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

twenty-seven: of disbelief and dresses

"Where is he?" Natasha muttered to herself, pacing the room.

She had long since gotten dressed in the five hours since Connor had left, going from a dressing gown good only for seduction to a wine-coloured gown perfectly good for holding court. Natasha smoothed out the chenille and satin skirt now, wanting something to do while she waited for Connor. She didn't want to act as though her entire existence revolved around a man she had only known for six months. That was ridiculous and far from queenly.

She would work, Tasha decided. Work always kept her from worrying. It sharpened all her anxiety into a tool, gave her a purpose. "Winston!" she called. "Bring me the new tax reforms and summon Lord Rutherford, would you?"

He obliged, as always, bowing low before hobbling out of the room. Soon, she thought, she would need to replace him. He was getting old. But not yet. Winston had served her family for fifty years, and she would have his service for a few more, to still cling to what little was left of her family.

"And see if you can locate my husband, please!" she called after him.

A half-hour later, she found herself in the boardroom across from Blake. His face held little resemblance to the confident, self-assured young lord she had seen only months ago. Gone was the air of confidence, replaced by stooped posture. Gone was the glow of health from his face, replaced by a sickly pallor and dark circles beneath his eyes. Blake's fingers were trembling as he toyed with a fountain pen, twirling it around in his hand. He looked like a man who had gone through hell, and had left part of himself in there.

"Will you have had any changes to your health since I last saw you, then?" She steepled her hands under her chin, resting her elbows on the long table.

"Perhaps not physically, Your Majesty." A sigh that sounded as though it had sapped his entire body of what little energy it had left escaped his lips. "But emotionally, I'm afraid the state of my soul is in mortal peril. I venture, however, that I was not summoned to discuss such things, Your Majesty?"

"You would be correct, Rutherford." As much as she strove to remain calm while speaking, her mind buzzed with his words. Mortal peril? Whatever could he mean? Was it simply a ruse to distract her from the matter at hand? "I came to discuss with you the matter of the new taxes you have levied on the people without my consent."

He swallowed before speaking, running his tongue over his lips. "Ah, yes. Unfortunately, I do regret to inform you that the reasons behind my highly regrettable actions are more easily shown than told."

Natasha merely raised her eyebrows. "Highly regrettable actions, Rutherford, are ones such as betting on the wrong racehorse. Not wearing gloves on a cold day. Cheating on one's spouse. Sending one's child to the wrong school. Highly regrettable actions are not tantamount to treason."

She felt a frisson of guilt in the pit of her stomach, at the steel in her tone when this man looked as though he'd been the devil's footstool, but... she was the queen.

"Please, Your Majesty! Spare some leniency! I... I am young and inexperienced. I allowed myself to be influenced by the evil desires of my flesh and others, rather than the needs of the realm."

"And do you think that because I am young and inexperienced, I will grant you clemency? There are some actions, Rutherford, that change our lives forever. Whether we like it or not."

"I am begging you!" He rose from his seat and fell to his knees. "I let myself be manipulated! I was blackmailed and threatened!"

"A likely story. But do tell me, who was this hypothetical aggressor?"

"Let me show you. Please. Just grant me this one - "

A knock sounded at the door. She waved her hand, gesturing for the guards to open it. It was Winston. "Your Majesty, I have received word from your husband. There is an emergency, and he needs you to arrive straightaway."

He needs me? I have needed him all day! were the words that wanted to spring to her lips.

"Arrive where, exactly?" Even as her heart thundered, shouted at her to run to Connor, she needed to be sure. He had disappeared as soon as they had arrived home without explanation, and now he needed her? It wasn't terribly suspicious. "May I see the missive?"

He handed it to her on a brassy salver. She plucked it out of the envelope and skimmed over the frantic, barely legible script. It was Connor's, alright.

"This is what I was trying to tell you!" Blake sounded as desperate as her husband's letter, looking as though he might clutch at her arm if she threatened to leave without hearing him out.

She moulded her expression into one of disdain. "Fine. Come with. But we leave now, Rutherford. Move."

• • •

A less-fervent Blake Rutherford sat across from her in the royal carriage, now having regained some of his dignity.

Their conversation was thankfully nonexistent; Natasha did her best to keep her impatience from showing in any part of her body. She neither drummed her fingers on her knees, nor did she tap her feet, nor did her brows furrow. However, she was incredibly relieved - and nearly terrified at the overwhelming wave of emotion that nearly undid her; this was another reason she had shut people out for so long - when the coachman announced their arrival. The footman helped her out of the barouche, but she barely registered any of it.

Only her surroundings; only that brothel's sign that glowed bright as a brand in front of her. Madame Rachelle's. This was the place, the reason, that Connor had left her nearly immediately after stepping back onto Arlean soil? Her silk-gloved hands curled into fists.

And they unclenched, her heart dropping, her mind twisting inside out and seeming to no longer fit in her skull, when the door swung open to reveal the last person she had expected to see.