THREE
After giving the door to the butler’s pantry a
perfunctory knock, Daemon walked into the room and wasn’t sure who
was more flustered—himself or Beale.
Good manners dictated
that he walk out of the room as if he’d seen nothing. Curiosity had
him closing the door and asking, “Are the acoustics good in this
room?”
Beale lowered the
flute and said, “It’s a private place to practice.”
There was enough
emphasis and bite to the word “private” to tell Daemon that if he’d
been a boy instead of a grown man—regardless of being the High
Lord’s son—he would have been booted out the door, and that boot
would have had the strength of Beale’s leg behind it.
“Beale . . .” Daemon
looked around the pantry. Two rolltop desks, side by side, shelves
of the best silver, the bottles of wine that were anticipated to be
needed for the next few days.
Hell’s fire, the Hall
had at least one music room. Why was the man hiding out here to
practice?
“I suppose this is a
practical place to practice whenever you have a few minutes between
your duties,” Daemon said, feeling a sudden need to choose his
words with care. In no way did he want to imply that Beale might be
shirking his duties. “But surely you have some free time in the
evenings, even with all the preparations needed because the Lady
and I will have a more demanding social calendar than
usual.”
Beale gave him a
measuring look. Daemon wasn’t sure against what standard he was
being measured—and he was even less sure that he measured up to
that standard.
At last Beale said,
“We do have free time, even with the increased activity at the
Hall. The High Lord always insisted that everyone working here have
some time for their own lives. Since there are so many who work at
the Hall, and so many who reside here as well, we are our own
community and have our own entertainments. Several people play
musical instruments, so we have a musical evening each week and
give a performance once a season. Those who enjoy reading have
literary discussions. There are also weekly card games. Since the
Hall allows several beginning positions to be used as a training
ground for Blood who have chosen to work in domestic service, such
activities provide the younger staff with opportunities to enjoy
society without needing to go to the village. And because the rules
at the Hall are so strict—and strictly kept—the penalties for
mistakes while playing cards are not so great.”
“Like a youngster
gambling away all his wages,” Daemon said.
“Exactly.”
Feeling awkward,
Daemon looked away. “I’ve owned the Hall for a year now. Should I
have known about this?”
Beale laid the flute
in its case. “Taking care of the interests of the SaDiablo family
is not a small task, Prince. Neither is taking care of Dhemlan. And
you’ve also had the equally demanding—and more important—task of
helping the Lady regain her health. I don’t think last Winsol you
were able to think much beyond those things.”
Astute assessment, Daemon thought,
nodding.
“This year the Lady
is well and you’ve settled into the routine of ruling Dhemlan, so
your own view of the world can now widen.”
He started to agree.
Then he noticed a look in Beale’s eyes and rocked back on his heels
to reassess all the information he’d been given during this little
chat.
“So what duties am I
ready to assume?” he asked warily.
Beale smiled. “The
servants’ Winsol party is held on the first evening of Winsol.
There is dancing later, but the evening begins with a short musical
program. The High Lord and the Lady would join us for that part of
the evening before going on to their own engagement. And they would
sing one of the traditional Dhemlan songs for Winsol, a lovely one
about the warmth of family on the darkest night. Last year, the
High Lord came down and sang it for us.”
“Is the Lady coming
down this year to sing it for you?” Daemon asked.
“Yes, she’s already
said she would.”
He nodded. His
singing voice wouldn’t hold up to professional standards, but he
could carry a tune and read music, so he did well enough for
at-home entertainment. “Do you have the music?”
“I do.” Beale opened
a drawer in his desk and pulled out a small stack of sheet music.
“The top one is the Dhemlan song. The next one is a song the Lady
and the High Lord used to sing for guests. It is in the Old
Tongue.”
Daemon groaned. The
Old Tongue was a liquid kind of language, beautiful to hear and
damned difficult to learn.
“Perhaps if you
learned the music, you could accompany one of them?” Beale
suggested.
“That would be
better.” Much better. “Thanks for the music.” Daemon opened the
door, ready to retreat.
“You’re quite
welcome, Prince.”
Having a suspicious
feeling that his list of things to do before Winsol had lengthened
more than he thought, Daemon hurried toward his study—and stopped
short when he saw Lord Marcus, his man of business, handing a coat
and hat to Holt, the footman on duty in the great
hall.
“Did we have an
appointment?” Daemon asked.
“Not exactly,” Marcus
said. “I came in the hopes you could spare an hour or two for me to
review some things.”
An hour or two.
Mother Night.
“Of course,” Daemon
said. “Holt? Please ask Mrs. Beale for a tray of
coffee.”
“There’s some fresh
baking,” Holt said. “I’ll ask if she’ll add a bit to the
tray.”
“Thank you.” He’d
been lured to that part of the Hall because he’d passed a stairway
and caught some delicious scents rising up from the kitchen. But
when he got to the doorway and heard Mrs. Beale snarl about “them
who try to snitch the treats before the pans were cool,” he decided
he liked his balls better than nutcakes. Realizing he needed some
excuse if his presence near the kitchen was discovered, he had
ended up in the butler’s pantry—and now had his musical assignment
for the festivities.
Which made him wonder
if the scents coming up from the kitchen had been a Craft-enhanced
lure. And damn it, he’d swallowed the bait without getting a taste
of anything else.
“Have you come to add
to my list of things to do?” Daemon asked as he led Marcus into his
study and settled into one of the chairs on the informal side of
the room.
“Afraid so.” Marcus
set a bulging leather case near his feet. “I was informed,
discreetly, by both Beale and Helton that the bonuses traditionally
given at Winsol are usually distributed on the first evening so
that the servants who are spending a few days with their families
at the beginning of the holiday have some extra spending
money.”
“I see.” He’d
presented the envelopes on Winsol Day last year, and no one had
said anything to him. Apparently this was another part of his
duties he was ready to assume in the correct way.“All right. Do you
have the lists of people working at each SaDiablo residence or
estate?”
“I have them.” Marcus
hesitated. “May I make a suggestion?”
“This seems to be the
day for them,” Daemon said dryly. “Go ahead.”
“You should hire a
secretary.”
“Feeling overworked,
Marcus?”
“A bit, but that’s
not the point. I take care of your investments and check on the
property you personally own here in Kaeleer, and you have the firm
that worked with your father looking after the rest of the
investments for the SaDiablo family, but I think you need someone
who can help you take care of day-to-day business. Someone with
sufficient rank and polish to be your representative at the
SaDiablo estates or at a Queen’s court. The High Lord, I believe,
had your elder brother, Mephis, working in that capacity. You
should consider hiring someone for the position.”
Daemon almost
dismissed the idea out of hand. Then he realized he already had
someone working for him who would fit the criteria—if Prince
Rainier was willing to take on that kind of work.
“I’ll think about
it.”
Marcus looked
surprised and pleased—until they heard the jingling and howling
outside the study door. Then he looked like he’d swallowed
something sour.
“Is there something
else I should be aware of?” Daemon asked.
Marcus shook his head
and wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Concerned now, he
pushed. “Your wife and daughter? They’re well?”
“Yes.” Marcus glanced
at the study door and winced.
Daemon weighed what
he knew about Marcus’s girl against what was outside the study door
and asked innocently, “Have you finished your shopping for Winsol?
Gotten all your gifts?”
Marcus shifted
uncomfortably. “My daughter wants a puppy, but we haven’t decided
on the breed—or if we’re going to get one at all,” he added
hurriedly.
Fortunately, Holt
brought in the tray of coffee and baked goods. Daemon focused his
attention on the tray and hoped his expression would be mistaken
for eagerness to indulge in the treats.
“You’ll be coming by
again before Winsol Night, won’t you?” he asked, working to keep
his voice neutral. “Why don’t you bring your daughter with you the
next time?”
Apparently he hadn’t
kept his voice neutral enough, because Marcus’s hand froze over the
plate and he looked up, alarmed.
“No,” Marcus said.
“She’s been hinting that she’d like to have a kindred Sceltie live
with us, but I don’t need a bundle of fur that could end up being
the highest-ranking member of the household.”
Considering the
Sceltie pups who were still in residence, that was a distinct
possibility.
“Think of the
advantages of having a playmate who could also be a good
protector,” Daemon soothed. “And I would consider it a personal
favor if you brought her with you to look at the pups. Consider it
a gift from you to me. Besides, just because your daughter sees the
puppies doesn’t mean she’ll take to any of them.” Or that any of them will take to her.
Marcus said words
that were not in keeping with the spirit of the season. Then he ate
two fruit tarts and a nutcake, wiped his hands on a napkin, and
opened his leather case, a clear indication that they were changing
the subject.
They worked steadily
through the lists of people employed by the SaDiablo family, with
Daemon mostly confirming the amount Marcus suggested for each
bonus. Neither said a word when Daemon doubled the amount of
Marcus’s bonus. After all, at this time of year, it would be rude
to call a bribe a bribe.
Marcus sighed as he
put all the papers back in his leather case. “I’ll send on the
packets to the other houses, and bring the packet for the Hall
myself.”
“And you’ll bring
your daughter?”
“I’ll bring her.”
Marcus sighed again. “You drive a hard bargain,
Prince.”
Daemon smiled. “It
could have been worse, Marcus.”
“How?”
“She could have asked
for a cat.”