Delicious Deception

Chapter Two

Gutterblight was an old slur meant specifically for people from Blienau. Jenkin had heard it before, of course, but only from the lowest and meanest of the servants whom he worked with.

Leander whirled around and stormed out of his own bedchambers, the sound of his footsteps echoing furiously toward the gym. Jenkin remained staring forward at the space Leander had vacated as Shang watched him expressionlessly before quietly, and almost gently, closing the door.

***

Jenkin had taken a few hours off, something he'd never done in his entire life except for the time he'd sprained an ankle carrying a rather large painting of a foxhound into Leander's quarters. In his own bedroom, he paced back and forth, his mind a whirlwind after the initial daze of what just happened had worn off. Although those who didn't know him well often felt Jenkin was almost as unflappable as Shang, this couldn't be further from the truth. The truth was that he simply took longer than most to process what he was feeling, and what he was feeling was anger: anger and an ugly, burning desire for revenge that he'd never in his life felt before, not even when he was so horribly bullied. He didn't understand what was happening, this sudden flood of emotion, but he understood he needed to act. Already a plan, a wicked kernel, was starting to form in his mind.

Leander might have been a prince, but he was also a man with a voracious appetite—and Jenkin knew just how to use that to his advantage. Jenkin had always loved watching Leander eat past his limits, and he'd always loved the moaning wreck it made him, despite the fact that he had never had any desire to see the prince hurt, and certainly never by his own hand. Today was different, however. As the word "gutterblight" circled in his head, Jenkin realized with a little surprise and a small undercurrent of shame that he did want to hurt Leander.

Oh, not permanently; nothing so horrible as maiming His Royal Highness, but something...something karmic; something that Leander brought on himself. His thoughts churned like a tempest, a maelstrom of duty, resentment, and an unexamined twinge that gnawed at him and tried to get him to listen to his emotions and parse out why he was feeling this way, but he deftly ignored that last bit.

After dinner, he'd returned to his duties, moving through his tasks with mechanical precision, polishing silver buttons and brushing off Leander's dinner jacket, each movement a study in restrained efficiency, his darker emotions entirely hidden. This was something he'd gotten good at due to the bullying in his childhood.

There had been a day when Leander had been at his studies and wasn't around to protect him. He'd been set upon by several young footmen-in-training, who pushed him to the ground, swore, and spat on him. He'd long recognized that crying had only ever made things worse for him during those moments, and this time, he tried something new—imagining his emotions as a great machine cranking to a stop, its rusty gears clunking to a halt. To his surprise, it had worked wonders. It was a lot less fun to bully a machine than a pantywaist, after all, and these days, he made sure the gears were well-oiled.

"Is there anything else you require, Your Highness?" Jenkin asked as he finished, his tone devoid of emotion as Leander prepared for sleep.

"Nothing," Leander muttered, avoiding Jenkin's gaze in the ornate dressing mirror. "Good night, Jenkin."

"Good night, Your Highness." Jenkin bowed, the gesture immaculate yet devoid of any warmth. As he left the room, the door closing with a hush behind him, he could not help but feel both the sting and satisfaction of an invisible barrier erected.

That night, Jenkin perched on the edge of his bed, turning the plan forming in his mind over and over. Ever since Leander had returned from the front, he'd been different. Quicker to frustration, harsher in his judgments. The war had hardened him, and Jenkin understood that. But understanding did not remove the hurt. "Perhaps Your Highness might enjoy a special treat," he mused lowly aloud, a dangerous glint in his eye. "A few rare delicacies to tempt the palate." His heart hammered against his rib cage with the thrill of his scheme, even as guilt gnawed at its edges. He could do it. He could turn Leander's voracious appetite against him, exacting his own form of justice while potentially humiliating the prince before the entire court. It was petty, of course, but hadn't Leander's cruelty warranted some sort of retribution?