Of Heirs and Havoc ✔️ | Of Crimes and Crowns Book 2

seventeen : of sisters and shame

Matthew Blackmore woke to the sound of someone hammering on his door.

Typically, he might have gotten dressed hastily and waved them in, but this morning his mind was still full of the accusations Blake Rutherford had hurled at him the other day. Accusing him of abandoning his family. He shook the thoughts from his mind and turned to the issue at hand.

"Whoever it is at the door, Marcus, inform them that I do not plan on receiving visitors until noon!" he warned his valet. The man acquiesced.

Matthew rolled over in bed, putting a silken cushion over his pounding head. Though he would never admit it aloud, he had perhaps imbibed a pint too many of stout last night, but... what else was the correct course of action when the path which one's life had been on for the past five years suddenly ended? When one was being buffeted on all sides by forces attempting to force one to veer into an utterly unwanted direction? The light stubbornly trickled in through the edges of his makeshift blindfold, and he tossed it aside.

Sunlight spilled in fully now, harsh and pure, revealing all that was good and genuine, no matter how painful. The truth of the matter was that Matthew had never pictured himself as king. But that was a selfish view—for surely Natasha had never imagined, as the youngest child, that she would be queen. Is she a good ruler?, he wondered. Kind and fair, yet just when necessary?

He thought back to his childhood in Arlea, a set of memories stored in a box he had been careful to lock away these past few years. Natasha had always been sensible even at a young age, frequently preferring to use his and Donald's toy soldiers to plan some pretend war, or peering over their father's shoulder as he worked on budgets or trade deals, rather than playing with dolls or climbing trees. Yet, she had also always sought to please their parents, striving for others affection as tenaciously as a starving animal did food.

And he ached how to think of how she must have fared all these years, all alone. Entrapped by enemies on all sides, no doubt, and vulnerable. But, his shame whispered as he got out of bed and strapped on his wooden leg, who was to say that she would be better with you by her side? She had a husband now, and a child. She had a life that surely would not require the return of a long-lost, crippled brother.

"Marcus!" He called for the servant. There was no reply.

Matthew rang for him this time, yanking on the velvet cord by his bed. Still, he was answered with silence. After a moment, he dressed himself in navy trousers and a matching coat over his white muslin shirt. As he rummaged through the nightstand in search of a book to read, he found something else instead. Something he had thought disappeared forever, vanished or at the bottom of the sea. A medallion, emblazoned with the Blackmore sigil: stars in violet and white, though this engraving cast them in copper and bronze, with their motto, the highest and the brightest.

Where could it be from?

"Prince," instead came a male voice. "Might I remark on how lovely the morning is?"

It was Blake. Had he left the medallion here? Did the man seek to uproot his life so fully?

"No, marquis," he replied through gritted teeth. "You may not."

"I see you are still upset with me," Blake continued in an infuriatingly cheery manner. He strode into the room, unperturbed by Matthew's state of dishevelment: the prince's hair unkempt, his bed linens still strewn about. Blake seemed to notice none of these, or if he did, then he chose not to judge his surroundings.

"You have committed an invasion of privacy," Matthew snapped. "Not only by entering my chambers without being announced, but by leaving this inside of them."

He held up the medallion, standing fully upright now.

Blake's eyes did not widen with shock, or turn red with discovery of his actions. Instead, he merely looked puzzled. An excellent liar, perhaps?

"I have never seen such a bauble in my life, Prince," he said, a furrow forming between the lord's dark brows. "Perhaps you ought to be questioning one of your servants, rather than myself."

The man was not indignant or angry—and that realization made Matthew drop his anger as well. "Very well," he agreed. "Let us question the servants. You may prove your innocence, and I will discover the true source of this mischief. Though—what was it that you came barging into my quarters to interrogate me about anyways?"

"My sister," he said with a heavy sigh. "I fear she may be corrupted by Lord Mendoza's company."

"The governor?" Matthew asked, walking to the door.

"The younger lord," Blake clarified. "Francisco."

"Oh?" From what little he knew of Celeste's brother, he had displayed no real signs of corrupting influence, the only sign of a bad character being his tendency towards being a bit of a rake, but who was Matthew to guess when they knew each other only superficially? "Well, I'm certain you may question Francisco's servants, as I am afraid I am not very well acquainted with the man, despite my extended presence at this court for the past six years."

"I see," was all Blake said in response. His expression was unreadable, and remained so as they walked towards the kitchens.

• • •

"Where were you between the hours of midnight last night and noon this morning?"  Matthew asked his valet calmly, his hands folded on the desk in the den, where he was conducting his informal interrogation into the placement of the bauble in his chambers.

Marcus looked nearly bored, his gaze blank, gripping the bridge of his nose as he recalled. "I slept at midnight, and woke at seven, milord. Between the hours of seven and noon I have been working—the housekeeper will prove that, milord."

"Have you seen this medallion before, Marcus?" He pulled the trinket from his pocket and set it on the opulently carved wooden table; sunlight glanced off of it and sent an array of fractured beams glinting on the ceiling.

"No, milord." Marcus barely glanced at it.

His valet did not avoid his gaze, nor did he stutter or hesitate. He was perfectly calm. So why on earth did Matthew still feel a jolt of anxiety at the sight of the man? Yet there was no solid evidence to convict his servant, and so he needed to release him.

"Very well," he spoke finally. "You are dismissed. Send in the next servant."

The laundress he questioned had a similar answer for him, as did the kitchen maid. But as she left he noticed that she left a small vial of something behind on the table. Matthew held it up, examining it in the light, just as Blake entered the room. He assumed the man had finished conducting his own interviews.

"What have you there, Prince?" Blake asked curiously, leaning against the doorjamb. Sunlight tinted the marquis's dark skin and hair golden, glinting on the brass buttons of his suit; Matthew guessed the man to be of Ruidan extraction.

"A medicine of some sort, I presume. One of the kitchen maids I questioned left it behind." He pulled the cork, and sniffed it. It smelled strangely sweet, oddly familiar...

"Prince, what if it were poison? May I see it?"

Matthew obliged, feeling light-headed. He gripped the desk firmly, the knuckles of both hands turning a stark white against the golden tan he had acquired in his six years here.

"Prince, it is poison!"