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Chapter 16: A Trail of Ambition

Patience is a privilege that belongs only to those who have prepared for success.

Marquess Rupert Borghese reflected on the words of his honorable tutor, recently deceased, as he waited beneath the rising morning sun for the Crown Prince’s arrival. The early hour did not agree with him. Still less the yapping nobles who waited at his back, that mingled with howls of the hunting dogs brought by the Coldwell family.

Borghese generally preferred to be prepared for every reasonable outcome. But even after years of planning and preparation, his grandest ambition had gone up in flames when the Crown Prince turned up his nose at the Marquess's beautiful daughter, Priscilla, choosing instead to accept a barbarian half-witch as Crown Princess. After coming to terms with this betrayal, Borghese turned once more to his tutor's teachings.

Every plan requires a firm foundation to fall back on to counterattack unexpected challenges and failures.

The Marquess had scrambled to secure the power gained through his connection to Duke Hargreve and Priscilla’s previous engagement to the Second Prince. He refused to allow his investments to go to waste, choosing instead to remain hopeful of a royal union in the future.

It had long been a tradition in Lafeara for the King to take in Royal Consorts if the Queen failed to produce an heir within a year or two of marriage. While Borghese was reluctant to hold out one more year, Priscilla remained adamant that she would marry Nicholas or no one at all.

And so the father and daughter pair waited patiently, observing the new royal couple for any weaknesses they could exploit. Admittedly, Borghese had been mildly impressed when the foreign princess managed to single-handedly ostracize herself from the upper echelon of nobility. Soon after, his daughter came to him ecstatic with news from the Dowager that Crown Princess Eleanora had avoided her marital duties on the night of her wedding.

The continued tense awkwardness between the royal couple fueled the Marquess's ambition anew. A few tactfully orchestrated rumors detailing the Crown Prince's continued relationship with Lady Rosamund further widened the divide between Eleanora and Nicholas. After that, all Borghese had to do was relay this information, along with his humble offer of continued support, to Zarus—in exchange for the Pope's promised endorsement of a Royal Consort chosen by the Royal Faction.

The Divine Heir’s initial reply had been vague but agreeable, as it stipulated the Pope's continued hopes that Lafeara would not yield its consecrated throne to one contaminated by witch blood.

But everything turned on its head with the arrival of the Ventrayna Ambassador. Suddenly the royal couple who could barely stand to remain in each other’s presence were showing mutual support and even affection in public. This was followed by Ambassador Haemish's rather cunning demand for an officially supervised consummation. Even the Pope would be hard-pressed to push for an annulment or divorce in the face of such public evidence.

Priscilla reacted to the news of the marital ceremony with hysteria and outrage before becoming briefly bedridden. After recovering, she left the estate to distract herself with a bit of pleasure shopping, which resulted in the fateful encounter with Lady Maura, who soon after became Duchess of Bastalliano.

Borghese barely had time to react to the Dowager's shocking betrayal before the Church conveyed its swift and severe displeasure. First, they revoked access to Borghese slave trade routes and then severed his ties to the church-run orphanages. Borghese suspected the later decision was due to the placement of Cardinal Murdock as Bishop and head of the Church in Lafeara, but the blow to his finances stung all the same.

‘With Emperor Arius monitoring the border between Lafeara and Zarus, it would have been difficult to maintain the same route anyway. The problem is that the Church now dares to openly interfere with my interests here.’

The upper crust of Lafeara's nobility considered the term slavery as barbaric. Instead, they referred to the servants, whom they held legal ownership of, as indentured servants. The hypocrisy of this rosy perspective was laughable, given that almost no indentured servant earned enough to secure their freedom or even that of their children.

This created a market where the purchase and sale of humans as property were both morally acceptable and incredibly lucrative. While the law maintained that the ‘indenture’ must be entered voluntarily, there was more than one loophole around this, i.e., a debt incurred that the borrower had no hope of paying off or a non-violent crime that did not meet the standard of life imprisonment or the death penalty.

The legislation on slavery had been further restricted by the emergence of the "Child Protection Clause" which stipulated that children could not be bought, sold, or indentured until they reached 14 years of age, the age of maturity, and even then for only a term of four years, whereby at the age of 18 they might seek an apprenticeship or other means of employment rather than committing to a lifetime of servitude at such a young, impressionable age.

This clause was passed by the House of Lords during the reign of King Henri and Queen Catalina. Following the First Queen's sudden passing, Queen Rosalinda took up her predecessor's torch, founding numerous charity projects which established temporary homes for underaged children with parents who could neither afford to care for nor educate them. With Borghese's assistance, the church took over most of these establishments following Rosalinda's unexpected death, allowing the Marquess to monopolize and exploit this untapped source of merchandise for nearly a decade.

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Rupert Borghese's involvement in the slave trade was neither impulsive nor coincidental. Because of the financial, moral, and legal peculiarities associated with such a volatile area of trade, the founding House of Lords determined that noble oversight was necessary. During the reign of the first Havardur King, a Viscount named Julius Borghese was selected to monitor and maintain the flow and legal proceedings associated with the slave market.

Viscount Borghese quickly rose in wealth and influence through great effort and skill. He was methodical in his recording, particularly those related to fallen criminal noble families when wives and children were sold into slavery while the men of the house faced public execution. He also recorded the bloodline of every slave bride whose husband purchased her freedom and a new name. While such a lady might go on to become the matriarch of her household, she did so with the knowledge that her past record of sale remained safely secured in Borghese's personal records.

Blackmail was by far the most lucrative part of the slave trade industry, and Viscount Borghese proved a cunning investor and collector. He never threatened his clients. Instead, he offered them absolute discretion and special services, for which they were happy to pay. Over time this brand of ‘negotiable pleasure’ went on to cover far more perverse appetites, all of which were added to the Borghese’s secret register.

The family business was enough to secure the Viscount’s grandson the title of Marquess, which extended the slave trade into the House of Lords itself, where a seat was later granted. Unfortunately, after rising as far as he could, the Viscount’s great-grandson showed little interest in the business beyond the exchange of favors for political or personal benefit. The profits dwindled further in each passing generation until Marchioness Juliette Borghese, the first woman to inherit the family name and business, uncovered the hoarded registers and fainted from shock. She later shut down many of the boarding houses and child sex rings, firing and evicting nearly all of the lower nobles who had assisted her father in keeping the business afloat.

Marchioness Borghese would later go on to marry a gambling nobleman, who quickly burned through a quarter of the family wealth. Her son and heir would prove even more wasteful and promiscuous as he grew older. Because of this, Juliette did not burn the sordid business records kept by her ancestors. Instead, she entrusted their secrets to her grandson on her deathbed, where she made Rupert Borghese promise never to taint the family name with such despicable practices again.

Rupert lived much of his life avoiding the ancient ledgers out of respect for his grandmother’s wishes until a month after his wife’s death when the need to secure a secret private army first came to his attention.

Frugality and ambition rarely prove to be compatible allies.

Marquess Borghese learned a great deal from his ancestor's account books, maps, and secret journals. He quickly realized that the information contained in them was useless as a form of blackmail, as any threat of exposure would only burn him in return.

Instead, he meticulously secured a significant monopoly on the slave trade with great effort and expense, using his family name and influence when necessary. After that, the underground sex slave ring was reestablished, and the right noble families were persuaded to invest their time and social gatherings to promote its wares. By the time Priscilla made her public debut at sixteen years old, Borghese had expanded his underground business all around the kingdom and into foreign nations as well.

With the profits from his business, Marquess Borghese doubled and then tripled the size of his mercenary army by supplementing the ranks with enslaved men who could be adequately trained into decent soldiers. He offered benefits to the veteran mercenaries who trained these recruits by making them officers and building them a private brothel house of slaves in which to unwind and enjoy themselves.

To keep this army well hidden, Borghese publicly employed the soldiers as security for the two silver mines which had been part of Alana’s dowery. Other units were loaned out to members of the Noble Faction for private security, tax collection, and even border disputes.

After ten long years, the army numbered close to one thousand trained and armed mercenaries. Not enough to storm the palace gates, but more than enough to outnumber and overpower the handful of knights that would be accompanying Crown Prince Nicholas on this hunt.

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Borghese’s knuckles tensed and popped around the reins of the black gelding with white socks. He was still seething over the betrayal of Octavia and, more recently, Nicholas.

‘To think, after everything Priscilla and I did to support that boy's claim to the throne, he would insult us not once, not twice—but thrice!'

The Marquess turned towards the large gathering of nobles that had shown up to support him. Each lord was accompanied by their stewards and several mercenary guards who made up part of Borghese’s secret Shadow Army.

‘Perhaps it is time to give that boy a reminder of just how alone those who wear the crown really are.'

“The Royal Knights. His Majesty approaches!” Earl Coldwell announced as he lowered the spyglass and quickly handed it to the Marquess.

Borghese made out the first four rows of royal knights through the tube of bronze, polished wood, and glass as they pranced down the winding country road in their shiny armor and shimmering capes. Large purple banners, holstered to the saddles of the two leading knights, fluttered in the breeze with the royal family crest.

‘The self-devouring wolves. How appropriate.’

“It looks like they brought only forty knights with them,” Coldwell whispered as he leaned closer. “Wouldn’t this be the best opportunity—” The Earl fell silent beneath the Marquess’s glare and quickly cleared his throat. “Pardon, my Lord….”

“If a lesson must be taught, let it be conveyed in secret so that the student may recover their pride and strive to correct their mistake,” Borghese quoted sagely as he returned the spyglass. “My spies tell me that his Majesty means to offer a royal favor as a reward for the Royal Hunt this year. I see no reason to waste such a rare opportunity."

“A favor, you say?” Coldwell’s eyes lit up with notable greed before he scratched his neck thoughtfully. “Is that why you recruited so many nobles to join us? A royal favor would certainly prove useful to the Party—if the Crown Prince can be trusted to stand by his promise.”

“Sometimes the only way to save the student is to crush his body and pride so that his mind may be free from the arrogance of youth,” Borghese muttered darkly before glancing to where Priscilla waited in her carriage, watching the knight’s approach through a small pair of silver binoculars. “If violence must be used, it will not be done in front of my daughter.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Coldwell murmured with an apologetic head-bow. “I spoke without thinking. I was overwhelmed with concern for your family, especially Lady Priscilla—given the investigation his Majesty appears ready to bring against you.”

“That boy still needs my guidance and protection,” Borghese replied dismissively. “He just needs to be reminded of that fact.”Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

“And what about Duchess Kirsi Valda?”

A vein spasmed against Borghese’s temple as he turned to face the Earl with a cold smile. “That half-blood will never be a match for the likes of us. We have over two decades of political experience and influence between us, whereas she—is still little more than a child."

“Even so, Earl Hawthorne has made it clear that he stands in her corner,” Coldwell replied cautiously.

“Another boy who imagines himself a man.”

The Earl shrugged. “You know what they say. 'Never underestimate a Hawthorne'.”

Borghese shook his head and smiled condescendingly as he returned the spyglass. “If that saying had any merit, Percy would have avenged his father’s murder by now.”

Coldwell flinched and shifted uncomfortably, then raised the spyglass and muttered, “Ah, speak of the devil.”

The Marquess turned his gaze to where a flock of crows now circled above a sloping hill where a large party of riders galloped towards them. The easily recognizable banners of House Winifred and Hawthorne fluttered behind the respective families, followed by Marchioness Serilda of Kensington and other members of the Noble Faction.

“Is it overconfidence or inexperience that would lead Lord Percy to bring so few hunters?” Coldwell closed the spyglass and tucked it into his saddle. “The Noble Faction doesn’t appear to have recovered as quickly as we had heard.”

Borghese offered no reply as his attention returned to the approaching royal knights. A moment later, he felt an uncomfortable prickle along his neck and turned to find Earl Hawthorne smiling in his direction. The Marquess shivered and quickly looked away.

‘Bastard has his father’s eyes.’

The nobles all dismounted and bowed as the royal couple reached them.

“Long live their Majesties!” Lord Percy intoned in a commanding voice, which the nobles beside him echoed in hushed sentiment.

“A beautiful day for a hunt, your Majesty!” Borghese called out as he raised his gaze to the level of Nicholas’s hand, waiting for permission to rise. The gesture was given, and the Marquess offered the ungrateful brat a forced smile, which the Crown Prince returned with a hint of amusement.

“Let us hope the remainder of the event remains similarly blessed, Lord Borghese. I have been looking forward to a good hunt and break from daily petitions and official duties,” Nicholas commented as his gaze drifted across the gathered nobles to settle upon the Marchioness of Kensington. “Lady Serilda, I’m so delighted you could join us this year. How magnificent your outfit is. You resemble a fairy queen.”

An awkward silence followed the young monarch's words that drew a bit of color to the Crown Princess’s cheeks. Borghese glanced over Lady Serilda’s dress, an eye-catching hunter-green fabric embroidered with gold thread, onyx jewels, and black silk lace that emphasized the daring low-cut V-neck front.

‘Clever little bitch. Not only did she perfectly match the colors of the royal couple's hunting attire, but she came dressed like the whore she used to be when she strutted around as Henri’s mistress. Was this your plan, Percy Hawthorne?'

The Marquess glanced curiously towards the Earl, whose neutral expression gave away very little as he glanced between the Crown Prince and Marchioness.

“I’m so pleased you approve, your Majesty,” Serilda replied with a smile that would have stopped Borghese in his tracks in his younger days. The vixen gracefully passed the reins of the chestnut hunter to her cousin and then stepped onto the road to curtsey before the Crown Prince. “I have always treasured my memories of the Royal Hunt. Especially that memorable day when his late Majesty chased down such a beautiful white stag.”

“Ahh, yes." Nicholas cleared his throat as his hazel-blue eyes darted away from her barely-contained bosom. "As I recall, King Henri made you a pair of gloves from that stag. My father always considered you to be his lucky charm, Lady Serilda." The Crown Prince's affectionate tone and lingering gaze clearly irritated the silent Crown Princess beside him. “Perhaps the Marchioness will be my lucky charm this year?”

Muffled whispers of disapproval and alarm rippled through the nobles on either side at the Crown Prince’s rather callous behavior. Borghese masked the tickle of a laugh in the back of his throat with a cough.

‘Has Nicholas completely lost all sense—is he actually, publically flirting with his late father's mistress?’

Although Borghese was prepared to accept that the rumors of Serilda's supposed "madness" appeared to be exaggerated, in no world would any Lafearian noble tolerate the thought of a son sleeping with his father's mistress.

'Surely Percy can't be hoping for such a blasphemous union. It would only further damage Lady Serilda's reputation. Worse, it would also jeopardize any chance Nicholas has of obtaining the Pope's blessing on his coronation—' An uneasy feeling of dread settled into the Marquess's stomach as his thoughts reached their conclusion, '—which would undermine both the Crown Prince's reign and the Royal Faction's influence.'

“I'm afraid I must apologize, your Majesty,” Lord Percy interceded with a respectful bow. "My cousin has already promised me the pleasure of her companionship.”

The Marquess's shoulders relaxed with a sigh of relief as Lady Serilda returned to her cousin's side.

“Oh?” Nicholas frowned at the Earl with pointed annoyance. “But you already spend a great deal of time with the Marchioness, Lord Percy, given that the Lady has been residing at Hawthorne Manor while the Kensington Estate is being refurbished.”

Borghese nearly bit off the tip of his tongue at the reminder of the Kensington Estate that he had purchased from Countess Constance at a criminally low cost. Percy, with the Crown Prince's support, had pressured the Marquess to return the ancestral land to Marchioness Serilda only days ago—at the same price no less.

'Since I couldn't challenge either of them for a reimbursement on the military training camp I built on Berxley land—I was forced to sign the bill of sale at a loss.'

“It is my sweet cousin’s first time participating in the Royal Hunt, your Majesty,” Serilda responded with an apologetic dimpled smile as she remounted the chestnut mare. “I hope you won’t mind if I show him the ropes this year?”

“How commendable of you, dear Lady. I suppose I ought to do the same for my wife, although Eleanora believes herself to be the most capable hunter here.”

Borghese wasn't the only noble struggling to contain a smile of amusement at the strained look of resentment that passed between the royal couple. ‘So it was just a façade after all. Well, that didn’t last for very long.’ He flinched with the realization that Priscilla had no doubt witnessed Nicholas's flirtatious behavior with the Marchioness and hurriedly stepped forward to address the Crown Prince. “Your Majesty, where is Duchess Kirsi? I understood that she was to oversee security for this year’s hunt?”

'Though if she knows what's good for her, the half-blood will take my warning seriously and find something more suitable to her status to occupy herself with.'

“Ah,” Nicholas paused and turned in his saddle to scan the sloping hillsides on either side of the road. “I believe she was to meet us here?” He turned to the Prime Minister, who nodded in affirmation. “But it appears her Grace is running late.”

“How typical—for a woman." Viscount Bennet from behind Borghese earned more than a few mocking chuckles. “This is why positions of authority should not be given to those with no experience.” His voice was loud enough to draw a pointed glare from Lord Percy, who nudged his crow-black gelding forward to address the prince.

“Might I suggest we wait a few moments longer, your Majesty? Her Grace has undertaken quite a bit of responsibility in such a short amount of time. The least we could do is grant her a few more minutes.”

Nicholas sighed as he adjusted the leather tunic beneath his jacket. “Your request is reasonable, Lord Percy. Very well, there is little harm in giving the lady a bit more time to make her appearance.”

Another scathing look passed between the royal couple that did not go unnoticed by the observing nobles. Borghese could already hear the whispers of gossip stirring in the ranks behind him when Eleanora abruptly jumped down from her saddle and preceded to storm back through the line of nobles to her cousin, Lord Marco. The Crown Princess soon returned carrying a single glass and a bottle of wine, which she opened enthusiastically after reclaiming her saddle. Nicholas flinched as the cork sailed past his face and scowled in disapproval.

“Don’t worry, your Majesty,” Eleanora commented in a mocking tone as she filled the glass. “I wasn’t aiming for your face.”

‘Arrogant, abrasive, and an alcoholic. What a sad example for a future queen.’ Borghese glanced toward the nobles behind him to see a similar sentiment etched upon their faces. ‘Well, if nothing else, our brief pause will allow her Highness to humiliate herself further.' He shot a knowing look to Earl Coldwell, who sighed and shook his head in silent condemnation.

“How long will it take the Duchess to get here?” one of the Royal Faction nobles muttered impatiently.

"Donno, Bastalliano is a lot further north than the capital."

“Perhaps she is still trying to choose a dress."

"Perhaps she is sewing one? I heard she was a tailor!"

Borghese scoffed and glanced over at Percy, who appeared oddly unphased, while Serilda fussed over the Earl's mahogany-brown curls, which had become unkempt beneath the strong breeze.

Eleanora was on her third cup when the Marquess checked his pocket watch again. ‘Is fifteen minutes long enough? It certainly looks like the half-blood took our threat seriously.' He chuckled and snapped his fingers, prompting his steward to step forward with a box of cigars that were quickly passed around to the waiting nobles. "My Lords, a gift to celebrate this momentous day."

“Might as well enjoy a good smoke while we wait,” Coldwell commented as he offered to light Borghese's cigar first.

A distant rumble pulled the Marquess's frowning gaze toward the horizon as a cool breeze blew the sound of an unexpected storm in their direction. The noise grew steadily louder as the horses around them shifted uneasily. Feeling the distant tremors beneath his leather boots, Borghese whirled around. The gelding at his side jumped in startlement beneath the blast of horns that resounded over the previously quiet countryside.

A line of mounted knights swelled over the crest of the high-rising hillside, then descended towards the road in a wave of banners, thundering hooves, white and silver tabards, and glistening armor.

“What the blazes?” Viscount Bennet nearly choked on his cigar as he turned towards the encroaching tide of the army—for the hundreds of knights lined up before them could hardly be called anything less.

“That banner! It’s the knights of Bastiallano!”

Borghese sucked in a cold breath and raised a hand to shield his eyes as he confirmed the murmured statements of the nobles around him. The small figure of the half-blood was easily spotted as she rode boldly at the head of her glittering army, which continued to descend rapidly down the hill in uniform rank with no end in sight. ‘Exactly how many did she bring? This is well over the two hundred we were expecting!’

“Our patience has paid off, your Majesty!” Lord Percy called out as he left the road to mount the calm black gelding. “Her Grace is only a little bit late.” The Marquess glared after the Earl, who offered him a cynical smile in return before gesturing toward the Bastallino knights. “You should get out of the way, Marquess Borghese, before the Duchess runs you down.”

Coldwell flinched at the subtle threat and quickly grabbed Borghese’s arm as the nobles around them scattered, most hastily mounting their horses, while others abandoned their steeds and frozen stewards, who panicked and scrambled for safety, leaving behind the unhitched cart that contained all of Borghese’s prepared wine and comfort luxuries.

Borghese clenched his reins in silent fury. His attention was pulled between the tide of knights still riding towards them at a reckless pace and the proud half-blood who led them.

The Duchess wore a shiny chest plate over a stunning red dress covered in hand-sized, meticulously crafted black-metal swords that matched the crown and chainmail worn upon her head. And if her outrageous, gaudy attire weren't shocking enough, the Marquess was stunned to see that she also sported a sword, slightly smaller than the ones her knights carried.

‘Who does that half-blood think she is? How dare she ignore my warning and threaten me with her ill-gotten army. Does the bitch think she can intimidate the Royal Faction that easily? Ha! I'd like to see her try.'

The Marquess’s determination waned rapidly as the distance between his gelding and the knight's front lines rapidly disappeared. By now, the Duchess was close enough for their gazes to meet. The cold smile she offered him snapped Borghese’s pride like a twig as his survival instincts quickly took over. He spun around, shoved his foot into the gelding stirrup, and clambered up into the saddle as fast as his limbs could carry him.

A blast of cold air washed over the Marquess and nearly cost him his footing as the Duchess blurred past. Lady Kirsi reined in sharply, her skirt of miniature swords cascading across the flank of the pretty white mare that reared onto its hind legs as the Duchess turned to face the royal couple.

A billowing cloud of dust rolled over Borghese, who shivered against his saddle as the first line of knights came to a uniform halt three yards away from him. The sweat running down his neck and collar sharpened beneath an icy cold breeze he barely noticed over the rapid pounding inside his chest.

‘She-she looked like she wanted to kill me.’

“I’m delighted that you could finally join us, your Grace,” Nicholas said by way of greeting before he raised a brow and turned towards the hillside now packed with mounted knights. “You seem, perhaps—overprepared?”

“I assure you, the increase in number will not be a burden upon the Gilwren household or estate,” Lady Kirsi replied with an appeasing smile as she bowed her head over the pretty mare’s mane. “I simply wished to demonstrate the seriousness in which I hold your Majesty’s safety.”

“I see. You certainly look ready for battle.” The Crown Prince offered her a bemused grin and then shrugged. “Very well, your Grace. I am touched by your efforts—however, I can't help but feel concerned that such a vast number of knights is likely to chase away any and all the wildlife ahead of us. And that would rather defeat our purpose for being here.”

“Of course, your Majesty. I have no intention of taking the entire army into Gilwren forest. They will secure the grounds and borders while the majority will remain on standby—just in case.”

The Duchess’s ice-blue eyes turned sharply in Borghese’s direction, and the Marquess flushed with anger and alarm. Before he could retort, Earl Coldwell cut in front of him and addressed the half-blood with a polite bow.

“It is good to see that our safety is in such capable hands, your Grace. May the Saints keep you and the royal family safe.”

The Duchess pointedly ignored the Earl and turned her attention to Eleanora, who was still nursing a glass of wine. “Your Highness, I hope you have been well,” the half-blood murmured over a cordial bow.

The Crown Princess tapped her glass and studied her ex-attendant coldly. After a pregnant moment of tense silence, the princess simply flicked her reins and rode past the Duchess without a response.

“Forgive her,” Nicholas called out with a resigned sigh as he rode up alongside the Duchess. “Eleanora is in one of her moods. Come. Join me, Lady Kirsi. I need someone with a level head to keep me company.”

‘First Henri's mistress and now the half-blood?’ Borghese shook his head and scowled as the Crown Prince and Duchess rode off, followed by Captain Beaumont and Colonel Isaac. The Kensington Knights and Lord Alastair circled past the monarch to catch up to the runaway princess, leaving Prime Minister Attwood and Lord Acheron to fall into place behind the royal knights.

Marquess Borghese nudged his gelding forward to take his place behind them but was swiftly cut off by the sharp commands of one of the Bastalliano Captains, whose knights filed in sharply between the waiting nobles and the advancing royal party.

"What on earth? This is unprecedented!" Bennet protested loudly before he was forced to retreat from the rising cloud of dust that billowed behind the marching cavalry.

“I could be wrong,” Coldwell murmured as he maneuvered his horse to stand beside the seething Marquess. “But his Majesty might be actively seeking a new mistress.”

Borghese pursed his lips together and considered this for a moment. “It’s true that the Crown Prince has stopped visiting Lady Rosamund altogether of late. It’s certainly a likely possibility, given his father’s appetite for women.”

“Perhaps, we could use this to our advantage to divert any possibility of a royal investigation?”

“Hmph.” Borghese impatiently brushed a layer of dirt from his jacket and trousers. “As long as I win the Royal Favor, that is all but assured.”

‘Nicholas has already angered many of the nobility by caving to Emperor Arius's demands regarding Princess Eleanora. Choosing a Royal Consort will hold even more weight, given our tenuous connection to Zarus. Priscilla remains his best choice as the daughter of a Marquess and a representative of the Royal Faction.'

He glanced toward Priscilla's carriage, laden with chests of gowns, shoes, and accessories by which to impress the Crown Prince.

'Still, Lord Coldwell has a point. There is no way Nicholas would investigate the family of his Royal Consort, much less accuse them of committing treason. And if Priscilla were to give him an heir before that drunken barbarian can conceive, then the path to becoming Queen will be that much easier.’