come, but really, I think—Oh, I beg your pardon,” the duchess said, looking at Marek.
“Eliza, this is Mr. Brendan. He’s Weslorian!”
“Yes, I see,” she said, nodding to the bit of green on his lapel. “How do you do, Mr. Brendan?”
“Very well, thank you.” He bowed.
“Lady Tannymeade, you are wanted—Oh.”
The duke had come to fetch his wife, and Hollis, still holding the crystal cup, said, “Your grace, this is my friend, Mr. Brendan!”
The duke looked at him, his gaze flicking to the bit of green on his collar. “How do you do,” he said curiously. “Wesloriat?” he asked in Marek’s native tongue.
“Je.”
The duke continued in the Weslorian language, as it was very close to Alucian. “You’re part of the Weslorian delegation. I remember you—you advise the trade minister.”
“Je,” Marek said. “Lord Dromio.”
Tannymeade’s gaze flicked to his wife, then back to Marek. “His lordship seems...” He paused, as if searching for a word.
Idiotic? Ridiculous? Lacking gravitas?
“Well, I don’t know what he seems, really,” he said, and looked away, as if trying to avoid the conversation he’d started. “Hollis, darling, you’ve had another glass? Mind you have a care—the absinthe will bedevil you.”
Hollis giggled as if he’d meant that to be amusing.
“Oh, look, they are setting up to play Chairs,” the duchess said. “You should play, Hollis!”
“Me?” Hollis laughed. “I’d rather—”
“What are you all doing here?” another man said, pushing into their circle.
“Beck, have you met Mr. Brendan? He’s Weslorian.” To Marek she said, “The Earl of Iddesleigh.”
The man, who looked to be a few years older than Marek, had darkly golden hair. He gave Marek a once-over, and said, “How do you do. Come on then, the lot of you. We’ve another round of Chairs, and unless you want to sorely disappoint two princesses, one of whom had this bothersome idea, you will take your places.”
Hollis looked at Marek. He was horrified by the thought—there wasn’t enough drink in him for such buffoonery.
“You’re Weslorian,” the earl said. “Come on, then.”
Damn it, but Hollis pushed her glass at the earl and grabbed Marek’s hand as if they were children instead of adults. “It will be fun!”
“It won’t, you may trust me.”
“Are you always so serious?” She tugged Marek along behind her, and much to his horror, he couldn’t seem to stop himself from allowing it. She kept looking back at him, always smiling, her eyes sparkling, and he felt a little like a lemming, headed for the edge of the cliff.
“But I’ve never played this game,” he said when they reached the floor.
“How is that possible?” She pointed to the chairs and then said something he didn’t quite understand. In fact, he didn’t understand anything beyond that point. It was loud, and people were laughing and shouting. But he heard the dull thud of the music in his head and fell in line, walking around the line of chairs with everyone else. The chairs were lined up with every other facing the opposite direction. When the music suddenly stopped, everyone tried to take a seat. On the first go, he was lucky, and happened to be right in front of a chair. Two people were eliminated from the game when they were not able to find a seat before they were all occupied.
A footman came forward and removed a chair. Everyone stood, and when the music began, around they went again. On the second round, Marek beat a gentleman by a nose to a seat. The gentleman was sent out.
Round and round they went, the noise deafening in Marek’s good ear and the laughter thrumming in his chest. That was something entirely new adding to the mix—it had been many years since he’d laughed so freely, many years since he’d felt the concussion of it in his chest. It made him feel good. It made him feel like a human.
Marek was bloody well laughing.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The gathering to celebrate the Christmas tree at the home of Lord Iddesleigh still holds all of Mayfair in thrall. It has been reported by several, including this writer, that a future duke and a future queen engaged in a game of Chairs that took such a competitive turn the future duke inadvertently knocked the future queen from the last empty seat. She vowed revenge but was spirited away to her palatial abode shortly before she could exact it, and he was summarily banished to his house nearby.
King Maksim has recently been spotted in the park of St. James, walking alone with a trail of guards behind him, looking