Free Heart's Demand by Cheryl Holt Page B

you’ve journeyed so far, I’m assuming you do.”
    “Yes, I have funds.”
    “They will expect an acceptable wage, and there will be a small fee added for my efforts on your behalf.”
    “That’s fine. I have no idea what would be a suitable amount, so I’ll trust you to set it.”
    “I’ll have my clerk contact you about all of it.”
    “I’ll speak with him the minute he arrives.”
    She nodded so imperiously that he wondered how she’d conceal her identity for long. He rose and tipped his head to her. He probably should have been more deferential, should have performed a bow and remained standing until she’d exited, but she’d insisted she was Miss Webster, so he’d treat her as if she was.
    “Good evening,” she said.
    “Yes, thank you for coming. It has been my pleasure.”
    She was already in the hall, rushing away and calling for Miss Clementi. He hadn’t meant to scare her. Or maybe he had. The blasted woman ought to be more cautious.
    He sat in his chair, thinking, pondering. Bryce and Chase needed to keep themselves busy, as well as earn some money so they could book passage to England. They had been sufficiently trained by Valois and would be the perfect choice to watch over the precious cargo of the Morovsky heirs.
    Bryce in particular had become lethal and menacing, and with his father’s traits surging to the fore, the Princess would be plenty safe in his capable hands. Plus André was a Frenchman, a romantic at heart. He’d noted the passionate spark between the Princess and Bryce.
    As a boy, Bryce had been robbed of his own heritage, so in that regard he and the Princess had much in common. Close proximity might be beneficial for both of them. At least the Princess would be protected by a man with aristocratic blood in his veins, and Bryce was very much like his father.
    He was loyal, steady, and reliable, and the Princess would be lucky if he’d agree to take the job. She’d never have a better champion.
    And as usual, André would have his own spies in the entourage so he would be fully apprised of the Princess’s location and conduct. Information in Cairo was like gold, and he could never guess when his knowledge of Princess Morovsky’s activities might be valuable.
    She’d been stripped of title and rank and presumed she was a person of no consequence, but she was wrong about that. So long as Kristof was perched on her brother’s throne, she would never have any peace.
    He went to the door and summoned the servant who was outside.
    “Find Mr. Blair,” he said in French. “Ask him to attend me. I have a proposition that might interest him very much.”
    *   *   *   *
    “Bring them back! Are you mad?”
    King of Parthenia, Kristof Alexis Sebastiano Morovsky, threw his wine goblet against the fireplace, and it shattered quite effectively. He rounded on his chief advisor, Dmitri Romilard.
    “There are rumors spreading,” Dmitri said. “We must nip them in the bud.”
    “What rumors?” Kristof demanded.
    “People are claiming Katarina, Nicholas, and Isabelle were murdered.”
    “How ridiculous! They’re in Egypt with our spy, Pippa Clementi.”
    “The gossips insist they’re buried in the woods behind the palace. There are stories circulating about a contingent of guards riding out in the middle of the night. Supposedly they were pulling a covered cart that was surrounded by gravediggers.”
    “Who is saying it?” Kristof bellowed. “Who? Who?”
    “It’s being whispered in every tavern and shop.”
    “And who is the purported killer of the Morovskys?”
    “You,” Dmitri responded without hesitation.
    At the reply, Kristof was so incensed that little red dots formed on the edge of his vision, and he wondered if he was about to suffer an apoplexy.
    “Name the lying miscreants who have disseminated this tale, and I will cut out their tongues while the rest of this disloyal court observes how my wrath rains down.”
    For emphasis, he pounded his fist on