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

thirty-one : of ransacking and revenge

Victoria's chambers had been ransacked and torn apart. Feathers were strewn about the room and spilling from pillows, and her dresses had been ripped brutally from their racks, silk and satin shredded like so much colourful, expensive paper. Jewelry was draped over the vanity in glittering strands of gold and silver laid alongside glimmering chunks of gems, and perfume bottles had been smashed, dripping onto the plush carpet. Her heart stuttered, her ribcage suddenly constricting, her chest caving in on itself to compress her lungs. Gasping for air, she fell onto the bed, which was now stripped and bare with its sheets and counterpane tossed to the floor.

She did not scream for her ladies' maid. If she screamed, this would turn into a disaster, a crisis, a wreck. This was not a ruin. It was a situation which she would promptly take control of. Therefore, instead, Victoria simply called for her in the genteel manner of a well-bred young lady, with what little breath she still had. "Dolores, please come to my chambers at once."

Folding her hands primly in her lap and crossing her ankles while pressing her knees firmly together, she waited for the blonde woman to enter. All the while, beneath the calm and ladylike demeanour, she was panicking, breath short and fast as her thoughts, which swarmed furiously in their mental search for the culprit. If someone had sought out money, they would have stolen the jewelry and expensive things to be fenced. But her jewelry was only broken, not missing, and her valuables while no longer intact, were still present. Therefore, there intention had been to... frighten her? To find something other than money?

The letters, she realized. She had been writing them every other day to the Queen, notifying Natasha of the progress made towards relations between Arlea and its colony as well as getting her brother to return. She stood and ran to the desk, opened all its drawers in a futile hope to find them. Finally, she found them, and felt a gasp of relief escape her lips. But no, they were spotted with ink that wasn't hers, and smelled oddly of lemon juice. She always wrote neatly, and kept her letters in the centre drawer. Someone had moved them to the right drawer, which meant...

The fire had been a distraction, perhaps. A trick to lure everyone out so that some thief, some spy, even, could copy her letters. Perhaps the queen had not even received her previous letters, perhaps her post had been stolen... Victoria had assumed that Natasha was simply too busy to reply, but now she had other suspicions. She rifled through them further, and found that the letters she had addressed to her mother—but intended for the queen—and written in a code that would appear to the reader as if they were discussing fashions and gossip, were the ones that had the ink stains and lemon juice scent. The ones that spoke of official business remained untouched. How very curious.

"My lady?" Dolores appeared at the door, then blanched as she took in the mess of the room. "Oh, my lady! What on earth has transpired here?"

"I—I don't know." All bravado was gone, and she clutched the back of the desk chair to keep from falling over. "Clearly, someone is seeking to hurt me." She swallowed, straightening with a poised smile. A false, empty one, but a smile all the same. "I'll be back to dress for dinner, Dolores. Please summon some of the other servants to assist you in cleaning up this mess. That will be all."

"Right away, my lady." Dolores curtsied.

Then Victoria left hurriedly, skirts swirling about her legs before she hiked them up in order to achieve more freedom of mobility. Propriety be damned, but she needed to rapidly leave behind the threat of even more violence looming over her. Her heart sought freedom before her mind could catch up, and she wound up standing in front of Francisco's door, rapping on it harshly before she could lose her nerve. A man who must have been his valet opened it with an obsequious bow.

"Lady Victoria Rutherford here to see you, milord," he called. She heard Francisco respond inaudibly, but whatever it was he must have commanded the servant to leave, because a moment later they were alone. The thought of being in a confined space with him—with anyone, with any man—had become unbearable, and she grabbed him by the wrist when he emerged, dragging him out into the hall. He must have sensed her need to be in control, because he walked along with her, neither protesting nor recoiling,
though her grip must have been painfully tight. When finally they left the manor's building and stumbled out into the garden, the tightness left her chest and she could breathe again.

The crash of ocean waves and chirp of birdsong and low hum of insects washed over her and brought her into a soothing calm. Francisco rubbed at his hand when she dropped it, and looked at her levelly—not as though she were a madwoman, as others might have. Not as though she were something fragile on the verge of breaking, though she felt like it. He looked at her... like she was strong and resilient and brave. Though she had not felt like any of those things in a long time. He held her gaze for a moment, before dropping it as she had his wrist—like he was sad to let it go. To let her go.

"Aren't you going to speak?" Victoria followed him when he began walking around the bubbling brook with its water lilies and carved bridges and low-hanging willow branches. "Ask me if I had some nefarious intentions in dragging you out here?"

"I think if you had some lascivious desire for me, you would have taken me into my bedroom, not the gardens..." Francisco turned around to face her. "Unless you possess some sort of secret exhibitionism? In which case I must warn you, the mosquitoes are vicious and would begin eating you alive if you took off so much as a ribbon of clothing."

"Then it is good that I intend to remain fully clothed," she retorted, though her cheeks flushed at the innuendo. Victoria had, for all her love of adventure, never done that with Connor or anyone else. To her, it was a sign of commitment, not simply another exciting experience to be savoured and discarded. It was something that bonded two people and drew them closer. She changed the subject, not wanting to think further of it. "My chambers have been ransacked."

"What?" He placed his hands at her waist—somehow knowing better than to hold her hands, somehow knowing that the movement would remind her of cuffs. "Why did you not lead with that?"

"Well, I depended on you to lighten the mood, not fret and fuss over me like a nursemaid," she countered, trying to inject some of his ever-present cheerfulness into her tone. "I think some of my correspondence has been copied."

He paled, his hands dropping from her waist as he stepped back. She saw him curl his fingers into tight fists, knuckles whitening against his brown skin. "Who would have done this? Do you suppose it could be the same person who set the fire?"

"Perhaps..." she shook her head, trying to be rid of her uncertainty and think clearly. "I have already considered that, and it seems possible that there would be two conspirators, one to set the fire and the other to search my rooms. Although their motive, I cannot quite figure out. Who on this island would want information from me? It isn't as if I've some sort of valuable possessions with me, no more than the usual items a noble lady would carry. And neither do I have any useful knowledge from the Queen, as I correspond mainly with my mother... I cannot imagine who would be so bold as to frighten me in such a fashion."

Celeste could be the culprit, which was an opinion she did not want to voice to the woman's brother. Only a woman would pay any real interest in the letters that she had written to "her mother" on the subjects of fashion and checking in with her family. Yet Celeste had been present, had run out after the fire. After all, Victoria had seen her. Unless she had had one of her underlings to do it for her... This was as much of an utter mess as her room.

"Tori?" Francisco wove his fingers between hers, a small gesture that nonetheless left her feeling more secure. "Should I inquire to the constable and ask if he has seen anything? Do you want to see if your brother, or the prince can help catch the perpetrator?"

"Yes." She steeled herself. "And I will ensure that they and whomever they work for will regret even stepping foot into my life."