“I knew you’d agree with me.”
“As his…whatever you are. His…manager?”
I nod. “I am his house steward.”
“Well, as his steward, do you happen to have control over, say, his appointments? His trips to town?”
“Oh, he won’t be coming to town. Any new acquaintances will be meeting him at his manor. And yes, I will have full knowledge of all appointments, and he has requested my aid in introducing him to the…rightpeople.”
She shifts in her seat, folding her trembling hands in her lap. “But my dear, you hardly know a soul. You cannot take this task upon yourself.”
I pretend to look ponderous. “Perhaps you’re right. I am very unfamiliar with the elite families in town. How will I suggest any proper acquaintances?”
Imogen sits upright, nearly bubbling over with poorly concealed excitement. “You are so fortunate to have me, for I am willing to help. Encourage your employer to befriend my family before anyone else, and we will act as ambassadors to Vernon’s high society.”
As gatekeepers, I’m sure she means. Just as planned. “That’s a wonderful idea, Imogen. And, you never know, perhaps once he meets you, he’ll have very little desire to engage with anyone else.”
My words have their intended effect, sending stars to her eyes. “Wouldn’t that be…ideal.”
Interrupting what I’m sure are Imogen’s daydreams of wedding bells, I rise from my chair. “I must be going. He’s expecting me back at once.”
She springs to her feet. “Won’t you tell me his title? I promise I won’t tell a soul.”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but I am sworn to secrecy. But when you meet him, you’ll see just how refined he is.”
“And when will I meet him? Will he be hosting any dinners this week?”
“You’ll be the first to find out when he does.” With a wink, I walk toward the parlor door.
Imogen’s steps shadow close behind. “At least tell me his name.”
Fingers on the door handle, I turn back to her and smile. “Elliot Rochester.”
She visibly swoons, cheeks flushing pink. “Oh, even his name sounds refined.”
“Just wait until you meet him.” Leaving her wriggling on the hook I’ve cast for her capture, I exit the parlor, laughter bubbling in my chest.
18
The walk back to thirty-three Whitespruce Lane isn’t nearly as bad as the first time, considering I’m not being harassed by wolves. This time, my shoes have managed to stay warm and dry during my entire trek up the hill, although my cloak and skirt could use drying. And my stomach could definitely benefit from Bertha’s rabbit stew, if she’s made any today.
I make my way down the path that leads from Whitespruce Lane to the manor. The view is new, considering I was originally brought to the manor blindfolded. While I had experienced the path from the other direction when I left this morning, this new perspective helps me see it from a visitor’s eyes. FromImogen’seyes.
On each side of the path lie overgrown shrubs and brambles, which at least need to be trimmed back to allow the width of wagons, coaches, or even the occasional automobile. As I approach the manor, the more serious the landscaping needs become, with downed trees and branches littering the drive, unruly plants obscuring filthy windows, ivy climbing up the walls. It looks nothing like the home of a king. In fact, one look would have me assuming the property was vacant.
At least none would guess the truth—that it houses a pack of cursed fae wolves.
Still, I need this manor to screameligible-royal-to-marry, notkeep out, no one is home.
I make a mental tally of which landscaping tasks must be prioritized as I approach the front door and push it open. The hall is empty, the manor quiet, so I make my way to the parlor. I’m so lost in my calculations, I don’t notice the king until I nearly trip over his staff.
I startle, backing up a few paces, and find Elliot sitting in his chair, facing the fire. “Sorry, Your Majesty. Or, should I say, Mr. Rochester. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“You had it right the first time,” he grumbles.
“Perhaps,” I say, making my way to the bureau, “but I should probably become more familiar with calling you Mr. Rochester so that I can address you properly when our first visitors come to call.”
He stands, planting his staff beneath his arm, and faces me, brow furrowed. “I didn’t expect you’d come back.”
