“Yes,” Caroline agreed. “And don’t mind Beck. He’s happy to be the host—it will give him something to complain about.”
“Ha. As if I were lacking in topics for complaint with the likes of you two in my house again,” he muttered.
“Beck will get a proper tree, and we’ll do the rest,” Caroline said brightly.
“What the devil is apropertree?” Beck asked, annoyed.
Hollis saw her opportunity and stood. “I’ll leave you to explain it Caro,” she said. “Come pay a call to Pappa today, and we’ll make the list. He’ll be thrilled to see you.”
“Naturally. Everyone is always thrilled to see me,” Caroline said without the slightest hint of humility. But that’s why Hollis loved Caroline—she was a confident woman who said what she was thinking.
Hollis came around the table and hugged Caroline, who kissed her cheek, then Beck, who complained again that she was “hugging willy-nilly with no thought to the comfort of it,” but squeezed the arm she’d put around his chest.
For all his bluster, Beck loved her like a sister and he always—always—did what they desired.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Lord Iddesleigh of Mayfair, notorious for his proclaimed dislike of soirees whilst being one of the most frequent guests to all, is planning a gathering to install a decorative Christmas tree in his drawing room. It is reported that the tree comes from the Thetford Forest in Norfolk, with a girth so large that his lordship has been forced to move his beloved armchair from directly before the hearth to make room.
While the size of the tree and the space it requires precludes sending invitations to all of Iddesleigh’s friends, it has been whispered that one eligible lady from the north will be in attendance, having received permission to remain in London for the winter from her formidable father.
Ladies, the most attractive of Christmas wreaths is made of holly, yew and evergreen, decorated with pine cones and, if you can spare it, apples.
—Honeycutt’s Gazette of Fashion and Domesticity for Ladies
THEYWEREHURTLINGtoward a peace agreement with terms that were hardly favorable to Wesloria, terms that seemed so lopsided, in fact, that one British official had urged Dromio and Van to reconsider the allowances they’d granted in the name of the king. The Alucian ministers and the Duke of Tannymeade had stared in disbelief when Van agreed that Wesloria would reduce its grain exports by a very small percentage, designed to allow Alucia access to markets.
“Is that the king’s wish?” Osiander demanded after the meeting. “It flies in the face of everything we agreed before leaving St. Edys.”
“His perception of the negotiations has changed his opinion,” Dromio said with a shrug.
“Then perhaps he ought to attend the negotiations himself,” Osiander snapped.
“Calm yourself, sir,” Lord Van said coolly. “The king has an ague. He can hardly negotiate from a position of strength if he is sniffling and sipping hot tea.”
“What is happening is unacceptable,” Osiander said.
Dromio smirked. “Then perhaps you’d like to question his thinking yourself?”
Osiander hesitated, no doubt wondering how, exactly, he would question the king. And in that brief hesitation, Dromio had slid into another conversation, complaining about the British arbiter.
It was baffling to Marek and, apparently, to Osiander, who continued to look as if he was quietly fuming.
When the day concluded, the Weslorian delegation returned to the Green Hotel, and there, in the entrance, Osiander confronted Dromio and Van again in their native tongue. “I want to attend the next meeting with the king. You have given away everything Wesloria holds dear and gained nothing in return.”
Dromio’s brow drifted upward with surprise. “You think peace with Alucia is nothing?”
Lord Van sighed and shifted his gaze to a window. “He is the king, Osiander. It’s his decision to make, and this is his wish.”
“How do we know his wishes other than to hear the two of you tell them?” Osiander asked. “Why doesn’t he meet with all of us?”
“We told you,” Dromio said curtly. “He is ill. As always.”
Osiander’s gaze narrowed. “All I have ever heard the king say is that he wants Wesloria to prosper. Wesloria will not prosper with no industry or trade.”
Van sighed. “You exaggerate.”
“Do I?”
