Stuart blinked at me. “You would do that, my lord?”
“Of course.”
Stuart looked skeptical as he resumed his work. “I’ll manage. But thank you.”
He paused in the unpacking to pull out a suit of deep purple. “This just arrived from the tailor. I think it will do nicely for tonight’s dinner.”
My eyes swept over the outfit with approval. “The duchess alluded to special guests. Any idea who they are?”
Stuart shrugged. “So long as it isn’t Lord Boulliard, I could care less.”
“Lord Boulliard?”
He waved a hand dismissively. “Yes. A very serious man who visits the duke often. Well, he used to, at any rate. Last time he was here, he met with the duchess. Meanwhile, Emmett …” He paused, shaking his head. “Well, it hardly matters, does it?”
I narrowed my eyes at the flush creeping up Stuart’s neck. I made my voice stern, making it clear that I wasn’t going to take any nonsense or backtalk from him. “Stuart. What about Emmett?”
He scowled, likely annoyed with himself for the slip. “Nothing to do with you, my lord.”
“No, but if it means something that could help Maxwell find his brother, you owe it to the family to speak up.”
He squinted at me. “It’s likely nothing of consequence anyway. I saw him venture into the spy post outside the dining room.”
“So, you know about that spy post.” I crossed my arms and shook my head. “Rather observant, aren’t you?” I leaned forward. “Do you have any idea what he overheard?”
“Of course not. I’m an employee of the family, and it’s none of my concern.” He gestured to the suit. “I can be back in a few hours to help you change, if that’s all.”
I grinned. “Yes, savor the anticipation. It’s been too long since you’ve helped me out of my clothes.”
Stuart sighed, lifting the basket of used clothing and heading for the door.
I cocked my head as he neared the threshold. “Say, Stuart, just who is this Lord Boulliard?”
“An expert in the occult,” Stuart called back over his shoulder as he disappeared.
I frowned as I slumped back into my bed, eyes finding the bare ceiling. “Occult,” I murmured. “What is it with this family and the occult?” I blinked, wondering what Emmett had wanted to overhear. More about belief in life after death? What he’d intended to overhear at that spy post could have been more important to understand, for my purposes, than what he’d actually gleaned from the subterfuge. I would need to understand Emmett’s interest in that particular conversation a little more clearly if I was going to get to the bottom of things.
The dining room was already buzzing with conversation when I strode in. All of the guests were seated, including Violetta, who looked pale and distracted. I would have liked to sit near her to ask about the list, but those chairs were occupied. Maxwell noticed me and waved me over, but I pretended not to see him, instead making my way to a seat between Zachariah and Ambrose. I glanced up at Maxwell across the table to find a wounded expression. I sent him a smile to assuage some of my guilt, and he seemed reassured by the gesture, for he brightened considerably and nodded before Cecelia stole his attention.
I noticed two empty seats beside the seat of honor. “Is your father joining us?” I asked Ambrose.
Ambrose glanced at the empty seats with a scowl. “No. My father wants nothing to do with one of tonight’s guests.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Don’t mind him,” Zachariah said from my other side, he leaned into me, voice conspiratorially low. “The answer to the hard question is Istria.”
Question? Istria? That was a country, but why was he bringing it up? I frowned, but before I could ask what he meant, Flora swept into the room, positively beaming. “I am so pleased to have two distinguished guests joining us for our meal this evening.” She shuffled aside as a woman stepped into the room.
Zachariah gasped beside me. The woman wore a gold suit of armor with a train of gold chainmail that tinkled along the hardwood floor as she walked, a veil of the same chainmail dripping over her face. She rounded the table and took the chair to the left of the seat of honor with a sweep of her train, the chainmail only permitting her to perch on the chair. Her gold lips were pulled into a smug smile, while her red hair spilled back over her shoulders like a sea of blood.
“So lovely,” Flora gushed as the woman drew her veil back.
“How are you able to sit in that armor?” Melbourne asked, squinting.
The woman smiled. “The back is leather from the shoulders down, although you can hardly tell it’s not more armor unless you get close.”
Ambrose sniffed. “An apt metaphor for her trade.”
