“My employer has a soft spot for wolves,” I say. “As you can imagine, the fae differ from humans in their feelings about nature.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Mrs. Aston says with a chuckle. “It’s so hard to remember these things, Mr. Rochester. When I’m not looking at those ears of yours, you appear nothing but a gentleman.”
He grunts a reply, regaining a handle on his composure.
Mrs. Coleman leans toward him. “It hasn’t slippedmymind once,” she says, then addresses the rest of the table. “It’s easy for me to recognize the fae and understand their ways. My first husband was fae, after all. And a king at that.”
From her seat next to me, Ember snorts a quiet laugh.
Mrs. Aston puts a hand to her chest. “Is that so? Which king?”
Mrs. Coleman’s proud smile falters. With a flutter of her hand, she says, “Oh, it was long ago, well before the unification. He died in the second war.”
Mrs. Aston and Mrs. Davidson offer sounds of condolence.
Maddie Coleman turns back to Elliot. “I know many fae of great importance. Queen Evelyn and I are practically family. I was childhood friends with her and her sister, the renowned seamstress and fashion designer, Amelie Fairfield.”
I’m surprised by her mention of Amelie. I can’t imagine the two ever being acquainted. “You must have spoken to her since she’s been in town, then?”
Mrs. Coleman’s face whips toward me. “Pardon? Who do you mean?”
“Miss Amelie,” I say. “She’s currently in Vernon.”
She pales, then wordlessly sips her wine as if I hadn’t spoken.
Ember lets out a quiet giggle. “I guarantee they arenotdear friends,” she whispers to me.
Mrs. Coleman turns back to Elliot. “Speaking of important fae, my daughter says you are of noble fae blood. Might you oblige us with insight into your lineage?”
Imogen burns her mother with a scowl, but the older woman pays her no heed and simply grins at Elliot over her dinner plate.
Elliot is silent for a few moments, eyes unfocused before he calmly states, “No, I will not share that information.”
Not getting the hint, Mrs. Coleman places a hand on Elliot’s forearm. “Oh, come, Mr. Rochester. I hope you can trust us to keep whatever secrets you may carry. Remember, I am much acquainted with the ways of fae.”
Elliot snatches his arm from her touch, eyes going steely.
Saints, this is what I was afraid of. “Mr. Rochester is here on private matters and intends to keep them that way.”
Imogen swivels toward me, eyes narrowed to slits. “Why is it you keep answering for him, Miss Bellefleur?”
“As his steward, I have his best interests at heart.”
“At heart, you say?” Lifting her wine glass to her lips, she takes a dainty sip. “If you aren’t careful, one might get the impression you know him better than you ought.”
I open my mouth, but Elliot speaks first. “And how ought she know me?”
Imogen’s lips curl into cruel grin as her eyes lock on mine. “Far less intimately than she’d know a viscount.”
Silence and sound crash over me at once, the wordviscountechoing in my head.
“Viscount?” Mrs. Aston says, turning to look from me to Imogen. “Does Miss Bellefleur know a viscount?”
Imogen’s gaze continues to burn into me. “Sometimes I wonder if she’s known many.”
The eyes of the dinner guests slowly turn toward me, and in them I feel the eyes of others, those not present but in my mind.
The leers. The jests.
