Page 31 of A Fragile Enchantment

“Oh, no, I would not go so far as to say that.”

“Your modesty credits you,” he said absently. “I mention it only to ask if Kit seems… well.”

Niamh worried her lip. She knew well enough what he meant, but she dared to ask, “How do you mean, sir?”

“I suppose it is an unusual question.” He looked suddenly troubled, almost embarrassed. It was oddly endearing. “I hate to put you in this position, but I find I have little other recourse to know how he isactuallyfaring.”

“He seems well enough.” Apart from his disillusionment with court life, it was the truth as far as she knew. And a small, selfish part of her wanted to hold on to what little Kit had shared with her. It hardly seemed hers to give away, even to the prince regent. “Is there something the matter?”

Jack smiled humorlessly. “Are you aware of what happened to my father, Miss O’Connor?”

“Vaguely, yes.” Many years ago, the king took ill and never recovered. Few details had escaped the walls of the palace, however, and judging by the guarded expression on Jack’s face, he did not intend to share them now.

“Then you know enough.” He laid his palms flat on his desk, smoothing out an invisible crease. “If I were to die before my father, Parliament would not appoint Kit the regent. He has too much of our father in him. But marriage makes a man more respectable in the eyes of the court. I know he resents my hovering, but I am doing what I must for his own good—and to ensure the continuity of our family’s legacy.”

Jack sat before her, as weathered and solid as the stones on which his legacy was built. How exhausting, she thought, to insist on solving everyone else’s problems alone. To bear the weight of duty and the pressure to protect the ones you loved. She knew something of what that was like.

Over his shoulder, his father’s scornful, painted gaze bore into her. If the king retired eight years ago, Jack couldn’t have been older than two-and-twenty when Parliament appointed him prince regent. She drank in the shadows beneath his eyes and the faint lines etched on his forehead and felt, impossibly, a sense of kinship with him.

“I understand, sir.”

“I’m glad,” he replied stiffly. “I’ve kept you long enough. Going forward, do not indulge my brother’s whims too much. Wewillneed to see him on his wedding day, after all.”

Niamh laughed nervously. “Yes, sir. I will make sure he is visible. At the very least.”

“Thank you, Miss O’Connor. That is a relief.” He checked his pocket watch and frowned. “While I have you here, I should inform you that you’ll be meeting with Infanta Rosa today for a consultation. I’ve agreed to send you to her townhouse. Will ten o’clock suit you?”

It would, and so, she was dismissed.

As Niamh walked back to her chambers, the coin still clasped tightly in her fist, her thoughts swam with what she’d learned. All of Jack’s obsessive single-mindedness on this wedding, his inattentiveness to his staff and the protests, sprang from a duty to his family. She believed him, of course—even admired that kind of devotion. But could that really be the whole truth? If Lovelace had been writing about him for years, then Jack had been ignoring the injustice in his realm long before Kit was betrothed to Infanta Rosa.

No.She could not entertain any doubts. She was a seamstress, not a spy. After she returned from her meeting with Infanta Rosa, she would write to Lovelace and tell them she could not help them. Once Kit was safely married, Jack would set things to rights.

She had to believe that.

10

Infanta Rosa’s rented townhouse reminded Niamh of a cake: a narrow slice of white brick, iced with elegant pediments and garnished with fragrant wisteria. It sat on the west end of Bard Row, one of the most fashionable, charming districts in Sootham, all manicured lawns, colorful gardens, and trees lush with summer foliage. Wicker baskets full of cut flowers hung like pendants from the gas lamps. All of it delighted Niamh as much as it astounded her.

She lifted the hem of her walking dress as she approached the front door. Her bonnet’s wide brim kept the sun from her eyes, but the ribbon fastened beneath her chin itched horribly. Sweat beaded uncomfortably at her hairline. Never had she felt less like herself. But a girl must look the part of a high-society lady when she madethe acquaintance of the Princess of Castilia, even if there was nothing to be done for her accent.

The housekeeper, already lingering on the porch, promptly escorted her to the drawing room on the second floor and told her “Su Alteza Real” would be with her shortly. A tea service already waited here, as cruelly inviting as a plate of biscuits in a fairy-tale witch’s hut. Her stomach growled, and she had to remind herself that it was intolerably rude to eat without her host.

The display was unlike anything she’d ever seen in either Avaland or Machland. A bitter, acrid smell wafted from the ceramic teapot. She wrinkled her nose. Scattered around it were squares of chocolate, as dark and glossy as polished stones, thick slices of fresh bread, a wedge of hard cheese, and slivers of cured meats. Gods, she wished she hadn’t forgotten to eat again. Time kept getting away from her. But surely, no one would notice if she took just one tiny piece of chocolate. She popped it in her mouth and nearly moaned aloud as it melted on her tongue.

The door to Rosa’s bedchamber flew open.

Niamh shot to her feet, nearly choking on the chocolate. But it wasn’t Infanta Rosa but her lady’s maid, Miss Miriam Lacalle, who slipped through the doorway. Miriam slammed the door shut behind her, then leaned back against it as though trapping a beast inside. “Good morning! What can I do for you?”

“Hello.” Niamh did her best not to conspicuously peer over her shoulder. “Is Infanta Rosa here? I’m meant to take measurements for her dress this morning.”

Miriam’s eyes went round and practically sparkled. In the daylight, her face was as kind as Niamh remembered it beneath the ballroom chandelier’s glow last night. “Ah, soyou’rethe dressmaker I’ve heard so much about. The gossip columns are all aflutter about the gown you wore last night. I am sorry I did not see it myself.”

“Only good things, I hope.” Niamh smiled sheepishly. “It’s an honor to meet you, my lady. Niamh O’Connor.”

“You flatter me, Miss O’Connor, but I am no lady.” She laughed. “Miriam Lacalle.”

How curious that Infanta Rosa had selected a common girl as her lady’s maid. “A pleasure, Miss Lacalle.”