Chapter 33: A Stray Boy
Outside the Westwick Plaza, a porter opened the door of the lead carriage. Duke Maximilian von Rhenia stepped out first, wearing a simple charcoal coat that contrasted nicely with his silver hair. He extended his gloved hand to Duchess Adelheid, who emerged from the carriage in a teal gown and with her hair carefully pinned to the back. Then came Conrad. His black hair was shorter than Clara remembered, but the silver streak was no less noticeable.
When the duke saw Iris approaching, his cool expression softened into something resembling a smile. He turned to her and opened his arms, then his lips fell when she stopped a full pace away and performed an elegant curtsy.
A swing and a miss, it seems.
“Papa, Mama, Conrad,” she said while raising her head. “Welcome to Westwick. I trust the journey was not too taxing.”
“The roads were acceptable,” said the duke. “The company less so.”
Iris’s drills swayed as she tilted her head. “Did something happen?”
“We had to present ourselves to the king when we passed through the capital.”
“Darling, it was just a ten-minute meeting,” said the duchess. “You know that if we hadn’t paid our respects, they would have taken it as a slight. Put it out of your mind.”
“Perhaps they deserve the occasional slight.” Conrad scoffed, and the duchess shot him a glare. “Well, at least the royals aren’t coming to the gala. Now that would have been bothersome.”
Duchess Adelheid sighed, then stepped forward and placed her hands on Iris’s shoulders. “You look well, Iris. Is that some color I see in your cheeks?”
The girl smiled. “It seems the Westwick air agrees with me, Mama.”
“Mm.” The duchess kissed her daughter’s forehead.
Then the duke’s eyes moved past his daughter and found the servants. Ricardo saluted, and Clara and Emma both curtsied deeply. The duke inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement.
“Your Grace, the garrison is at your disposal, and the hotel’s upper floor has been closed off for your stay,” said Ricardo. “The family shall stay in the east wing, and the household staff will have the west wing.”
“Good.” The duke surveyed the entrance, moving his gaze to the hotel staff holding beverages and sweets, then to the orchids displayed by the windows. “This will do.”
From him, that’s definitely a compliment.
Iris brightened. “Papa, you must see the suite. And the view from the terrace! You can see Claves from the windows, and—oh, I should show you my exam results. I’m ninth in Mathematics now.”
“Ninth,” he repeated. His expression didn’t shift by much, but his eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch.
“Among the entire year,” added Iris.
“It appears that the professor has been more useful than I expected.”
“He did cost a thousand marks,” said Conrad. “I should certainly hope he’s doing something to warrant it. How were your other subjects?”
“My overall placement was twenty-sixth, which is eighteen spots better than last year. Professor Morris has been adequate for most subjects, especially for Fundamentals of Magic, though my real Mathematics tutor was Clara.”
The duke’s gaze settled on Clara again. There was an intensity to it. “Is that so,” he said, and not as a question.
“Algebra, specifically,” Iris continued. “She taught me factoring in an afternoon. Professor Morris spent days on it and got nowhere.”
My lady, please stop. He already thought I was suspicious after the trial. Ironically, Iris probably thought she was doing Clara a favor by playing up her achievements to the duke.
“To be fair to the professor, he did lay the groundwork. I merely helped Lady Iris make sense of the final steps.”
The duchess exchanged a glance with the duke. Whatever conversation was happening between those two pairs of eyes—purple and crimson—Clara couldn’t fully parse.
“We are very proud of you, Iris,” said the duchess. “And we’re looking forward to your play tomorrow. But before we hear all about that, perhaps we could settle in? The journey was long, and your father and I would appreciate some tea before the afternoon.”
“Of course, Mama! I’ve already arranged everything, and there’s some of the Flowery Pekoe from Hargrove’s that you always say you miss. Clara, would you—?”
“It has already been prepared, my lady.” Clara had set up the tea service in the family’s suite an hour ago, along with a selection of pastries and a generous plate of brigadeiros that were spared from the batch she’d made yesterday for Vivienne. “Emma, could you help the porters with the luggage?”
“Y-yes, Miss Casewell!” She hurried towards the back carriage, nearly tripping over the steps. The poor girl had been horribly nervous since she discovered she’d have to serve the duke and the duchess directly.
Conrad watched Emma stumble and faced Iris. “Is that a new maid?”
“She’s a junior servant I mercifully took under my wing after she made a grievous error at the von Rhenia estate. I am training her.”
“Mercifully.” Conrad’s sharp tone suggested he had opinions about this, but he glanced at the duchess and decided to keep them to himself.
“You might try it sometime. It doesn’t feel quite as bad as I expected it to.”
Two porters passed in front of her, struggling to carry a long brown suitcase that clattered with every step. One of the maids who came with the duke was directing them along.
“Conrad,” said Iris sternly, “don’t tell me that unsightly bag is full of swords.”
He shrugged. “Dear sister, if we’re staying here for an entire week, I must be able to keep myself entertained.”
She shook her head in an exaggerated display of disapproval, and the four von Rhenias walked toward the hotel. Before they went inside, the duke stopped next to Clara. “Miss Casewell. Your letters have been informative, if characteristically understated.” The duke’s voice was low. “This second trial. The one involving the professor.”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“You didn’t mention you were opposed by the Albion heir.”
Clara kept her expression neutral. “Lord Warren served as prosecutor.”
“Hmm.” The duke paused for a moment. “Let us speak about this later.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” She nodded cautiously.
But before she could think about House von Rhenia’s relationship with House Albion and what the duke would want with her, there were trunks of luggage to manage, dinner preparations to be made, and—
A shriek cut through the air.
Clara spun toward the carriage. Emma had stumbled backward from the rear coach, falling onto the ground with her hand pressed over her mouth.
“There’s—there’s a boy! A stray boy! In the luggage!”
Ricardo’s sword was out of its scabbard before Clara could process what was happening, and four of the escorting soldiers surrounded the carriage, drawing their own blades.
Clara’s heart pounded. Did someone infiltrate the duke’s convoy? An assassin? A spy?
“Stay behind me,” Ricardo ordered, positioning himself between the carriage and the hotel. Conrad’s right hand had moved to his waist as he threw his left arm in front of Iris. Clara realized he was armed beneath his coat. Some of the other household maids dropped the trunks they had been carrying.
“Everyone, step back from the coach,” said Ricardo, advancing with his blade raised.
A beat of tense silence.
“I am not a stray.”
The voice that came from inside the carriage was young, clipped, and most importantly, displeased. A moment later, a figure climbed out from between two large trunks, brushing dust from a long dark cloak that had far too much embroidery for a street urchin. He couldn’t have been over fourteen, and he had dark red hair that fell just past his ears. His eyes were a striking, pale gray, and they were narrowed into a glare aimed squarely at Emma.
“A stray,” the boy repeated. “Do strays typically wear boots from the royal cobbler?” He extended one foot from beneath his cloak to display what was, indeed, an impeccably crafted leather boot.
Ricardo hadn’t lowered his sword. “Identify yourself.”
The boy drew himself up to his full height, which wasn’t terribly impressive, and pushed back his cloak. Beneath it, he wore a dark green doublet, and pinned to his breast was a brooch that even Clara could recognize instantly: the crowned wolf of the Arcadian royal family.
“Ciarán Ó Conail Mhór,” he said, slowly and deliberately. “And you must be Sir Ricardo. Dame Rowena has told me about you.”
Is that actually the Second Prince? Clara hadn’t heard much about him, but she had hoped he would be the quiet, thinking type, someone overshadowed that the original story could have eventually primed to replace Lochlann. Yet looking at him now, the only word that came to mind was bratty.
Ricardo’s sword arm wavered, and the soldiers exchanged wide-eyed glances. Clara glanced at the duke, who was now going back down the steps toward the carriage with an air of frustration. The duchess had reverted to her graceful smile, and Iris was peeking from behind Conrad.
“Your Highness, would you care to explain why you were hiding in my trunks?”
“Between your trunks. There’s a meaningful distinction. I was merely travelling discreetly.” Ciarán hopped down from the carriage. “And your security is appalling, by the way. Not a single person checked the interior of the rear carriage since we left the capital.”
The soldiers’ expressions shifted to worry. The duke raised his arm, and Ricardo sheathed his sword slowly, followed by the others.
“Is the Crown aware of your location?”
“The Crown has been left a note,” answered Ciarán. “On my desk, where someone will presumably already have found it.”
Conrad stepped forward, his scowl somehow deeper than before. “Father, did you know about this?”
“Most certainly not.”
“Your Grace,” said Ciarán, more stiffly than before. “I apologize for the intrusion. I intended to reveal myself upon arrival at Westwick, but your maid started screaming before I could make myself dignified. A ‘stray boy’, I believe were her words.”
Emma shrank behind Clara. “I-I’m so sorry, Your Highness! I didn’t know! You were just—between the boxes, and—”
“It’s alright, Emma,” said Clara, placing a hand on the girl’s back. She examined the prince again, and now she could see the family resemblance to Lochlann in the shape of his jaw and the auburn undertone in his hair. But where the Crown Prince’s features were more classically handsome, Ciarán’s were sharper, more angular.
The duchess spoke with the patience of someone who’d raised two rather troublesome children. “Your Highness, is there a particular reason you chose to… travel with us?”
Ciarán crossed his arms. “I’m to enroll at Claves in autumn. I wanted to see the academy before I’m made to attend it.”
“Made to? You make it sound like a punishment,” said Iris, who’d been watching with a spark of curiosity.
“Isn’t it?” Ciarán met her eyes directly. “To study alongside the Crown Prince, who so loves his time at Claves. Which means I’m expected to love it, too.”
Did the Second Prince have some sort of inferiority complex? Or did the two brothers just not get along?
“Even so, why sneak in? Why not make an official visit here with your family?” asked the duchess.
The boy turned away. “I don’t think that’s something the King would have been interested in.”
It seems there’s something deeper going on with the royal family.
“Major Ricardo,” called the duke.
“Your Grace?”
“Have the garrison send word to Elysia City immediately. Inform the palace that the Second Prince is safe, unharmed, and in my custody.” He paused. “Make sure they use that word specifically: custody.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Miss Casewell, have an additional room prepared at the hotel.”
Clara curtsied, and the duke turned back to Ciarán.
“Your Highness, you are a guest of House von Rhenia until the Crown decides what to do with you. You will conduct yourself accordingly. You will not sneak into any luggage. And you will explain yourself fully over tea.”
Ciarán opened his mouth as if to protest, then seemed to reconsider. “Fine.”
Iris approached him, grinning mischievously. “We say ‘yes, Your Grace’.”
The prince smirked back at her. “I know what the appropriate form of address is. I merely chose to abstain from it.”
She frowned, and Clara had to hold back a laugh.
It’s not so fun when you’re on the receiving end of the brattiness, is it?