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Chapter three

Tiberius

L ord Tiberius Beaumont, the Baron of Crestley, positioned himself just so within the palace courtyard. He needed an excellent view of the West Wing so he could see Her Majesty when she finally emerged from her latest War Council meeting.

But he needed to look casual, without seeming idle. As if he had just paused in the courtyard whilst on some other business, rather than the truth—that he had been loitering for the better part of the morning, waiting for a chance to be seen by the queen.

It was a difficult balancing act, to be sure. But nothing the son of the former Grand Master of the Mercer’s Guild couldn’t manage.

“You’re far from subtle, Crestley,” dour Lord Bennett Threston, second-born son of the Duke of Coreto, grumbled from his place perched on a nearby bench. “Have you ever thought of buying yourself a proper wife instead of prancing about for the queen?” The other nobleman’s tone darkened considerably. “You have money enough for it.”

Tiberius simply smiled.

“I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re going on about, my dear Bennett,” he insisted.

But he did. Of course he did.

At thirty years of age, his continued status as the wealthiest bachelor in all of Elmoria was becoming… excessive . But he was walking proof that all the money in the kingdom couldn’t convince the proud fathers of Elmoria’s eligible bachelorettes to overlook his lack of a noble pedigree.

Lord Bennett snorted. “What I’m going on about is that I think any wife would be more than enough for the son of a merchant, so I’m not quite sure what you keep waiting for.”

Tiberius’s smile died on his lips. Shifting his stance ever so slightly to place more of his weight upon his left foot, he carefully reminded the other man, “I am a member of the peerage the same as you, my lord.”

“Yes,” Lord Bennett flatly agreed. “But my father didn’t have to pay for the privilege.”

Tiberius’s rapier was in his hand in the time it took the Duke of Coreto’s spare child to blink. “Need I remind you what I did to your older brother, my lord, the last time he thought to insult me?”

Before Lord Bennett could respond to those words beyond a mere tightening of his jaw, the young and stylish Sir Tristan Dacre—the only man in Queen Seraphina’s court who could ever be said to rival Lord Tiberius himself in looks and fashion sense—casually strode in between the two of them and drawled, “Come now, Lord Bennett. Your envy is showing," though he faced Tiberius while he said it.

Sir Dacre was broad and sun-kissed, as any proper midlander should be. And Tiberius loathed him for it.

He wasn’t jealous, though. Absolutely not.

Jealousy was such a common vice. And he was no longer common.

Besides, Sir Dacre was at least a few inches shorter than he was. That counted for something.

“What reason have I to be envious of him ?” Lord Bennett scoffed. The sickly coward even dared rise to his feet now that he had a big knight protecting him.

But there was a palpable air of caution wafting about the duke’s second son, a wariness visible within his eyes as he watched Tiberius over Sir Dacre’s shoulder. A wariness which flirted on the edge of fear.

Clearly, he did remember how easily Tiberius had bested his older brother in their own duel five years ago.

Good. He should be afraid of me.

Sir Dacre shrugged, the very picture of nonchalance even though he still stood between the tip of Tiberius’s blade and Lord Bennett’s weak, under developed chest. “We can’t all be the queen’s favorite now, can we?” Though the knight posed the question to them both, he reserved a wink specifically for Tiberius .

“No, no. Let him sulk,” Tiberius sweetly crooned even as he flashed another glance toward the West Wing out of the corner of his eye. “I feast on the envy of others for breakfast.”

When his gaze returned to the two men before him, he took a step back from Sir Dacre and returned his rapier to its scabbard. “You would not be worth the risk of ruining my new shoes at any rate, my dear Bennett. Suede is quite impossible to clean.”

Sir Dacre let loose a warm laugh. The sound of it grated on his nerves like the scratch of fingernails against a writing slate.

Lord Bennett was anything but amused, however. “You are lucky the queen favors you, Crestley.”

Tiberius’s smile deepened at that. But a flick of his wrist accompanied a declaration of, “Luck has nothing to do with it, my good fellow.”

He had been friends with Seraphina de la Croix since they were only eight years old. It had been his father’s idea.

“A good investment,” his father had said while shoving him toward the teary-eyed princess dressed all in black at her mother’s funeral.

His father, the elder Tiberius Beaumont, had always hoped his connection to the princess would win for them a marriage alliance with a well-positioned House. A House who would not mind the scent of new money that clung to their own family.

It had been a hope in vain.

And yet, Tiberius had found a true and good friend in the now queen. She had never minded the fact that he had been born the son of a mere mercer .

Even in his wildest dreams, though, he had never imagined the little friendship he had first forged as a boy would one day lead to him being considered the favorite of the Queen of Elmoria.

When the double doors finally flung open to reveal Queen Seraphina I and her entourage departing the West Wing, Tiberius’s eyes burned a trail straight toward her like twin moths racing to toss themselves upon the pyre of her beauty.

The queen was as pale as any northerner despite having been born and raised in the midlands, but even her pallid complexion did not stop her from being particularly radiant on that day. She was a vision in gold and blue satin with jewels spun through her chestnut locks and a string of sapphires twined around her soft waist.

The only thing that could possibly detract from her appearance was the sight of that crippled usuru draped about her shoulders. He had never understood the appeal of carrying one of those winged serpents about, like a mere scribe from the Royal Roost.

But Seraphina had always been partial to her quiet little rebellions.

Even from that distance, though, it was easy enough for him to spy the tightness of her smile. The weariness shining outward from the depths of her gray eyes.

His muscles tensed from the effort of keeping himself pinned in place. He wanted to rush to her side.

But he could plainly see she was busy, given her current company .

The queen’s godparents ignored him as ever, their eyes not so much as deigning to shift his way for a single moment. And yet that kitchen rat Seraphina had raised to the post of Spymaster was quick to spear him with her amber-eyed disdain.

Under the right sort of circumstances, Olivia the no-name bastard of a no-name kitchen wench, might have been pretty. She was nearly as tall and statuesque as the Duchess of Varoa herself.

But the woman slouched far too much. She only ever wore the color black, which lent an entirely too monochrome quality to her appearance, given her complexion. And she always insisted on dressing like a man.

A fashion-illiterate man.

He flashed the rat his brightest smile and doffed his cap, earning a huff and an averted glance from the woman. But for the queen and the rest of her entourage, he reserved a low bow.

When he rose from that bow, he caught Seraphina’s eye. She gifted him a warm smile and lifted her hand to her right earlobe to briefly toy with the sapphire dangling there.

He bit back a chuckle and nodded in acknowledgment of their childhood signal. When they were younger, that sign had almost always meant, “ Come whisk me away from my governess and let’s go riding instead.” These days, “ Meet me in the library later for a game of cards,” was more apt.

The knowledge he would see her later was enough to take away at least some of the early spring chill nipping at him through his velvet and furs. And the knowledge that his jeweler should have a very special present ready for her within a couple of weeks warmed him even further.

“Don’t you ever grow tired of looking so smug, Crestley?” Lord Bennett asked with all the cheer of a coroner.

Tiberius turned back toward his fellow noblemen and returned his cap to its perch atop his honeyed curls, a laugh in his throat. “Oh, never, my lord. You should try it sometime. But one would need something to be smug about to begin with, I suppose.”

“My father is well respected among the nobles of the realm,” Lord Bennett sneered. “And you would do well to remember…”

Tiberius stopped listening.

“Where are you off to, then?” Sir Tristan asked him, stopping Tiberius in the very midst of his abrupt, albeit aimless, egress.

He paused and racked his brain for an answer.

Where was he going?

He had time to kill and nothing of import to do for the rest of the day until he met the queen later for that game of cards. But he wasn’t about to tell the young buck that.

The queen’s favorite surely had an agenda full of things to do. Important luncheons. Secret teas. Mysterious political plots to be discussed in dusty corners of the royal library.

“I am going for a ride,” Tiberius decided on a whim. He swiveled to face the direction of the stableyard. “A spot of fresh air will do me good,” he added as if he hadn’t just been loitering in the courtyard for some hours already.

Lord Bennett snorted. But Sir Tristan was already in motion .

“Shall I accompany you, my lord?” the knight suggested, as warm and friendly as he ever was.

But the very idea of spending even more time in the company of that cheap imitation of his own person made Tiberius want to scream.

Outwardly, though, he conjured forth a rumble of laughter and a shake of his head. “Oh, no. No, no, no. I dare not steal your sterling company from our good Lord Bennett here,” Tiberius breezily declared. He clapped the grumpy man in question on the shoulder. Lord Bennett grunted. “No, no. It shall just be me and my thoughts. And my horse. And my guards. Though no doubt I’ll see you at dinner, my good fellow,” Tiberius finished, earning a strange sort of smile from Sir Tristan.

“No doubt,” the knight agreed as he sketched a shallow bow.

Lord Bennett, however, didn’t bother rising from his stoop, which he had reclaimed the moment Her Majesty departed from the vicinity.

Tiberius didn’t mind, though.

Let him sulk.

He loved the smell of jealousy in the morning.