Soundless footsteps raced across one of the few carpeted hallways in the manor as Francisco, with his hair ruffled and clothing rumpled, made his way over to the meeting spot that the men had agreed on for their clandestine gathering. Blake and Matthew were assembled by three wingback chairs when he entered the library, surreptitiously checking behind the stacks for prying eyes and ears. He wished he could have locked the door but it would arouse too much suspicion.
A shaft of moonlight spilled through one of the circular skylights and illuminated the men's faces. Blake looked calm and unfazed as always; Matthew, leaning against a shelf with his always unreadable expression, black hair sleek and pale face statuesque, looked like the very picture of the debonair prince that he was. The two of them exacerbated Francisco's feelings of dishevelment but it had been for a good cause.
Yes, as he remembered the joy on Victoria's face, it certainly had been. Like lighting the fuse and watching it burn and come alive, untameable and lethal and so very beautiful. He felt so very privileged, to be in the presence of her as she overcame her fear. As she came alive and forged herself back together, weapon in hand, a warning in her deadly gaze to anyone who wanted to attack her. Even if she could protect herself--he still wanted to protect her from Celeste. He had to make this choice, had to decide if his manipulative, bloodthirsty and power-hungry sister, was worth more than the kindred spirit he had met in Victoria.
"Go away if you plan to be entertaining inappropriate thoughts of my sister in my presence," Blake ordered, casting a look of thinly veiled contempt over Francisco.
Open-mouthed in surprise, both Matthew and Francisco looked at him in surprise. "How could you possibly guess that I was thinking of her?"
"Of course I know," Blake retorted, gesturing for Francisco to take a seat at the table, which bore several quills, ink pots, and of course, the will. "You have that ridiculous look on your face. Love makes fools out of men."
"And I suppose the two of you are already fools, so you have no need of love?" Francisco jibed, picking up a quill and dipping it ink. A drop splattered onto the table, and he wiped it away impatiently with his shirtsleeve.
Denigrating comments and taunts had no effect on either of them, simply bouncing off as if the two men wore armour. "Sign the will, Francisco."
By Arlean law, for a will to be altered, there was the need for a witness who was of good moral standing in Arlean society (Blake), a representative of the Arlean law (usually a barrister, but a prince, they had supposed, was a more than adequate stand-in, so Matthew had been enlisted) and a male member of the family to whom the will belonged (Francisco). Matthew and Blake had already signed: the marquis's signature was simply a B followed by an incomprehensible flourish, while the prince's writing was crisp and dark against the white page, likely honed from years of being a royal and signing official documents. Francisco signed his name, added the date at the bottom of the page, and Matthew stamped it with a makeshift royal seal--which was really a bronze medallion bearing the Blackmore insignia. It was finished. Signed, sealed, and completed--so why was there such a sense of incompleteness? A feeling that no matter what they did, it would not be enough. That they had not thought far enough ahead, some hitch in the plan would be tugged on and unravel their whole scheme...
Yanking the laces of his sleeve out of the inkpot, he stoppered the glass bottle with its cork and turned to look at the two men. "Shall we go hide this, then?"
Even as he spoke the words, Blake interrupted him, a frown on his face. "We ought to make a copy of it, don't you think? And hide it somewhere that your sister would really think to look. That way, she would think she has already outsmarted us, keeping her off of her guard."
The sigh that escaped Francisco's lips was reluctant. "I will admit that it is a good idea."
Of course, the Marquis would take it as a chance to brag, displaying white teeth against a hue of skin a tad darker than his own. "Then, please recommend a suitable hiding place for the document."
He racked his brain for a moment, before remembering. "Follow me," Francisco ordered, standing up from his seat and leading them out of the library, and into the dark night.
• • •
Rain sleeted down the windows, and Francisco was grateful for the roar of the flames in their seldom-lit brazier. They were gathered by the fireplace in the parlour, watching the storm rage outside, thunder and lightning and ocean meeting in a fatal struggle. Mugs of some hot drink, not mulled and spiced wine as he was used to but something else, were clutched in their hands. Matthew and Blake were recounting the night's adventures in hushed tones; Francisco kept watching the waves pound against the shore before dropping the curtain and closing out the light.
They had stored the document in an old, half-buried treasure box lined with oilskins to keep out water and salt and rot, where Celeste and Francisco had kept shells and other trinkets as children. It was now abandoned but still in fairly good shape--thankfully, no animals had tried to make a home of it yet. The ink on his sleeve and a few well-placed hints would alert his sister to the secret soon enough. As for the genuine copy of the will, it had been placed into a cleverly disguised location in the stable, where his sister never ventured because she feared horses (and likely because animals and small children found themselves distressed in her presence more often than not).
"Well done, gentlemen," Blake cheered, toasting them with his tumbler of amber liquid in hand. He and Matthew easily tipped it down, but it burned Francisco's throat and made his eyes water as he gave a searing cough.
"Have you never had whisky before?" Blake eyed him with a disbelieving, curious look.
"It is an Arlean invention," Matthew interjected. "The Arleans did not force their customs and food upon Filipians--only their governance."
The words made Francisco bristle. He had always thought of himself as purely Filipian--it was his home, where his heart and soul rested, where his childhood was entrenched and where his family was. Although, what kind of family did he really have? One filled with secrets and lies, where he needed to enlist the help of outsiders in order to alter his father's will and take down his sister for hurting his beloved. If he had a family, it was certainly the most dysfunctional Francisco had ever encountered.
He lifted his glass, the crystal sparkling in the firelight like lightning. "Pour me another whisky. I foresee a long night ahead for all of us."