got men to write cheques for you? I could have sworn you were of a more genteel class."

The man shrugged. "I prefer to do it myself when I've the time."

"And if you have so much time, luxuriating in a foreign palace and taking tea with the queen, why on earth do you look so haggard?"

"These are not matters a fine lady of good upbringing, let alone the ruler of a country, should be discussing, let alone knowing of its existence."

"I see." She smiled.

She suspected nothing. He felt relief consume him like a precipice he was always on the edge of. The conversation went on.

• • •

The women were lovely, appropriately curvy and seductive. The wine was well aged and in exquisite taste. The accommodations were superior. But for once, he didn't care at least about the bordello or its ladies of the night.

He was only focused on one thing: the petite, timid girl standing behind the bar, pouring drinks.

"Miss Brown," he called over the sounds of music and conversation. "I have yet to make your acquaintance, but I believe you know one of mine - a Lord Trystan White?"

Her face paled, and she scrambled for the door. She was too slow, and he stalked towards her, long strides gaining ground until he forced her into one of the alcoves used by whores and their customers. He caught the rough muslin of her sleeve and Miss Brown's eyes widened as she let out a terrified shriek, trying to make it to the door. She wouldn't.

"Betty, isn't it?" He scoffed. "A common name for a common girl."

"You have no business here, sir - " Betty said in a quavering voice. "I have done you no wrong - Trys has done nothing to you - "

"On the contrary," he said slowly, in the manner of a panther circling its prey. "Trys has done plenty, and taken much from me. And I regret to inform you that I cannot find him. Therefore, I cannot make him return what is mine."

He placed both hands on Betty's shoulders, forcing her up against the velvet-lined wall of the whorehouse. His gaze bored into her fearful one, green eyes into brown. "Therefore, I will have to take what is his."

She shook like a snared rabbit. "You can't, sir - you can't - oh, please, I'm not a whore! I'm not one of the girls here, I'm only a barmaid. I don't know where he is, only that he comes here every Thursday for a drink - "

"Fortunately," he continued, as though she had not spoken at all, "I am a kind man. An honourable man, as your Lord White claims to be. Find him, and bring him to me next week at midnight. Do it, or you will find that I do not care if you are a whore or not." And then he let go of her, and she fell to the floor in a sobbing, inconsolable heap.

She had pleaded and begged. He wanted to see Trystan White do the same. He wanted to see the man beg for what would never come back, to see him face the grief that he had when Trystan had taken everything from him.

What do you think Trystan did? Please vote and comment if you enjoyed! I'm sorry for the late update.