Once, he’d said to Leopold that he desired a woman who was compatible, and his brother had laughed. Not at Sebastian, really, but at the absurdity of their lives. They both knew that it was nearly impossible to find people they could completely trust, and they could only hope for it. Wealth and influence and titles had a way of turning otherwise honest people into liars and actors. Not that Sebastian believed that every woman he met was untrustworthy—but he didn’t know how to separate the trustworthy ones from the opportunists.
He would probably never know if the woman he married held any particular esteem for him. She could be bored beyond hope by his quiet life, and he’d not know it. Honestly, Sebastian didn’t know if there was really anything for a woman to admire about him other than the fact that he would one day be king.
The water had cooled, and he grudgingly climbed out of the tub. He accepted a towel and thick wool robe from Egius. He stood in front of the fire and ran his fingers carelessly through his damp hair. When he felt warm and dry, he went into the sitting room, waving off the undershirt Egius tried to hand him. “I’ll have my breakfast first,” Sebastian said.
He took a seat at the dining table. A young Alucian servant poured coffee. Patro had put a neat stack of his briefing papers on the table. He would be presenting language for the agreement later today. He picked up the first one and scanned the writing...power and strength, and to take use of all due means, courses and prescriptions, and execute due acquittance and discharge...
There was a soft rap at the door, followed by Patro’s entrance. He bowed low. “Your Royal Highness, Field Marshal Rostafan and Foreign Minister Anastasan.”
The two men entered behind Patro, both of them looking a little bleary-eyed. “Gentlemen,” Sebastian greeted them in Alucian. “Did you enjoy the evening, then?”
“Excessively,” Rostafan said, and sat heavily at the table beside Sebastian. By the look of it, Alucia’s top military officer had not combed his hair. He was a barrel-chested man, quite tall, with a ruddy complexion and a beard that was in desperate need of trimming. He wore his military ribbons with great pride and had a habit of chewing his bottom lip to the point it looked always chapped. He took very little notice of the protocols and customs when it came to dealing with members of the royal family and tended to treat the king and his sons as if they were all equals.
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,