The kitchens were hot and bustling when he pushed through the doors—filled with the smell of roasting meats, sticky dough, and butter. Pans clattered, cooks shouted orders, and flour dusted the air.
“Where’s Monsieur Giroux?” Cedric barked.
Every head in the room turned toward him in unison, their handsfreezing mid-task.
A man with dark hair and a slim build turned from the back of the kitchen, stabbing a long, gleaming knife into a wooden block. The Chef de Cuisine glared across the room. “This is my kitchen, Captain. You’ve no business storming in here.”
Cedric approached with calm, measured steps. “We need to talk immediately, and that’s an order,” he said, his tone leaving no room for debate.
Something must have convinced the man, because the chef pushed from the counter where a cooked duck glistened under the morning light.
“Fine. Five minutes, and that’s all,” he grumbled.
Cedric motioned him to step outside into the small courtyard littered with chickens pecking at the dirt. Some servants glanced curiously at them as they pushed wagons full of bags of flour or barley, but he led him far enough away to avoid prying ears.
“Who made the meal for the prisoner this morning?” Cedric asked, his voice low.
The chef blinked. “Prisoner? I did not know we even had one.”
“You didn’t?” Cedric pressed.
“I was not informed, Captain,” Monsieur Giroux said, his brow pinching. “This is news to me.”
Cedric’s stomach tightened. The man did not have the telltale signs of deceit. There were no over-controlled movements, discrepancies between words and body language, or self-soothing gestures. Either the chef was a practiced liar, or he was telling the truth.
Cedric trusted the latter.
“Then who took food down below?” he asked.
The chef’s frown deepened. “I don’t know. None of my staff mentioned it, and I certainly didn’t order anyone to send food there.”
Cedric held the chef in his grim regard as his skin prickled under his jacket.
Someone had moved through the kitchen unseen.
Chapter twenty
True to his word, Cedric had increased Nin’s security detail, and with it, her freedom withered. She caught another “illness” and was not permitted beyond her chambers.
Nobles started whispering in her absence. The rumors slithered past her bedroom doors, of a fragile princess confined to bed. If this continued, they would start seeing her as weak and sickly. And Nin refused to be the reason Princess Marianne lost favor within the court. It would be deeply insulting, considering the princess’s care for her brother. Nin must repay her better than this.
After a quiet week had passed with no signs of an assassin, Cedric relented and allowed her to attend only the necessary gatherings.
One evening, on her way back from dinner, she caught sight of one of Princess Adelina’s servants speaking in low tones with another mousy-haired servant she recognized but couldn’t name. Nin slowed her steps, turning just enough to linger near a window, pretending to admire the view while she strained to listen.
She caught fragments—
“The delivery… under the palace…”
Then both servants fell silent. Their faces blanched. After a charged pause, they scattered in opposite directions, disappearing down separate corridors.
Something was wrong. A cold certainty settled in her gut—and her gut had kept her alive long before Cedric ever had.
After Lucille blew out all the candles and retired to her rooms, Nin lay awake in her bed for an entire hour. She waited, her mind a knot of anticipation and dread, as the golden clock on the mantel marked the passing minutes in the silence.
Bijou stirred when she swung her legs over the bed. Her head tilted as if questioning where she was going. Nin grabbed a letter opener and donned her robe.
“Stay here,” she whispered to the curious dog. “Guard the room while I’m gone.”
