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

thirty-three: of death and dukes

Francisco dashed through the halls, desperate to meet a soul that was not his sister. He wasn't sure how exactly he might react if he did encounter Celeste, but he was certain it would not end well. It would end bloodily, with copious amounts of murder and cursing. And he had no time for such violent antics, not now.

Not when the life of the girl he loved was at stake.

"Father!" He called out, running up to the governor. Relief overtook his body in waves as he clapped his hand on the man's shoulder. Surely, his father would make this all right.

But no... Francisco seemed to place an undeserved amount of trust in all of his family members, because his father turned and drew his dagger, a jittery, paranoid look coming into his eyes. "Who is it that—Francisco?"

His eyes focussed on his son as though he were looking at an enemy, a foreign invader that had intruded on the safety of his home and needed to be annihilated.

"Father," he repeated. "Father, it's me. Are you quite alright? You seem rather... disconcerted."

His father's grip on the blade loosened, and he slid it back into the sheath at his hip. Francisco saw his body relax, unbending, and seized the opportunity to steer him to the study where he worked. Up close, he noticed the grey in his father's hair overtaking the black; the sagging in his face and wrinkles by his mouth that had not been there before; the way his hands shook as he pushed open the doors to the study.

"I am... fine." There was a wheeze in between the words that made him think otherwise, but Francisco said nothing, instead helping his father into his chair. "It is... good that you are... here. Bring me... my tonic, would you? It is in the cabinet to your left."

He located the glass bottle and brought it to his father, opening it for him. The sunlight shone on the liquid's pearlescent surface in a familiar glint—too familiar. Recalling vaguely that Matthew and Blake had informed him of his father's near-poisoning a while ago, he wondered if that gleam was what poison looked like. But no—the moment passed and it faded. Nothing was wrong with the tonic. His father was surely aging due to pressure of running a colony that was quickly rebelling against him.

Paranoia was overtaking him, and he needed to find some way to stop it. Else he would forever be mistrusting even those closest to him—especially those closest to him.

"No, not that one!" His father snapped, shoving it back across the desk. The glass decanter skidded across the surface, nearly falling to the floor and at risk of splintering into a thousand glittering pieces, before Francisco caught it. "Sit down."

"Father?" His paranoia was warranted, it seemed. "Father, what is the matter—"

"Sit. Down. Francisco." Never has such thunder flashed in his father's eyes, such fury in his furrowed brow. All vestiges of weakness or illness were gone from his countenance; he was once more virile and upright. "You will definitely need to hear what I have to say. And close that blasted door behind you. I don't need anyone else hearing this."

Francisco reluctantly obliged, though he would much rather run out the door and leave whatever problems his father might present him with for another day. "Tell me the truth, then. Spit it out."

He sank into the leather armchair, now face-to-face with the governor. And what a face it was—haggard, tired, jowls drooping, the once proud visage now worn down too soon by age, stress, and... poison?

"This matter is regarding the succession of the island's governance. This cannot last much longer. The Arleans were so close to returning our island to the Filipias, were it not for the..." he clenched a fist, shook his head. "We could have been Filipian once more, not ruled from afar by the North. The queen was reasonable, yet I know not why she changed her mind so that her sister could not have the power to rule the Sleeping Island once more. The people are hungry for change, for revolution. And I fear they may devour us in the process. Your sister..."

He slammed that fist onto the desk with a snarl, seeming more like an animal than a man. Francisco might have jumped back, had he not been so used to dealing with wild horses.

"Your sister is inheriting the duchy. Her and your blasted mother have connived, have conspired... Celeste will become the Duchess of Ashbrook, my son, when your mother and I are dead. She has forever altered the chain of succession, and for what? Matthew has been here five long years, and she has yet to snare a prince or an emperor or a king. Why is she so hungry for power? Why could she not simply be happy with a lord, simply as an aristocrat?

"That girl will be the death of me, and literally. That tonic is poison. My own daughter has been poisoning me!" His voice raised to a fever pitch, like the peak of a storm. "I will not stand for it.  I cannot let her take everything from me. She has taken my health, my lineage, but I will not let any more be taken into her grasp. Promise me, Francisco. As my only son, promise me."

"Father..." he tried to breathe, to speak. "What... what can I do?"

"The will." His father's eyes burned with a supernatural conviction. "I need to alter the will, and I need you to sign it and put it somewhere safe. Somewhere your sister will never find. Be my witness, and in the will I shall send your sister to a Seralian labour camp after my death—I shall restore you to your rightful place as Duke of Ashbrook before the riots tear this place apart."

Francisco took the pen from his father with shaking hands. Could he do it? Could he turn his back on, and betray his blood relative? His own sister? Yet... what sister was she? She had attacked the woman he loved. She was constantly manipulating him into doing her bidding. She viewed the whole world as nothing more than a chessboard for her to manipulate at will.

He picked up the pen, and signed.

• • •

"Blake, I'm afraid I require your assistance." Francisco had not realized how painful to his pride, how very scathing the words would feel against his puffed-up sense of masculine dignity. To admit to a man whom he hoped would soon become his brother-in-law that he needed his help was too humbling. "If, of course, you and His Highness can draw yourselves away from your scintillating card game."

"What is it? Is it my sister?" Blake was on his feet in an instant, his hand thrown down on the table and splayed out for his companion to see.

The prince, Matthew, frowned down at his cards. "You could have won! Why stop playing?"

"Perhaps I find my sister more important than any game, and would rush to her aid immediately at the sign of slightest trouble." Blake gave him a stern look as the prince heaved himself to his feet with the help of a cane that, over the years, had been the man's constant companion. It was as much a part of him as any limb, so much so that Francisco could not imagine him without it.

"Well, that, to me, is rather infantilizing. Don't you think your sister is an independent entity who requires the assistance of no man to solve her troubles?" Matthew drawled lazily, tapping his cane against the ground. Despite the carefree tone with which he spoke, the man's gaze was far from relaxed, displaying a sense of... something Francisco had witnessed in himself too many times. Shame. Disappointment in oneself; the wish that one could be better and more deserving.

"What a modern, progressive view, Your Highness. One that I would take up, and one I fear my sister has taken up. But your sisters are all queens, and married besides. Mine—impetuous, a lady who refuses to be one, whom I need to look out for." Blake met Francisco's eye with a steely warning.

Francisco levelled a similar look back at him. Potential brother-in-law or not, the man's attitudes towards his sister were chafing. Not because they restricted his time with Victoria, but because they disrespected her strength. "You speak of her as though she were some misbehaving pup that needs to be watched, in order to ensure that she does not make a mess of the carpet."

Clearly, Francisco had said the wrong thing. "You have no idea, Duke, of what my sister and I have been through. None. Do not presume to lecture me in regards to how I ought to protect my sister."

"Perhaps," continued Francisco nonchalantly, though his heart pounded, "you ought to teach her how to protect herself."