Mrs. Honeycutt laughed. It was a pleasing, silky sound, as pleasing as her smile.
The man sighed. “Nowlook what you’ve done, Hollis,” the gentleman said. “A footman is coming to fetch me.”
Hollis.Was that an English word? Marek’s English was very good, but since being in London, he’d heard words and phrases he didn’t know. Was Hollis a name?
“Oh, dear. I suppose you’ll have to go, won’t you? Don’t fret for me, sir. I shall wander around here and make new friends.”
“Wander around? Take a seat with Eliza. They’ll make space for you. I never thought in all my life that you’d be reluctant to take tea with two queens and a king. You, of all people.”
Why her, of all people?
“I’m not the least reluctant, sir, but I’m not invited to sit with the queens, and I will not be the one to break protocol and demand a chair be pulled up. You know very well how these things go, and so do I, and I’d much rather meet the people who have come so far than to listen to you complain about the cakes.”
“You mean you want to interview them all. Take my advice and keep your pen in your reticule, darling. Now is neither the time nor the place. You will sit with me. Yes, yes, here you are, my good man,” he said as the footman reached them. “Please make space for Mrs. Honeycutt.”
The footman bowed and said he would, and the gentleman escorted Mrs. Honeycutt to a table. All the gentlemen at that table stood, and Marek watched as the footman placed a chair for her. She said something with a smile, probably offering an apology, and slipped into her seat.
Marek moved again, stepping up behind a pair of servants, their silver trays at the ready. King Maksim was speaking to Queen Victoria. He looked stiff and uncomfortable, and frankly, a little green around the gills. Maybe he disliked this setting as much as Marek. It was crowded, and too many people were milling about, up and down and out of their seats. Marek assumed that he’d heard the rumors about the threats to his throne. Who could blame him for looking ill at ease? How easy it would be for someone to step next to the king and slip a knife just under his ribs. It would only take a moment to spark a rebellion, here in London, right under Queen Victoria’s nose.
Marek moved again, intending to return to his place in the back of the room. And just as he moved, he felt something shoot down his spine like the scrape of a ghostly finger. He glanced across the room...and right into the glittering eyes of Mrs. Honeycutt.
That woman was watching him.
CHAPTER FOUR
Peace talks between the Alucian and Weslorian leaders have begun in earnest, and while it is speculated that progress has been made, it is difficult to know by what measure, as the talks are cloaked in secrecy. Is it not true that peace flourishes in the light of day?
Ladies, Harcourt’s Curl Cream has been deemed superior to other curl creams, but should be applied sparingly, lest it give the hair an oily sheen. One of our most dedicated subscribers discovered how oily at a fete last week when her headdress kept slipping from her head. Her advice is to apply sparingly.
—Honeycutt’s Gazette of Fashion and Domesticity for Ladies
MR. NORMANKETTLEarrived at his desk in the United Kingdom’s foreign-secretary offices promptly at eight o’clock every morning, and every morning, he placed his hat and cloak on the coatrack, carried his lunch pail to his desk, and set it aside.
Mr. Kettle’s desk was very orderly. On one corner, he neatly stacked shipping and passenger manifests, as well as correspondence from ship captains and trade companies. On the opposite corner, he kept the reports submitted each week by the gentleman in the customs office whose rosebud lips Mr. Kettle found uncomfortably attractive. These, he collected on his noonday walks down to the docks and the Custom House.
Mr. Kettle’s occupation was to keep up with matters of foreign shipments and travel that might be of interest to the foreign secretary. It was a duty he performed with verve. Today, he pored over the newest reports until a quarter past one, at which point he put away his papers and spread a linen on his desk for lunch.
He picked up his pail. It felt light.
Every day, his wife packed bread and cheese, an apple if they were in season, or, if he was lucky, some plums. On a good day, she added dried beef or a boiled egg. But last night, he and Mrs. Kettle had had a bit of a row. She said he needed new trousers, as it was impossible to let out even as much as a bit from the ones he had. Mr. Kettle reminded his wife that they couldn’t afford new trousers on a clerk’s salary and expressed his confidence that she could find a way to let them out.
Mrs. Kettle said she had let them out as far as they would go without the seams tearing completely apart, and that really, he ate too much bread, and he had no one to blame but himself for his tight trousers.
He did love bread. He ate two loaves a day. But Mr. Kettle pointed out that if Mrs. Kettle had been a better cook, he would not have to rely so heavily on bread.
Mr. Kettle removed the cheesecloth that covered the contents of his pail and carefully laid the items one by one on his desk: two carrots, and one boiled egg. He stared with confusion at the paltry meal. He leaned forward and peered into his pail on the slim chance he’d overlooked something. He had not—there was nothing but rusted tin at the bottom.
He was still staring at the items in disbelief when a cheerful woman’s voice sang out, “Good afternoon, Mr. Kettle!”
For the love of Christ, not again. He put aside the pail, braced his hands against the edge of his desk, and glanced up. “Mrs. Honeycutt. You’ve come round again,” he said, hardly able to contain his irritation.
“I have indeed,” she said, and removed her cloak, as if she meant to have lunch with him.
Mrs. Honeycutt was a woman whose ambitions frightened Mr. Kettle. The first time she’d come—at least a week ago, though, in fact, it felt like months ago—she’d handed him her calling card:
Mrs. Hollis Honeycutt, Publisher
Honeycutt’s Gazette of Fashion and
