Page 30 of The Crimson Throne (Spy and Guardian #1)

Samson

I rip off the masquerade mask, let it drop to the floor, and trail Darnley out of the hall, certain smoke should be pouring from my nose.

I’ve seen all manner of high-and-mighty purebred bastards in Southwark. Men come to partake of the whorehouses while looking down on everyone within those walls, holding their noses up as superior even though they’re the ones forking over money.

That’s how Darnley looks at Alyth. Like she’s obsolete and he’s two seconds from stabbing her clean through and laughing as she bleeds out.

Ironic, in a way.

Because that’s how I look at him.

“Darnley, sir!” I call out as he takes a staircase.

He flails around and stumbles back so he slams into the wall, making a lit torch near him waver in the gust of air he sends up. Whatever sobriety he managed in being furious at Alyth, his cups are catching back up with him now, and he scowls before he recognizes me.

“Samuel!” He claps my shoulder.

Sure, let’s go with that.

“Y’all right, sir? Saw that tussle with Lady Alyth—”

“Lady.” He spits the word. Actually spits, hacking a glob of saliva onto the stones at our feet. “She’s no more a lady than the rats who scuttle in the stables.”

My jaw clamps. “Is that so?”

He grins at me, and his hand tightens on my shoulder, but I lean into it and don’t wince. “She won’t even see it coming, that’s the best part. Won’t even see”—a hiccup—“none of it coming. She’s not as smart as she thinks she is.”

My body burns hotter. But I force the embers down to a smolder, force myself to stay present, when I want nothing more than to dissolve into a blackout and let myself eviscerate this man.

“See what coming, sir?” I lower my voice, though we’re the only ones in this torchlit hall; the party’s still carrying on a few rooms away, music peeling through the stones.

“I’m still not sure what I’m doing here.

I feel like I’m not being utilized as I—”

Darnley laughs. Bellows a laugh. “Come on, then, Samuel. This party’s dull.”

He traipses up the stairs.

I hesitate, jaw shut so hard, it’s cramping, and follow.

Darnley’s suite is just as opulent as I expected. Gaudy in its garishness, full of silks and fine carpets and bejeweled frames on mirrors and art. A fire roars in the hearth already, and a few wine bottles sit by a stuffed chair that faces the flames.

Darnley kicks off his boots and collapses in that chair. He grabs a full bottle of wine, uncorks it, and takes a few deep swallows before he rests it in his lap and belches loudly.

I shut the door behind me and restrain my nose curl.

There’s no seat for me. Figures, with this prick.

I lean against the fireplace, the heat reminding me to counter my own internal rage. “What would you have me do, sir?” I ask. Again.

Darnley takes another drink. And that drink turns into several chugging swallows. Damn, gotta be half the bottle down his gullet at this point.

“In time,” he says and bats his hand. “You know how it is. Everything must be perfectly arranged. Preci-precisi-precisely laid out. The bitch will only give us one”—another hiccup—“shot.”

I cross my arms over my chest and dig my fingers into my forearms. I can’t tell whether he’s talking about Mary or Alyth. “So I’m just supposed to wait here? For how long?” I let my impatience show intentionally, knowing he’ll think I’m annoyed with them, not him.

“Hungry for it, eh?” His grin is all teeth.

“Good. We are too. So”—he takes a drink, realizes the bottle’s empty, and tosses it aside, where it cracks on the stones—“damn hungry.” He leans forward in his chair to point at me, only he’s tipping to the left, his whole body going cockeyed.

“Stay the course. You’ll get yours soon.

All the pieces are in places. Place. Place.

” He touches his lips like he can’t figure out why he’s saying that word over and over before he bats his hand again and drops back against the chair.

“Never mind. It’s all laid out.” He yawns. “Your father saw to that.”

My body goes from hot to ice-cold.

“My father?” I suspected this. Knew it. But—

Darnley’s eyes shut, a faint smile on his lips. “Promised…” Yawn, a coarse throat clear. “When they come back…”

His body goes slack, and his snores rip through the room.

I stare at him for a beat longer, but he’s fully passed out.

My father is working with him. Not just in an effort to take Mary’s throne, and he’s working with fae.

What did Cecil tell him I’d get out of this? What does Darnley think I want? And what further role do I have to play in their scheme?

It doesn’t matter though. What Cecil wants, what Darnley wants. All that matters is what I want—me and Alyth.

There aren’t any servants lingering about, so with one last glare at Darnley, I lock the main door and get to work.

If he’s got a stash of fae weapons here, I’ll find ’em.

Cecil told me Mary had them, but he’s known all along it’s Darnley. Why lie? Why do any of this?

I originally thought Cecil was trying to get me killed—and he still might be.

But it feels bigger than that. He had me smuggle a fae weapon in, that necklace, and he lied about who was really hoarding them.

He knew I’d go after Mary for it, so…is he working with Darnley against Mary?

Wanting to unseat her, put Darnley on the throne?

But how would my investigating Mary work into that?

Darnley’s desk is all chaos. Blank papers, quills, invitations to parties later on. Nothing of importance.

I dig through a few chests, finding clothes and finery, and I think about pocketing a few of his nicer pieces, but I don’t want to bring trouble down on any of the servants, so I leave them be.

There’s nothing under any of his carpets or behind any of the tapestries on the walls. The fireplace is all set in stone, no loose bits where he might hide anything.

Last to search is his bed. I poke through the blankets, the pillows, even the curtains and the bedposts. Nothing. The mattress is lumpy but fine, and as I run my hands all over it—

Ah, finally.

There’s a small rip in the bottom, about the size of my palm. I narrow my fingers and stick my hand in, feel around in the straw and stuffing, until I brush across something flat and smooth.

I yank it out.

Parchment. A letter, the seal broken.

But when I open it, it’s utter nonsense. Not written in code, but the words themselves don’t congeal, sentences meaningless, letters written strangely. It’s like every time I force my eyes to read a word, they skip-skitter to another line until I’m dizzy with trying to figure it out.

It isn’t just the weirdness that sets me off. The whole letter glows a faint sickly green.

I refold the damn thing, head aching.

Fae magic. Like the weapons. This letter’s been imbued with it, but I don’t feel the rush of any magic seeping into me.

Did Cecil send this, Cecil put magic on it, or did Darnley, to hide it from anyone who finds it? But why keep it at all? What does it say that Darnley still needs?

More questions. Just more bloody questions.

I stuff the letter in my pocket and reset the bed. Everything’s as it was, no evidence of me snooping other than the missing letter, and when I get back to the main room, Darnley’s still passed out.

I’ve half a mind to do something terrible to him in his sleep. Dump his unconscious body naked in the fields outside the castle, see what he does with a bit of winter cold.

Instead, I actually listen to the bastard’s advice.

In time. Stay the course.

At his desk, I grab a piece of parchment and write only Goldfinch. The code for having information. I hope Alyth remembers what I told her, or else she’ll be mighty confused.

I fold it tight and tuck it into the palm of my hand as I make for the door.

Something shifts in the fireplace. Something deep behind the twitching flames and burning logs.

I frown at it and step closer, only to see one of those creatures that were with Alyth last night, the ones that held me to the wall with magic and damn near killed me.

Residual fear washes through me, but I know if the creature wanted me dead or incapacitated, I would be. Which begs the question—

I walk to the fireplace, crouch next to it, and whisper to the flames, “Why haven’t you lot taken care of this business for Alyth?” I cock my head at Darnley’s snoring form.

A beat of nothing passes.

Then one of those creatures slinks out of the fireplace, wholly unbothered by the intensity of the flames. It’s the one Alyth called by name: Kitty.

Kitty smooths her skirt and blinks up at me. “She wants more information from him, Lady Alyth says. We would kill him though. If she let us.”

I study Kitty, and she studies me.

I hold my hand out to her, the letter to Alyth pinched in my fingers. “Could you get this to her? Lady Alyth? And tell her to meet me in the morning at the stables.”

It’s late now, and I know she has more to do than talk with me. We can decipher this in the morning. My plan was to slip the note in her pocket if she was still back down in the party or find her room and wedge it under her door, but this saves me having to hunt her down.

Not that I’d mind finding her.

Seeing her again.

Kitty’s head cocks to one side, then the other, like a dog trying to identify a noise. “For cream?”

“Cream?” My jaw bobbles open and shut. “Sure, I s’pose. I can get ya some cream.”

Kitty nods. “And marmalade?”

What? “I’m not sure if there’s extra marmalade after the party. Maybe?”

Her eyes narrow. “Scones, then. Scones and cream.”

Christ alive, I’m negotiating food compensation for letter delivery with a small, furry magical being.

“Scones and cream,” I agree.

Kitty takes the letter. “Don’t be sad. Lady Alyth didn’t kill you. She likes you.” She grins, all sharp, fangy teeth. “Pretty English boy.”

And she’s gone before I can formulate any response to that beyond wheezing like a fool.