Julia London - The Princess Plan

His manner was the very opposite of Caius Anastasan, the foreign minister. Where Rostafan was big and gruff, Anastasan was trim and fastidious in his manner and attention to Sebastian. His olive brown skin was smooth and flawless, save for the dark circles under his eyes this morning, and he had not a hair out of place in spite of the early hour.

Sebastian knew Caius well—they’d attended Oxford at the same time, and Sebastian had considered him a friend. But his investiture as the crown prince of Alucia had changed some of his earlier relationships, including the one with Caius. His old friend had become deferential, and when he was named foreign minister, his deference had turned almost cloying. Sometimes Sebastian wondered if he’d imagined those years at Oxford.

Caius waited until Sebastian invited him to sit, which he did with a gesture of his hand.

“How did you find the ball, Your Highness?” Caius asked.

“Tolerable,” Sebastian said, then smiled slyly. “Particularly toward the end.” His visitors chuckled knowingly. Sebastian was used to every detail of his life being known to the people around the throne. It was impossible for him to have any secrets for any length of time.

Patro returned, this time with two servants carrying trays of breakfast—eggs and sausages, toast points and jam.

The three of them ate heartily while the men regaled Sebastian with tales about the ball. The sight of the English attaché dancing one of the Alucian sets was the stuff of excellent comedy when Rostafan told it. As they finished their meal, the talk gradually turned toward the meeting Sebastian was to have that afternoon. Caius was speaking about the need to reduce tariffs on Alucian goods. “We should insist on lowering the tariffs for—”

Sebastian stopped Caius from speaking by lifting his hand. “I would have Matous here for this.” He looked around for Patro.

The butler nodded and went out to fetch the private secretary.

Rostafan drummed his fingers on the table, obviously annoyed by the wait. He turned his attention to the window and craned his neck to have a look at the gardens. “Looks to be another gray, wet day,” Rostafan said. “One cannot comprehend how an entire people can abide such gray, wet conditions day in and day—”

The door suddenly burst open and Patro, wild-eyed and ashen, rushed in.

Sebastian twisted in his seat, confused. “What is it?”

“Sir—Mr. Reyno does not rouse.”

Rostafan chuckled. “He can’t hold his drink.”

But Sebastian could see by Patro’s face that he didn’t mean Matous had drunk too much. “What do you mean, he does not rouse?” Sebastian demanded as he gained his feet.

“Sir, I regret to tell you there is a great deal of blood.”

Rostafan lurched forward, brushing Patro aside as he rushed from the room. Sebastian moved to go after him, but Caius caught his arm with a surprisingly strong grip. When Sebastian tried to shrug him off, Caius put both hands on Sebastian’s chest and roughly shoved him back.

“You dare put your hands on me?” Sebastian shouted.

“Sir! We don’t know what’s happened. We don’t know if it’s an ambush or some plot to draw you out. Patro! Send in the guard!”

Sebastian again tried to follow Rostafan and pushed Caius aside, but he was stopped by the appearance of guards who blocked his exit.

“Your Highness,” Caius said, his voice gentler. “You must wait here until we know it is safe.”

Several guards filed in behind the first. Sebastian glared at them all, enraged. He didn’t care that they had a duty—he only cared that they allow him to pass, to see what had happened to Matous.

With a roar of frustration, he whipped around and swept the breakfast dishes from the table, sending them crashing to the floor.

It seemed hours before Rostafan returned. His expression was dark, and his hands were covered in blood.

“Well?” Sebastian demanded.

“Murdered,” Rostafan said. “His throat slit.”

The news was so astounding that Sebastian lost his balance. He tipped into the breakfast table, catching himself with his hand. “It’s not possible,” he said. Matous! His one true friend. He felt sick. There was a pressure on his chest that felt as if it would crush it. He was aware of everyone in the room, crowded with men now. They all stared at him, awaiting his order of what was to be done. “How is this possible?”

No one answered.

“How is this possible?” Sebastian roared, and brought his fist down on the table.

He suddenly recalled Matous intercepting him on his way to rendezvous with Mrs. Forsythe. He’d wanted to speak to Sebastian, had seemed unusually flustered when Sebastian put him off.

He’d told him he would meet him here, in his rooms, and then he’d never come. What had Matous said? What were his exact words?

“Your Highness, with your permission, I will alert the proper authorities,” Caius said. His voice sounded hollow.

Sebastian nodded numbly—he wasn’t even certain who spoke. “Leopold,” he croaked. “Find him and bring him at once.”

More people left the room. More people came in. A maid to clean up the mess he’d made. Egius to dress him. He couldn’t undertake a murder investigation in a dressing gown.

“I want to see him,” Sebastian said to no one in particular.

“I would advise against it,” said Rostafan.

“I want to see him,” Sebastian insisted. He signaled Egius to follow him into the dressing room. When he was dressed, he entered the crowded sitting room again and looked at his field marshal. Without a word, Rostafan went to the door and opened it.

Sebastian followed him, striding down the carpeted hall to a door at the end. He braced himself, then stepped inside the small bedchamber and looked toward the bed. The first thing he saw was Matous’s gloved hand hanging off the side of the bed. He’d been born with the deformity, a misshapen stump of a hand with no fingers. And while one would scarcely notice his hand, as Matous had adapted quite well, there were some things that were difficult for him. Sebastian would imagine that fighting off an attacker would be one of those things.

His belly churned, but he stepped closer. There was a massive amount of blood, and a gaping wound across Matous’s throat. But Sebastian was surprised that his friend looked so peaceful in death, his face free of the creases of worry. He looked as if he was sleeping, his dreams gentle, and below his gentle, dreaming face, an ugly, bloody gash.

Who would have done this?

Who?

The English guards had arrived, and the Alucian guards were insistent that Sebastian leave the room. He was escorted back to his sitting room, which had filled with more people. Alucians, mostly, including the foreign minister’s wife, who was quietly weeping in a corner, consoled by Rostafan. There were two Englishmen in heated conversation with Anastasan. Sebastian was surrounded, and yet, he had never felt so alone in his life.

He’d never felt such guilt, either. Matous had wanted to speak to him, but Sebastian had been ruled by his cock, too intent on relieving it with Mrs. Forsythe. He needed a moment to himself. He wanted to mourn his secretary and friend privately.

He would not be allowed that opportunity. He would be watched by everyone. Even now, as he tried to absorb the shock, a frail Englishman had inched forward. His moustache was in need of a trim, and his skin was a peculiar shade of gray. “I beg your pardon, Your Royal Highness, but if I may inquire as to the last time you saw Mr. Reyno alive?”

Sebastian felt sick, as if his breakfast would depart his body at any moment. He swallowed down the nausea. He’d been taught from the time he was a lad to put on a face to the public. “Last night, at the ball,” he said calmly and prepared himself to answer more questions.