The compliment brought a warmer blush to Chloe’s cheek and she tucked a stray strand of black hair behind her ear. Despite Clover’s general distain for Northam’s elite, she took a certain amount of pleasure in designing them extravagant attire. She often told herself it was to take their money and turn it against them, but that was only partly true. The excitement was short-lived, though, when Elora’s alluring voice drifted into the room like a warm summer breeze. And the Terril heiress played the part of a high-class lady with an effortlessly that was astonishing to Chloe – the easy transition that the woman could make was a skill that the spy longed to possess herself. She was clever, but not to the point of Elora’s skill. But, as she watched them, Clover began to suspect that something else was keeping her attention. A wry smile tugged at her lips.
Glittering emerald eyes held the molten gold gaze of the stunning twin before her. The military graduate held a devastating beauty, captivating. Warmth slid up her arm beneath the fur and thick blue wool, causing a contrasting shiver to slither down her spine. At her words, Elora laughed merrily, eyes twinkling with amusement. A gentle warmth filled her cheeks, running along her high cheekbones that appeared so perfectly sculpted.
“Only men call powerful women controversial. It takes another woman to truly appreciate it.” Elora practically purred, all the while Clover visibly rolled her eyes as she stood a step behind Maria Belvedere. The Terril flicked her hand slightly, as if waving off every single man in the Northam military. Clover let the smirk slide off her face as she watched the interaction with hidden amusement.
“Well, that is just it, darling,” a pause as she looked out the window and at the individuals that strolled casually by the shop, some even casting a glance at the three women inside, “they’re guessing at all kinds of things that will happen at the wedding of the year.” Jade eyes flicked back to hers, suddenly. Something sparked inside of them, bright and almost dangerous. “But I suspect none of them are true, considering the secrecy with which your brother is maintaining around the affair.” Elora ran her gaze over the woman again, smiling on one half of her mouth- nearly a smirk but far more attractive without the condescending air that typically accompanied that specific grin.
“Though, having officially met you, I can’t say that the mystery won’t be worth it.” The smirk lingered as her bright gaze captured Maria’s once more. She held it for longer than was polite, lingering and promising. Abruptly, her attention turned to Chloe, who resided to the left of the striking new acquaintance. “I’ll come back tomorrow, to settle the details of the dress to be made with that gold fabric. Perhaps it will be just the thing to wear to the Belvedere wedding.” Fire illuminated the green of her irises as she took a step away from the pair. Consideration returned to the one with eyes like gold. “I am grateful I met you before the big day, Maria. I know Miss Paice will make it so not a single person there will be able to keep their eyes off you.” She turned and headed towards the door, pausing right before opening it. “Yet, I think she could dress you in rags and you would still turn every head in Northam.” Elora exited with all the grace afforded to someone of her station and wealth, disappearing down the street to the next vendor that she would patron.
“I am so terribly sorry about that. Lady Terril is a regular and I thought she would have left in time for your scheduled appointment.” Chloe apologized profusely.
Elora Terril oozed charisma from her pores.
The woman was the embodiment of charm. Everything from her posture to her mellifluous voice struck the perfect balance between deference and confidence, never crossing the line into flattery or arrogance. This woman knew how to play the game—she’d obviously lived and breathed it since birth, especially since her brother had been destined to take over their late father’s management role. It struck Maria then that their lives, different though they were on the surface, nevertheless contained parallel plights…a male heir destined to take over as head of the household and continue the family legacy, no matter the qualifications of their female siblings. She wondered briefly if Lawrence possessed the same social savvy as his sister. Because it was certainly easy to imagine Elora at any helm, her bright eyes captivating and punishing, her sultry voice commanding and beguiling, all in equal measure.
Maria knew of the Terrils more than she knew them. She was aware of the clan’s reputation as the nerve center of Northam’s munitions dealings, and that their generations of business acumen had granted them status among the political elite afforded to very few non-military families. Quinn may have interacted with Lawrence on multiple occasions related to official militia business, but Maria and Elora had never regularly haunted the same circles. The Belvedere woman, despite being the frequent topic of society whispers and speculation, had maintained an air of mystery throughout her adult life. It was Maria’s understanding that Elora, on the other hand, attended every event, wooed every guest, and was arguably the most dazzling star in Northam’s firmament.
And Maria had to admit she could see why.
The woman was not only stunning, with her cascade of dark hair and striking, intelligent gaze, but also evidently of a similar progressive mindset with the gall to make it known—unless it was an act made to placate her new acquaintance, to charm her like all the rest. But in spite of the gushing tone and the exquisite state of dress, nothing about the Terril socialite seemed immediately disingenuous. That alone was enough to make Maria suspicious…and yet, still it was refreshing. Odd, certainly, but refreshing. As if she’d found someone who understood what it was like to walk in the same pair of shoes, with all the aches and pains that came with the trek.
Only men call powerful women controversial. It takes another woman to truly appreciate it. The faintest flicker of danger gleamed in Elora’s jade stare as she spoke those words, which inspired a flutter of excitement in the Belvedere’s stomach that she could only attribute to finding a like-minded soul. Maria’s honey gaze darkened with sharp amusement. “Not all women, I’m afraid,” she drawled in her smooth alto, “but I presume I can count you as an admirer?” Not quite a question. She found herself narrowing her eyes, not with disdain, but with amusement. She studied the other woman as she spoke.
“Alas, I’ve never been able to resist the siren call of the mystique,” the brunette went on, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind an ear. One corner of her lips curled upward, a near-exact replica of the half-smile her brother always wore when he was feeling mischievous. “Nor can dear Quinn, it seems. Let them all keep guessing.” She waved a hand, more in challenge than dismissal. Her crooked smile broadened to a full, dangerous smirk, and her eyes glittered gold. “I make it a point always to be worth waiting for.”
As Elora Terril moved toward the door, Maria found her gaze sweeping over the woman’s swaying figure, covered though most of it was with her fine blue coat. “There’s a thought,” she mused, tapping a finger to her chin in mock consideration. She turned to Chloe. “Miss Paice, do you have any rags that come in white? Or would that require a special order?”
A sardonic laugh shook her shoulders, and she looked back to Elora as her tone sobered. “I imagine we’ll make quite the pair, given what I know of Miss Paice’s many skills,” she responded with a nod, the edge to her expression mellowing to one of genuine, if restrained, appreciation. “I do look forward to seeing what she comes up with for each of us.”
The door closed behind the Terril woman, leaving Maria and Chloe alone once more in the front room of the shoppe. “No harm done,” she said to the seamstress’ apology, her eyes lingering on Elora through the front window until the cerulean of her coat disappeared from view. “Tell me, is Miss Terril always so”—she paused, searching for the right word, and another half-smile tugged at her mouth—“flirtatious with people who are at their consultation appointments for their wedding gown?”
Intelligent gaze roved over Maria and then Elora, right before she departed. A different tension buzzed inside the shoppe, one far different than Clover had anticipated when she realized the private appointment had been intruded upon. Licking her lips, she shifted her demeanor slightly as she came into Maria’s view once more. She hid her surprise that the first thing out of the Belvedere’s mouth was an inquiry about the other woman. Instead of letting it show, she lifted a delicate shoulder, nervously toying with the corner of the sketchbook.
“Lady Terril is very generous, very kind and…” she trailed off, as if nervous to share an intimate detail of the heiress’ life, “very open about her desires.” Chloe closed the sketchbook and brought it to her chest, holding it protectively with both hands. It was a gesture that Clover had practiced numerous times to get just the right amount of discomfort and nervous energy into the movements. The sheer amount of practice that it took for such a confident, strong woman to appear meek and frail without rousing suspicious was…excessive to say the least. When the instruction began at such a young age, though, the results were astounding. Never once had anyone suspected her of being anything other than a seamstress, a lower middle class tailor with an eyes for dressing Northam’s elite.
“I will show you to the fabrics. They’re here in the back. I’ll show you which ones I think would be best and some of the shading of the beads. That way you can select the colors that you would like for the details. Unfortunately, my sketches can only be rendered in black and white.” Chloe led the military graduate into the shoppe’s back room where all of the stock was kept that wasn’t readily displayed in the window. Crossing the threshold there was a noticeable shift in the atmosphere. A soothing comfort exuded from all the cloth meticulously organized in the room. Wools of a multitude of colors on one side and then taffeta, tulle, organza, and coveted silk.
She walked further into the room, to the shadowed end of the shoppe and turned to the left. Whites of all shades, from eggshell to bright white to deep cream lined the shelves in a multitude of fabrics. “I lean towards this. With your skin and your hair, it would be remarkable. Will you be wearing your hair up? I might suggest it, should I be so bold, to give you guests a better view of the dress’ back.” Fingers reached out and then held out an edge of a beautifully white charmeuse. It was silky and elegant, flowing around her digits like water. “On your figure, it will cut a striking silhouette.” This was one of Clover’s favorite fabrics because it was so terribly difficult to work with. It would give a beautiful flourish but wouldn’t provide the structure of military clothing. “Another option is a bit more structured but would really give the impact for the shoulders and low back.” That was when Chloe chose the most expensive white fabric that she possessed. It would hold its structure while confirming to her lithe form. It would support a significant amount of beading without collapsing under the weight. It had never been used before and had sat sadly unused in this position since it’s purchase 2 years prior.
“And my beads are here.” She turned around and motioned to wooden organizer behind them. The drawers were labeled by color and then within those drawers the colors were broken down into a gorgeous ombre. She drew out the shades of pink first, for a more delicate nod to the Belvedere roses. “Another option would be a deep, red…” she pulled out the drawer above, without closing the pink one, and indicated a blood red. It glistened ruby in the light. It immediately reminded her of Quinn and she could not say why. It stirred up an odd emotion inside of her that she quickly tamped down. “Once you decide, I’ll take you into the adjoining room to take your measurements, if you’re still wanting to proceed with my design.” Chloe gave a soft smile, sheepish.
With the two of them left alone once more in the front of the shoppe, something in the air felt strangely hollow, as though the air Maria breathed didn’t quite reach the bottom of her lungs. The Terril woman’s sudden presence—and equally abrupt departure—had been an unplanned whirlwind. But instead of feeling irritated at the socialite’s intrusion, the Belvedere woman found herself inexplicably charmed…so much so that the emptiness of Chloe’s front parlor now felt lacking, when moments ago it had been a perfectly comfortable quietude.
“I imagine someone like Miss Terril is accustomed to getting exactly what she wants,” Maria drawled, tapping a manicured nail on the countertop next to the sketchbook. She still wore a mischievous half-smile, the one so like her brother’s, and didn’t seem to notice Chloe’s show of diffidence. “I might deign to be so open about my desires too, were I in her shoes. I’m afraid I have to work a little harder to pad my sharp edges,” she said, almost wistfully…almost. Her eyes flitted to the front window, as if searching for another glimpse of the charismatic woman’s blue coat and raven hair. After a beat, her attention promptly snapped back to the seamstress, and the Belvedere was all business again.
She treaded gracefully after Chloe as the dark-haired woman led her to the back of the shoppe, where the walls were lined with shelves floor-to-ceiling loaded with yet more stock and supplies. Bolts of material in all makes and textures formed an impressive spectrum from dark to light and patterned to sheer, organized so meticulously Maria would have been hard pressed to find even a wrinkle out of place amongst the rolls. Her awed gaze roamed over buttery brown leathers, shimmering taffeta, thick wools, and diaphanous organza as light as a summer’s breeze. She also caught sight of a shimmering gold fabric that she knew immediately was what Elora Terril had selected for her gown. A small huff of amusement accompanied a smirk. She probably could have guessed which it would be even if she hadn’t heard the woman mention the color.
But whatever thoughts of the Terril beauty still lingered vanished as soon as Chloe directed Maria’s attention to the section of white fabrics. She’d never given the color much thought before her engagement, and frankly had never imagined such a simple hue could manifest in such a wide variety of tints and shades. She reached out to touch the shimmering charmeuse the seamstress indicated first. The material rippled like the surface of a pool beneath her fingers, and she grinned. “This is…” A pause as she searched for the right word. “Very sensuous. I think Max would faint before I made it down the aisle if I were to wear this,” she said, but her tone indicated that she did not think that fact was even remotely a bad thing.
But the real gasp of delight came when Chloe indicated the second selection. It was a brighter white than the first, with the faintest warm sheen when she turned over the cloth in her hands. “This is the one,” she proclaimed, her grin broadening as the image began to take shape in her mind. The structured shoulders, the open, cascading back, the delicate but symbolic beading…she could practically feel the weight of it on her frame already, and a thrill of excitement rocketed through her. This was precisely what she had needed to visualize the design—to bring it before her mind’s eye in three dimensions, coming to life from the flat graphite sketch.
The gradient of beads offered an overwhelming menu of choices, but the vision in Maria’s imagination had sharpened enough that she knew precisely which colors she wanted. “These pale pinks.” She ran her finger over the edge of the drawer, indicating a range of soft blushes. “For the other plants, and the spices…the palest greens. I would hate to draw attention away from the structure of the dress.” She looked to Chloe and arched a brow, her amber gaze sparkling impishly. “Except for one rose. In the ruby red.” She plucked a single blood red bead from the collection and held it to the light. It glinted deep crimson against her fingertips. “What do you think?” she prompted, turning to the seamstress yet again. “Too much? Not enough?” The brunette offered the woman a reassuring smile. “I wouldn’t be asking your opinion if I wasn’t interested in proceeding with your design, Miss Paice, or if I did not trust your professional judgment.”
Chloe smiled sheepishly at her comment. “Perhaps for another event of the day, then.” A blush was carefully cultivated to her cheeks as she whispered it, directing Maria’s attention to the fabric that she gushed over. Warmth spread across the seamstress’ chest at the approval. She took pride in her job, both the cover and her true life’s work. “You have exceptional taste and appreciation for my craft. It makes it quite easy to design something with a budget that is not constricting.” And the bill would be absolutely outrageous. That fabric alone has cost her two months of income. It was a splurge, unnecessary but captivating. Part of her, a part so secret she often could not even find it herself, had imagined the dress she might make from it if she even married.
Rose had made it abundantly clear that marriage, a family - such things outside of the movement would be highly unlikely. There were good men in the Resistance. Many she was fond of and cared for, but none that she would ever bind herself to in promise. So instead, she settled for ridiculous purchases on rare occasion in the hope it might be used for her but with the knowledge that it likely would sit on a shelf in her shoppe. The pant of jealousy was fleeting snd she devoted her attention fully back to her client just in time to catch the mischievous grin that flickered across the bride’s features. It was contagious and Chloe dipped her head towards the beads to hide her slight grin.
After a quick moment she extended her hand out, silently requesting the glittering red bead. It fell into her offered palm and she closed her fingers around it. “I think that I am very glad you are an heiress and not a seamstress because then I would have some very steep competition indeed.” A bright smile played her lips as she dropped the bead she would undoubtedly use for the gown. A single red rose along the arm, her left hand, the ring hand. She’d leave all of the others a soft blush, without thorns, except for the red. They needed to know that every rose, even one whose power lay in her womb, had thorns.
“I think we will be able to fashion you the dress of the decade.” She led the Belvedere woman back to the shoppe front just as Dennis came back in. He held water and treats in his hand and fumbled slightly when he saw the beauty that was Maria Belvedere. “Dennis, this is our newest patron, Lady Belvedere. She is sister to the General.” Chloe widened her eyes slightly and inclined her head to indicate that he should make appropriate words of respect, which he did so, stumbling over the words as he limped to the counter to set down the purchases. “Dennis is my apprentice. He is quite skilled with embroidery. He will be starting with the details along the shoulders, while I will focus on the back and the arms. You will be impressed with his abilities, I think.”
“I know I have already kept you at a very busy time, but please feel free to take some refreshment.” Chloe licked her lips as she moved to straighten the canteens and treats so that the other woman might sample them. “I should have a basic silhouette within a week, so if you would be able to return then for a quick fitting that would be best. Have you chosen shoes for the occasion? If not, there is an exceptional cobbler just there across the street. He fashions most of Lady Terril’s shoes as well.” She dropped Elora name subtly enough but grinned internally at the memory of the pair’s immediate tension upon meeting.
Maria dropped the blood red bead into the seamstress’ outstretched palm, her smile darkening to a pleased smirk at Chloe’s words. She imagined the woman said the same thing to all her patrons, but the easy praise for her design suggestion was encouraging, nonetheless. She followed Miss Paice to the front of the shop again with renewed excitement fluttering behind her ribs.
She greeted the shop apprentice with a genuinely warm smile, suppressing a chuckle when he stumbled nervously over his words. Maria was not typically met with such bumbling reverence, not like other members of her social strata might; she was not quite so well-known or widely recognized as many of her peers. Those who did recognize her typically knew her by her military reputation, or they simply heard the name of her rising-star brigadier general twin brother. “Call me Maria, I insist,” she told Dennis, knowing full well the boy would never drop the title, as much as it grated her nerves to hear ‘Lady Belvedere’ refer to anyone but her late mother. “I look forward to seeing your work, Dennis.” She politely indulged in a square biscuit—gingerbread, made from a perfectly respectable mid-grade spice, she noted—and washed it down with a swallow of tea.
At Chloe’s mention of the timeline, Maria stiffened. “Next week,” the brunette repeated, her brows coming together in a look of displeasure. Her fiancé would arrive in Thebes within the next two days, and then together they were slated to depart for Ponte Vedra, Northam’s supplementary southern port on the Atlantic, to see off Max’s first shipment of grain under his impressive new contract. Maria hadn’t anticipated Miss Paice would be able to see her for a primary fitting so soon. “I’ll make that work,” she replied, her tone caught somewhere between annoyance—although certainly not at Chloe, who deserved to be commended for her efficiency—and resignation. “This obviously takes priority.” Her discontent melted away, however, at the mention of the nearby shoemaker…and the certain socialite who frequented there. “Thank you for the suggestion, Miss Paice,” she said, “and for your very fine, very quick work. I may just pay that cobbler a visit.”
The seamstress led her to yet another side room, this one smaller and more private, and quickly took her initial measurements. With their business concluded, at least for now, Maria bid Chloe and Dennis an appreciative farewell and departed into the chilly midday.
————
When the front bell startled him out of his ledgers, Quinn was momentarily disoriented.
He’d risen at dawn, downed two mugs of Maria’s coffee (at her teasing protest), and retreated into the study to tie up the last of the wedding loose ends before his military appointments later in the day. Startled from his numerical trance, he had no notion of what time it was or who could possibly be at the door—until he remembered that they were expecting a certain Mr. Maxwell Lane in the early afternoon, and the world righted itself in his brain.
He answered the door himself, waving away an anxious staff member, and ushered his future brother-in-law inside. Quinn looked his sister’s fiancé over, his appraising stare shamelessly sweeping from the man’s polished leather boots to the mop of windswept auburn hair still dusted with flakes of snow from his walk up the front stairs. “Maxwell,” he greeted neutrally, his expression unreadable but not hostile.
“General Belvedere.” With his rigid posture, the trader’s smile was unconvincing.
Quinn wasn’t certain he’d ever seen the man truly at ease, and he wondered how much of that might have had to do with his own presence. “No need for formalities,” he countered, although the coolness of his tone called to question just how much he meant that statement. “Just ‘Quinn’ is fine. Maria will be down shortly. She’s—”
“Max!” came her exclamation from above, and the brunette glided down the curved staircase to wrap her arms tightly around her fiancé despite his damp jacket and the growing puddle of melting snow at his feet. Thomas the butler waited patiently for the heiress to extricate herself, then took the dripping garment from the man’s shoulders with a frown. “Right on time, dearest,” she declared, sparing Quinn a glance only after planting an affectionate kiss on her fiance’s cheek. “Dear brother was just about to give some ceremony updates over luncheon.”
Quinn donned an alarmingly charming smile. “Indeed. Fortuitous timing. Shall we?”
They turned and made their way to the dining room. Max’s shoulders relaxed somewhat as Maria threaded her arm through his, but his newfound ease was certainly no thanks to the general and his commanding presence striding behind them—not just as a prominent military figure, but as the sibling of the trader’s betrothed. Maria shot Quinn a look over her shoulder that said play nice. The general turned his palms up defensively and lifted his shoulders in a shrug. She rolled her eyes.
It wasn’t that the general disliked Maxwell Lane. His sister was an excellent judge of character, and he trusted her implicitly. The man had never once given him a reason to doubt him, either, and by all accounts—and if his unabashedly adoring gaze alone was any indicator—the spice trader was clearly besotted with his sister. Perhaps it was simply that they had so little in common that he found it difficult to relate to his future brother-in-law; or perhaps it was just that he hadn’t gotten to know him very well yet. He supposed if it was the latter, there was a lifetime to remedy that. They might even become friends one day.
For now, however, Quinn was content to play his role as head of the Belvedere estate…and protective twin brother.
Lunch passed without incident. He updated the couple on the remaining logistical items, then he and Maria explained in detail to Max the security protocols they had worked out together over the previous days. The trader at least had the good sense to look overwhelmed. Unlike their parents—their mother in particular—Quinn had no qualms about the Lanes being of a far lesser station than the Belvederes. But there were instances, such as this one, when the differences in their lives and upbringings became very obvious.
“So,” Quinn drawled as their business talk wrapped up, “when do you leave for Ponte Vedra?”
“In three days,” Max responded, sipping at a glass of white wine.
Maria suddenly looked sheepish, but the gleam in her dark eyes couldn’t fool her brother, who leveled a curious gaze in her direction. “Dearest,” she addressed silkily, turning to her betrothed. “I’m afraid you may have to go without me.”
“What?” Max’s brows shot up, then furrowed with concern. “Why?”
“I know you can’t miss the send-off at the harbor,” she said, “but I have a wedding errand next week that I can’t neglect, either. Surely you can handle your business without me.”
Max’s concern melted to an affectionate smile. “Just because I can, doesn’t mean I want to.” He shook his head, not with dissent but with amusement. He reached for Maria’s hand and threaded his fingers through hers.
Quinn watched him for any warning tells of anger and found none. The man was refreshingly easy to read; unaccustomed as the trader was to life amongst Northam elites, he’d never had to learn how to put on an act.
“I’ll just be a couple of days behind you, weather permitting,” Maria reassured him. “I may even make it in time for the send-off.”
“What’s keeping you in Thebes, then, Mia?” asked Quinn, forgetting himself.
Maria’s eyes glared daggers at him before her expression eased into a glittering smirk. “An appointment,” she said breezily, “with Miss Paice on the Avenue. You two are acquainted, yes?”
The name sent a silent shock of electricity through him. “Ah, quite right,” he retorted, tone neutral, face unchanged. Of course. Her dress. He’d spoken carelessly, forgetting its secret, and she’d returned the near-blunder with a barbed jibe of her own. As much as he hated that Maria’s mention of that name affected him just as she had intended, he couldn’t deny the thrill of hearing it. A spark of heat was kindled in his core. Suddenly, he wasn’t in the Avondale dining room with his sister and her future husband; he was peeling the clothing off a deceptively wicked seamstress, his mouth trailing across her bare skin, his fingertips seeking and finding every last curve of her body.
Max, oblivious, began to speak about the catering. Quinn heard not a word of it. Even if the food hadn’t been strictly the couple’s responsibility, per their insistence, he doubted he could have dragged his attention away from the montage of images playing before his mind’s eye.
Grateful for the sudden clang of the clock in the corridor outside the dining room, the general dismissed himself and headed back to his room to change into his military blues. His presence was required for the afternoon at Compound, which had previously sounded like a welcome break from the wedding preparation…but now felt like a chore. What he wanted to do was drop in at Chloe’s shoppe, whisk her away from whatever occupied her (even if it was his sister’s dress or his own suit), and then…
He gritted his teeth and forced the progression to halt. No, he could not spend hours in strategy briefings with the High Commander with his thoughts so occupied. Steeling his resolve, he buttoned up his navy uniform jacket and inspected his appearance before the mirror. She couldn’t be his ruin—not today.
Someday, again, or so he hoped. Perhaps when he delivered the sketchbook he’d ordered from the bookbindery.
But not today.
————
Punctual as ever, Maria Belvedere breezed into Chloe’s shoppe on the day of her initial fitting, her footsteps featherlight with anticipation. She beamed at the apprentice Dennis who happened to be in the front of the store, the typical edge to her gaze masked by excitement. Nevertheless, the young man seemed startled to be in her presence.
He showed her to the back of the shoppe again, but this time instead of lingering near the impressive selection of material and haberdashery, he directed her to a small parlor off to the side. Two armchairs, a tray of biscuits and steaming tea already waiting on the table between them, faced an elevated platform, which in turn faced a wall of three large, angled mirrors that stretched nearly to the beamed ceiling.
“Miss Paice will be with you in just a minute,” Dennis stammered, closing the door whence they’d entered and striding to a second entrance on the opposite wall. Maria presumed it led to the workshop. “H-help yourself to refreshments.”
“Thank you, Dennis.” Maria flashed him another smile that only seemed to hasten his departure through the second door, and despite his uneven gait, he moved so quickly that she got no glimpse of the workroom beyond. She stripped off her jacket, hung it on the coatrack in the corner, and perched with a mug of tea on the very edge of one of the chairs.
After only a few minutes, the door swung open to a familiar face. “Miss Paice,” the Belvedere heiress greeted, rising eagerly to her feet. “I so look forward to seeing what you’ve done.”
Maria’s departure left Clover in an odd stage of limbo for the remainder of the afternoon. She set Dennis to laying out a pattern for the beading on the wedding gown, making sure that there was enough stock to complete the task at hand. The listless sensation only abated when she took the thick wool of General Belvedere’s suit between her fingers. Working on the snakes and roses have her fingers a task and her mind something to focus on. It distracted her enough for the remainder of the afternoon that she was surprised when the young apprentice bid her goodnight. Fuck. The interruption made her realize how hungry she truly was and she donned her coat and twisted up her hair. With the shoppe locked securely behind her, Clover slid out into the dawning night and headed to a small tavern that served the more unsavory of Northam. The food was decent but it was the company she sought.
The young woman had been idle too long, that being two days, but it was still more than she liked. After all, a rebellion was not going to run itself. Stormy eyes roved over the patrons as she entered, knowing where her target resided before fully stepping inside. Aaron Striker owned the dive and effectively served as her mouthpiece for the Rebellion that Clover had inherited from Rose. Aaron was the only other person who knew who she was. Aaron and Rose had been members of the team that had taken her from Wymberly all those years ago, screaming and crying and covered in her own mother’s blood. She posed as his lover from time to time, easy to explain her late night visits. Despite their age difference, it was quite believable. Aaron was exceptional good looking at his age and had “developed a taste for beautiful twenty-something women” for just this purpose.
Brown eyes met hers across the bare and he gave her one of those smiles that any woman would be happy to be on the receiving end of. She returned it with a blush across her cheeks and bashfully shoved her hands in her pockets. In another age, Clover might have been a starlet for all the faces she could portray with a moment’s notice. He beckoned her to the back and she eagerly followed until the door clicked shut behind her. The mask slid off and she rolled her shoulders back.
“What news?” She asked, taking a seat in the armchair that rested before a well groomed fire. She held out her hand for the glass of whiskey that Aaron had already poured by the time she lowered herself to sit. The amber liquid warmed her through as he took a seat near her, swirling his own glass.
“We’ve recruited that little group causing trouble at Heron’s Point. A bit of a ragtag bunch but trainable and well poised to give information on troop movements to the south.” Clover nodded at his words, storing the information immediately. “We lost some people in Yerning.” Aaron continues to update the leader of the Rebellion against the High Commander of Northam.
“I want Pat moved to the north and Angelica on the ship to Espania, the one with the Colonel that fancies dark haired women.” Instructions were given explicitly but not in too much detail. There were others that would orchestrate the minutia of the plans. She bit the inside of her cheek. “I’ll be at the Belvedere wedding. I’m making the bride’s dress.”
“Fortuitous.” Aaron rolled his now empty glass back and forth between his hands. “I hear she won’t be staying in Thebes though. Pity as it would have been useful.” A pause. “He’ll be there.” Clover tensed almost, almost imperceptibly. She knew who he was talking about.
“He certainly will. I’ve determined that the bride’s brother is….a rising favorite of the High Commander’s.”
“And if you see him?”
“He won’t take notice of a seamstress. Servant staff are beneath his notice so long as they do not make errors.”
“I mean what if you see him, I mean.”
“I’m not so young and impulsive as I might once have been Aaron. I can see him and let him live.” She finished her whiskey and exhaled slowly. “For now at least.” Aaron snorted and stood, pacing slightly.
“There will be quite a number of high ranking military there but they won’t discuss business at such an event.”
“No, you’re right, not specifics but I’m sure to catch something when they’re drunk enough. I can make an excuse to linger until after the reception - some nonsense about preserving her dress.” Another grunt of approval from her second-in-command. They dallied a little longer before Clover slipped out the back and returned home.
A week was nearly passed and the seamstress had made significant process on the dress before she retired the evening prior to the bride’s appointment. She stripped out of the clothes and into long pants and a cotton shirt that came three-quarters down her arm. Once beneath the multiple sheets and blankets of her small bed, Clover found herself thinking of what Aaron had sad before, about who she might see. Wandering mind passed to the other man she would undoubtedly run into at Maria’s wedding. Not if she was careful enough though…she could sew the woman into her gown and slip away to the servant’s area and nonchalantly eavesdrop. It was an exceptional way to gather intelligence and yet she still found those golden eyes flickering through her mind.
Sighing, Clover had thought she’d be rid of the intruding form of Quinnley Belvedere by now. His tall form and broad shoulders, dappled with scars covering toned muscles. She gave an audible groan of frustration at the sensation of his lips on her neck and fingers pressing into her hipbones so tightly she had been bruised for two days. Absently, her fingers brushed where the marks had now disappeared. Fuck you Quinn. Fuck you and your fucking bedroom talents. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Eventually she fell asleep with enough time to wake partially refreshed. She donned form fitting deep green pants and a dark sweater that fell mid-thigh. She tied back her hair partially and went downstairs to steam the gown’s silhouette. Dennis had begun to design the beadwork and lay out each individual gem to Chloe to sew on, while the owner had been working on finishing the military shoulders. She placed the gown on a body form and let it sitting behind a primary screen in the try-on room to the back. While waiting, she went to examine which cotton she would use for the shirt to go with the elaborate suit for the general. Dennis soon appeared and advised her that the bride-to-be had arrived.
Chloe eased into the room with all the quiet nature of a church mouse. “Miss Belvedere. “ She replied softly, despite earlier instruction to call her Maria. Chloe would never break rank, except for a certain general who somehow pulled Clover out form beneath the mask. “Lovely to see you again and I appreciate you making this appointment work. With the wedding so close it will be the last fitting I will truly need unless you want to see the product as it is designed. It is entirely up to you.” She moved around and smiled. “Are you ready to see the silhouette? It can be tweaked as needed and of course if it is to your satisfaction then we will try it on.
Without any more pomp, the seamstress pushed back the privacy screen and revealed the long sleeved, low- back beauty.
Nothing—no amount of imagining, or dreaming, or sketching, or feeling fabrics—could have prepared Maria Belvedere for the rush of emotion that swept through her at the first sight of her wedding gown.
“Oh,” she breathed as Chloe pulled back the privacy screen. Her brown eyes glittered with awe, with appreciation…but also with something fierce and wild, a surge of mischievous enthusiasm. The vision was finally coming to life, the one she’d been planning towards since Max had asked for her hand in marriage in secret nearly two years ago—the one that would render all of Northam speechless in her wake. It did not quite feel real. And yet there was her dress, brought to life from the seamstress’ expert sketches as if by magic, stunning even in its unfinished state. If she’d had any qualms about delaying her trip to Ponte Vedra, they were long forgotten now.
Slowly, as if moving too fast would somehow dissipate the illusion, she lowered her mug of tea to the tray and approached the dress form. Her observant gaze roamed the shape of the garment, taking in everything from the fine ivory stitching to the rigid structure of the military-inspired shoulders. The silhouette was a perfect reproduction of what she’d seen in graphite, rendered this time in three dimensions, the supple material practically glowing beneath her eager appraisal. A distinctly unladylike curse slipped out under her breath in a murmur, and she looked up to meet Chloe’s stare with a grin of unadulterated excitement.
“It’s magnificent, Miss Paice,” she praised, reaching out to run a finger down the drape of fabric that would reveal her open back. “And even more impressive that you’ve managed it in a week.” If she hadn’t been so pleased with the seamstress’ work, she might’ve snuck in a snide reference to their unorthodox pre-dawn meeting the previous week—something about the woman not getting any sleep—but it was obvious that Chloe must not have had much time for anything else but this. Maria was paying to be front of the queue, but she hadn’t expected this level of professional dedication. Quinn certainly knows how to pick them, she thought with mirth dancing in her gaze. For the first and probably the only time, the brunette was thankful for her brother’s…discernment.
At Chloe’s prompt, Maria began to shed her attire. She’d dressed simply for this purpose, sporting sleek woolen leggings, her favorite black ankle boots, and a forest green tunic. The Belvedere heiress was much like her brother—unwaveringly confident, even in various states of undress. A product, in part, of having been the only woman at the training academy, where she’d quickly learned to weather lecherous and disapproving stares and worse. But she’d never been a shrinking violet anyway. She was a rose. And roses had thorns.
She soon stood in only her underwear and a beige long-line bralette as Miss Paice eased the gown off its form. The heiress glanced at herself in the tri-plane mirror, pulling her loose hair into a quick bun at the nape of her neck with anticipation. Her eyes darted over the bare olive skin of her shoulders and abdomen, pausing briefly on each of the scars that decorated her flesh. Her collection was not nearly as extensive as Quinn’s, but no one graduated from the brutal academy unmarred; it always left its mark, figuratively and literally—a few old wounds on her shoulders, another near her left elbow, and two long-healed gashes at her waist. Not to mention the ones on her back that she couldn’t see—but that would be on prominent display with the daring dip of her gown. She caught Chloe’s gaze in the reflection and fought a smirk. She would wear those scars like the medals on the High Commander’s coat.
The brunette stepped into the dress with Chloe’s careful guidance, the seamstress tugging it carefully up to her waist. Maria held it gingerly in place, relishing the feel of the fabric in her fingers, while the tradeswoman lifted the excess material at the hem to allow Maria to step up onto the raised platform. “Miss Paice, have you—” she began to ask, but was interrupted by two short knocks on the door and the click of the knob turning as someone abruptly entered the room.
Maria craned her neck over her shoulder toward the sound. Perched helplessly as she was on the fitting platform, her hands still awkwardly holding the dress up at her waist while Chloe sorted her pins, the Belvedere heiress’ lips parted in surprise to see a familiar beauty intruding on her appointment for a second time.
Words left Maria’s lips before she could stop them, but her brows twitched together with moderate irritation. “Hoping for a sneak peek, Lady Terril?”
The expression on Maria’s face gave Chloe a thrill. The blush across her cheeks was genuine and the smile on her face hiding a bit of pride. The seamstress began to gently lower the fabric down the model and moved over to the trifold mirror and the small circular dais. Maria disrobed with all the efficiency of someone raised in a military household. Stormy eyes flickered over her stunning physique, taking in the silver scars on her tanned flesh. Her mind traveled at lightening speed to similarly dark skin with deeper, more jagged scars. Clover sucked in a breath through her teeth as she swished the fabric, hiding the sound of her unwelcome memory behind the movement.
Maria held it at her waist before slipping her arms in the sleeves, giving Chloe a moment to collect some pins to make a more accurate pinning right above the woman’s backside. However, a sharp rap on the door drew her attention as she moved to shield Maria slightly. Dennis knew better than to enter, but Elora Terril had no such qualms. The goddess made flesh leaned in the open doorway. She was wearing a bright jade peacoat buttoned tightly along her trim waist, as if nothing resided beneath it. Long pants resembling leather but allowing more movements clothed her legs and finished off by short heeled boots. She was absently removing her gloves from each long finger while her emerald eyes glittered over the irritated academy graduate. She allowed them to travel from the undone hem of the dress up to her bare back.
Despite her crafted exterior, Elora felt her heart begin to race. The dressing figure before her was the most beautiful woman she had ever laid eyes on and the Terril heir had sampled the forms of many exquisite females. The irritated tone only made her red lips curl into a devilishly smile. “Naturally.” Gaze cut to those molten golden eyes. She held them for a heady moment, searching them slightly before adding, “though it seems I arrived just a moment too late.” Clover about choked as the words reached her ears. Gray eyes cut to the new arrival and sharply raised her brows since Maria could not see her expression.
“Lady Terril, I am sorry but this is a private appointment. You cannot be in here.” Chloe said with a slight tremor in her voice even though her face expressed her infinite displeasure. “Dennis should have conveyed as much to you.”
“Oh poor Dennis. He did try.” Elora said coyly, not bothering to look at the leader of the Rebellion. “I thought I might be intruding on something small but fortunately for me it was the beguiling Maria Belvedere.” Her gaze travels down the exposed flesh again before focusing on Clover. “I did have something rather pressing but I suppose it can wait.” She slowed a smirk to dance on her mouth once more. “Unless you’d appreciate another hand with your fitting…”
Maria made no move to cover herself further, and not just because her arms were sheathed in sleeves whose seams had not yet been reinforced. She stared at the beautiful socialite, dark golden eyes meeting glittering emerald. This time, however, Maria made no effort to mask her characteristic edge. It had been easy to look past Elora Terril’s interruption the first time, when they’d only been discussing the initial phases of the gown’s design; indeed, the encounter had been amusing, even pleasant, and the Belvedere had been understandably charmed. But this time, as Maria found herself suddenly dragged from the reverie of donning her dress for the first time, it was difficult not to feel anything but irritation.
She said nothing, at first, allowing the moment to stretch while she glared at Elora. Worse was that the woman made no attempt to excuse herself, or even to avert her eyes. Maria felt the trace of the beauty’s gaze slide down her figure as though her attention were made of flame, leaving the faintest trail of heat in its wake.
As if in defiance, the Belvedere heiress kept her posture rigid, her shoulders thrown back. It wasn’t the first time someone had openly appraised her like that. It wasn’t even the first woman. But even through her annoyance, she recognized there was something different about this—not just in the way Elora didn’t bother to hide her lingering onceover (although her brazenness in the face of the country’s discriminatory laws was commendable) but rather in the way it made Maria feel. As tough as she was, and as adept as she’d become at letting it roll off her back, the leering she and countless other women were subjected to never failed to make her feel dirty…as though the impure intentions of the deliverer somehow managed to sully her, like mud smeared on her skin. But Elora’s attention wasn’t greedy, it wasn’t lecherous; it felt like admiration, as though Maria was someone to be worshipped, not conquered.
But for all her anger, it was not Maria that demanded Lady Terril leave the room, but rather Miss Paice. The seamstress’ voice quavered, as though she weren’t quite comfortable asking the noblewoman to leave. “Has boldness served you well in the past, Lady Terril?” Maria asked before the woman could leave, lifting her chin. It was a rhetorical question, one Maria suspected she knew the answer to, and her tone was matter-of-fact. “Have your attempts to charm the wives-to-be of Thebes’ poor, unsuspecting gentlemen ever been successful in the past?”
It was a similar question to the one she’d posed to Chloe the previous week, only this time it was asked directly to the socialite herself. But where the inquiry from anyone else might’ve served as an accusation—and a dangerous one at that, given the law—from the Belvedere woman it was an innocent challenge, and an acknowledgment that the woman’s flirtations, however overt, had not gone unnoticed. Maria might have fallen in love with and promised herself to a man, but she’d taken more than one woman to her bed before, perhaps as many as she had men. She found her irritation lessening by the second, giving way to something more sympathetic, even mirthful.
She planted her hands on her hips, facing forward again to study her silhouette in the mirror. Despite the interruption to her mood, she couldn’t stop a smirk from darkening her features at the sight of her reflection in the dress. “Elora,” she drawled, stretching out the syllables of the woman’s name thoughtfully. “Miss Paice tells me you’re one of her best customers. Perhaps you might be so kind as to loan us your discerning eye, since you’ve insisted on attending another one of my private appointments.”
Elora smiled as Maria’s irritation seemed to melt away. She then kept her eyes firmly on the bride’s face. She knew what it was to be treated like an object to be bought, a prized cow at auction. While she (immensely) appreciated the female form and made all its curves the subject of her devotion, she would not be one to treat another woman like a prize to be won. The Terril heir praised other women with her eyes, her hands and her mouth but only with their complete consent - of after a very light amount of teasing.
“My dear Miss Belvedere, what kind of lover would I be if I disclosed the long list of my illicit affairs?” A challenge danced in her eyes, swimming also with an open invitation. Chloe stood slightly between them and feeling extremely awake, as the tension seemed to pass directly through her on its way back and forth to the conversing women. She turned back to Maria’s partially dressed form with a number of pins in the cushion held in her hand. She began to pin the low back just slightly before the Belvedere asked for assistance. She raised her brows and her head slightly.
If Elora’s heart had raced before, now it beat at a breakneck speed when her first name fell from the bride’s lips. Warmth ran down her neck and across her shoulders, making the thick wool of her jacket feel nearly insufferable. The sound of it was a tentative caress, tasting it on her tongue. Jade eyes narrowed slightly, almost accusatory because she had never been so attracted to someone who merely said her name. The Terril may joke, but she wasn’t in the habit of breaking of marriages before they were consummated. But she was willing to make an exception for the half-dressed woman before her.
Instead of accepting, she smiled. “I am her best customer.” It was a fact. The Terrils funneled their money to the Rebellion through the shoppe and in exchange Clove r charged outrageous prices for the own-of-a-kind gowns, coats, etc. that she made for the heiress. It did afford her some ability to stroll in and out as she desired. However, this wedding dress would likely be the most expensive thing the rebel leader had ever made. Chloe helped ease the sleeves up slender arms, remaining silent as she did so - a fly on the wall now and Elora only had eyes for Maria.
“And your offer is more than generous and there is nothing I would rather do but…” she gestured to the dress without allowing her eyes to stray from the amber eyes of the beauty before her even if it was only in the reflection of the mirror now that she had turned away. “If what I have seen is any indication, you are in exceptional hands. And this was enough of a taste to satiate my curiosity…for now.” Elora held both gloves in delicate hands.
“Miss Paice, I’ll return first thing tomorrow to discuss that urgent order.” She took a step back, reaching for the handle of the door to close it behind her. She looked at the betrothed woman and her expression was genuine. “Maria, my sincerest apologies for the intrusion though I can’t say I regret it in the slightest.” The apologetic expression turned into a teasing, promising grin. “I am certain that this small glimpse will keep me wishing I could write a certain fiancée’s name at the end of that long list.” And before she could respond, Elora winked and shut the door behind her. Clover utilized all of her strength to not snort at the ridiculous nature of this interaction. For all of the heiress’ bravado, however, the seamstress had never seen her so overt in her attentions - besides with the men she was attempting to manipulate. This felt different snd Clover couldn’t quite place her finger on it.
“I cannot apologize to you enough, Lady Belvedere. She truly is my best patron and I am afraid that it has…given her the idea that she can take certain liberties with my time.”
Her smirk broadened to a grin. Elora Terril had proven that she was nothing if not a master of badinage, and Maria found herself enjoying the parry of words in spite of the interruption. Whatever unspoken game her unexpected guest was playing, Maria was an equally formidable participant; she didn’t fail to notice the faint blush that newly rouged the beautiful woman’s sculpted cheeks. A shimmer of triumph shone in the Belvedere heiress’ amber gaze. She watched Elora in the angled portion of the mirror, the huntress becoming the prey.
Just as before, the woman departed as quickly as she’d appeared, leaving Maria feeling strangely breathless in her wake. She’d nearly forgotten Chloe’s presence completely—the woman’s intention, unbeknownst to Maria—until the seamstress spoke, voicing her apologies yet again on behalf of her significant patron. The Belvedere sighed, loosening her shoulders somewhat as she studied herself once more in the mirror. “No fault of yours, Miss Paice,” she replied, watching the tradeswoman as she pinned a section of the dress at her waist. “I understand your position. However…” She trailed off in a pause, realizing that her tone had lost its warmth. When she began again, her voice was only marginally lighter. “However, I should like to think that for what I’m paying for your services and artistry, it warrants some firmer boundaries. Or, at the very least, a locked door.”
Maria sighed again and watched as Chloe made her way around the rest of the gown, stopping to pin and drape as her expert hands deemed necessary. Slowly, her excitement began to return. And when Miss Paice at last stepped away, allowing the brunette to move more freely, Maria twisted to admire the new angles. The fabric was structured, as promised, but that also gave it heft—weight that allowed the free-flowing white material of the skirt to cascade elegantly from her hips to pool at her feet. “It’s beautiful, truly,” she emphasized again, smoothing her hands over the bodice against her abdomen.
She stepped down with a hand from Chloe, who carefully eased her out of the dress and returned the garment to its form. Maria dressed quickly and pulled on her coat. They arranged the rest of the details on her way out to the front of the shoppe. “I suppose the next time I see you will be on my wedding day,” she told the seamstress with a smile. Speaking the words made the date seem far closer now, and she couldn’t discern whether the butterflies in her stomach were excitement or nerves. “You and Dennis have yet to disappoint. I look forward to seeing the finished piece.”
With that, she left Rose’s—and the most important gown she’d ever own—in the hands of the woman she’d caught sneaking out of her brother’s room at sunrise just eleven days ago. She chuckled to herself as she climbed into the Belvedere-branded cab waiting for her outside.
————
Despite the diminishing light of the early autumn evening, the bindery was surprisingly bright and airy. Quinn had half-expected it to be like a stuffy old library, the air more dust than oxygen, and packed to the crown molding with musty tomes and warped paper. Just the thought was almost enough to make him sneeze. But Mr. Porter’s was immaculate…almost surgical. Shelves lined the walls floor to ceiling, but they were clearly organized by material—stacks of davey board, rolls of book cloth, sheets of leather, and a spectrum of thread—and the few actual books visible from where he stood appeared to be in perfect condition. It wasn’t so much a library as a kitchen, the ingredients on display while the finished product was enjoyed elsewhere.
“Welcome in, General Belvedere.” The middle-aged proprietor shoved narrow glasses further up his hooked nose and offered a warm but nervous smile. “I was surprised but pleased to get your message last week. I’m more accustomed to hearing from your father. How is he?” Mercifully, the man’s professional excitement didn’t allow Quinn a chance to respond. The bespectacled bookbinder presented a tome wrapped loosely in protective ivory muslin, practically throwing it into the Belvedere heir’s grasp. “I hope it’s to your liking. If you wouldn’t mind having a look before you go…?”
“Certainly,” Quinn replied warmly, shooting a reassuring smile to the man when he noted the craftsman’s trembling fingers. Unlike other tradespeople—such as a seamstress, whose craft required regular intimate dealings with clients—bookbinders rarely interfaced with their upper-crust customers, and it was especially rare to host them in their own shops. Repairs and fresh ledgers were typically requested by written message or standing order, then retrieved and delivered by noble house staff. To have any member of the militia, let alone a general with a powerful last name, standing in the man’s private workshop was likely a first…and understandably intimidating.
Quinn peeled back the cloth, callused hands gentle, to reveal an exquisite volume bound in a deep chocolate leather so rich it may as well have been black. He cradled it against his left palm while his right fingers ran delicately along the cover’s turned edges. A smile quirked the corners of his mouth. He slowly traced the shapes debossed into the front cover, admiring the geometric pattern that ran in a rectangle parallel to its borders and the shadows cast by the subtle depressions on the surface. Despite being nearly an inch and a half thick, the book opened easily, its construction such that the reinforced spine was allowed to separate from the sewn book block; it would more easily lie flat on a drawing surface that way without jeopardizing the integrity of the binding. The general flipped an inside page and rubbed the luxurious paper between his thumb and forefinger, trying to imagine what Chloe might think.
Mr. Porter inhaled excitedly. “One of our finest stocks, General, sir,” he quipped, clasping his hands behind his back as if to refrain from touching the finished piece again. “A cotton fiber blend. A dream to work with, really. Soft enough for the finest graphite, but dense enough that it will hold ink without bleed. It will hold up even with water-paints and color washes.”
“This will do nicely, Mr. Porter,” Quinn said, turning the tome over to examine the back cover in the setting sunlight. He met the man’s eager eyes and gave a pleased nod. “Might I make use of a pen and paper? I’d like to tuck a note inside. I’d hate to waste a single page of this fine book with my scribbles.” He thought back to Chloe’s existing sketchbook, to which he’d done just that. A crooked smile tilted his lips as the man, face flushed with the praise, jumped to oblige.
The fountain pen Mr. Porter brought back was heavy in Quinn’s grasp, its fine nib perfect for the general’s severe but elegant script. He did not fail to notice that the provided note paper, trimmed just smaller than the book’s pages, seemed to be made of the same soft fiber as the sketchbook’s interior. His words glided across the center in viscous black ink, flowing out of him like a poem.
For hopeless sketches.
For sublime and terrible beauty.
For ruin.
And for rapture.
—Q.
He left a final flourish to the tail of his initial and tucked the note inside the tome. He turned to Mr. Porter again, who stood wringing his hands behind the general. “Excellent work,” Quinn commended, holding out the book.
The bookbinder’s cheeks flushed yet a deeper shade of crimson as he took the piece back from the general. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “Allow me to wrap it for you. A moment, just a moment.”
He disappeared into the back of the shop and returned with the sketchbook neatly packaged—swaddled in an upgraded deep burgundy muslin and tied with a glossy navy ribbon, likely indicative of Mr. Porter’s many military-associated clients. Quinn repeated his sincere thanks and departed the shop with the volume tucked protectively under his arm. “Jansson, another stop before we head back to Avondale,” he called to the driver of his waiting cab. His words manifested as clouds on the cold air. “Rose’s, if you please. On the Avenue.”
The bookbinder’s shop had been well off the beaten path in a quiet section of the city, tucked along a boulevard so narrow it was practically an alley. By contrast, Rose’s was situated in a bustling commercial district frequented by Thebesian elite. Quinn must have driven past its sign countless times without ever really seeing it; the street was one of several convenient detours when the main roads between Compound and Avondale were congested with troop movements. Parked outside the shoppe now, however, he felt a strange anticipatory thrill ignite a flame low in his belly. A knowing smirk, caught somewhere between remembrance and anticipation, curved his lips and brought a wicked gleam to his eyes.
A small bell announced his entrance as he strode confidently through the front door. He had no idea how many people worked at Rose’s, yet he couldn’t help but feel a little crestfallen when it wasn’t a certain dark-haired temptress emerging from the back room to greet him.
A boy with a noticeable limp strode toward him and stiffened slightly at the sight of the general hovering in the doorway. Quinn didn’t wait for the boy to gather the nerve to speak. “I’m here to see Miss Paice, Miss Chloe Paice,” he announced with an easy authority.
“I’m very sorry, Sir, but she’s not in at the moment,” the boy said, meeting the general’s eyes before looking hastily away. “Was she expecting you?”
“Hmm. No.” Quinn’s face betrayed nothing of the icy disappointment that had extinguished his excitement at the prospect of seeing Chloe, offering the boy a charismatic smile. “I trust you can ensure she receives this when she returns,” he said coolly, extending the wrapped sketchbook. The apprentice took it gingerly, as though the package might detonate. Quinn offered an easy nod and a word of thanks, then left as quickly as he’d appeared.
Clover, naturally, had the good sense to look properly chastised. She finished her work with minimal conversation and stepped back to allow the bride to admire her handiwork. It was a very rough draft of the final product but she wanted to make sure that she had the length of the sleeves perfectly tailored and the cut of her waist. The back would be completed on the day of the event to achieve the perfect silhouette, sewing her into a gown that her husband would likely tear from her body the first second he had.
The subsequent days were spent in a slow process of finalizing the beading of rose and blush and ruby and pale green. She began at the shoulders, twisting vines and herbs to resemble the epaulettes of the highest-ranking military officers. Once those had been completed after a week of meticulous work and long hours, she began on the roses that would highlight the shoulders. Deft fingers stitched them seamless with the other work and by a week and a half the neckline and shoulders of the dress were completed. As she stood in the back room examining the exquisite gown, her masterpieces, on the body form she images how Maria’s face would light up. She could picture the way her eyes were sparkle as she touched it for the first time.
Something slithered in then, unbidden and smelt forgotten over the last week of meticulous work. It was a wholly different expression in deep golden amber eyes. It was dangerous, dark and beckoning. Quinn. Fuck. She couldn’t shake him once he had strode into her mind, smirking like a devil and dressed like a gentleman. Nothing would make him leave and she found her work slipping. The arms came next and she set Dennis to work on the thyme and oregano leaves that would round Lady Belvedere’s wrists since her mind was elsewhere.
Clover set to finishing his suit. It was the only thing the seemed to keep him at bay. She finished the snakes, adding a touch of golden thread to their scales and a glimmer of silver to the thorns of the Belvedere roses. Another week passed and she had nearly completed the elaborate brother-of-the-bride attire. She had the jacket on the male body form that was closest to his measurements. She wanted to make sure everything looked flawless together, from pants to shirt to jacket. It was utterly breathtaking and she imagined him standing before her in it. That was a mistake.
“Fuck you. You’ll be nothing once I’m done with this.” She said it to no one but herself as she turned her back on the clothing. Gathering her satchel and slipping from her soft shoes to her boots, she leaned over Dennis’ shoulder at the counter. “Beautiful. Don’t forget I want to add the ruby rose, though. Left arm, straight from her rings finger. And I should be able to do the beading at the back within the next two weeks - just in time for the wedding.”
“Where are you headed?” He asked, not looking up from his needle and beaded thread.
“I want to meet a new supplier for silk. I have an apology gift in mind for Lady Belvedere since Lady Terril barged in like a bull at her last fitting.” Dennis looked up at her words with a raised eyebrow. “Something intimate,” Clover added with a slight grin. The boy knew generalities of course but she guessed that at his age he was just beginning to explore his sexuality with some of the local girls. “You’ll understand one day.” His face turned bright red and she was out the door.
The seamstress returned late in the afternoon, just as Dennis was finishing up the day’s tasks. She carried a few bundles in her arms that he took from her to assist her entering from the light snowfall that had begun a few hours prior. “He had quite the wares and the quality was impeccable. A tad overpriced but I haven’t seen colors like these.” She set the remainder in her arms on the counter and her eyes flickered to a burgundy-colored package. Eyebrows knitted together, just a Dennis took notice of her attention.
“Someone brought that for you while you were out.”
“Who?” Curiosity clawed are her as she reached for it.
“Didn’t say.” Her protégé muttered as she settled down the items he had taken from her. Worry laced itself through her limbs. Was it from Aaron? He would never risk it unless something terrible had happened. “Some military type. Real sure of himself.”
Immediately, her hand froze mid-reach for the item. General Quinnley Belvedere. No. Certainly not. Perhaps it was some fabric for another military family that frequented her shoppe. It has to be. Part of her, however, thrilled at the idea that it may be her one night stand. Had he sent something for his suit? No. Absolutely not. It wasn’t from him. It couldn’t be.
“Thank you. Take tomorrow off, I’ll finish the beading.” She locked the door behind him when he left and stared at the package from afar. Leaning against the bolted entrance, she studied it thoroughly for what felt like an hour before picking it up. The weight of it was more than she had anticipated. It was not fabric and felt very much like a book. Fingers itches to tear it open, yet also to maintain the mystery - in hopes that reality wouldn’t shatter the small part of her that longed for it to be from the devastatingly handsome general.
Clover ascended the stairs to her small loft and entered. She lit a few lamps to brighten the space, electricity only worth the cost in the shoppe below. She settled onto the small, worn couch in the little living space as the black demon appeared beside her with a number of choice words about the lack of immediate food. “One second you bastard.” She breathed, setting the package on her lap delicately. The rebel leader slid the navy ribbon off of the item and proceeded to unfold the deep, rich muslin.
Breath hitched in her throat as grey eyes grew stormy with emotion. Immediately she knew it was a sketchbook that was vastly superior to any one that she had ever owned. It was debossed and in the thick leather, an intricate pattern resided that she lightly ran her fingertips over. And the pages. Holy fuck the sheer number of pages that must be bound inside. Clover swallowed and re-examined the packaging for any sort of note but found none. Breathing accelerated slightly, a nervous energy settling into her chest. Opening the covering, there were words. Fuck. His handwriting right before her eyes on a loose page. For ruin. And for rapture.
Eyes were two swirling hurricanes of emotions as she settled on the elegant and price Q. Quinn. Quinn. Quinn. Swallowing, finger hovered above it, afraid to touch it as it might suddenly dissolve before her. He had given her a sketchbook, a large and expensive sketchbook. It was...the most thoughtful gift that she had ever received, the most lavish, the…fuck.
In a daze, she set the tome down and wandered the loft absently. The beast was fed and she attempted to occupy herself with a myriad of tasks and failed. She found herself reading and then reciting his words in her head, over and over again. Nothing satisfied her that evening or the entirety of the next day. Quinnley had entrenched himself firmly into her mind that she could not shake him. She entered the back room once more, blue-gray eyes angrily staring at the suit that hung there. She should just burn it, claim that something terrible had happened - earn his ire and never think of him again.
But she couldn’t. She couldn’t shake him. The feel of his hands as they splayed along her back, holding her close. The taste of wine on his lips and the slight citrus of vetiver filling her nose. The sensation of his curls beneath her fingers and the way he moaned her name against her neck. The attentive nature of his hands, his eyes, his mouth. The general had placed her under a spell and there was nothing she could do to shake him. Fuck him. Fuck this.
Angrily she tore the jacket from the form it rested on and stomped to her thread, gathering an embroidery needle as she did so. She sat by a lamp in her loft, then, slowly stitching her revenge onto the inner pocket of the suit jacket. He would be the only one that saw it, besides whoever laundered his clothing, but even then they probably wouldn’t notice the subtle difference from midnight blue to black unless they were placing something into the pocket while wearing it. In her elegant, flowing script she stitched and then examined. She heard his words in her mind, warm and thick and full of lust.
To the verge of madness.
ywt.
She studied the words, the embodiment of all her irritation, her displeasure and her longing. She longed to see him again, to touch him again, to hear him say her bloody name in the throes of unbridled ecstasy. Clover thought that it might have eased some of the tension in her limbs, in her mind, to see the words written in her own hand on the item that had initially brought them together.
But it only made he want him all the more.
Tossing the jacket aside, she stood and began to stretch. Very occasionally, Clover would feel an obsession or a pressure, a stress. Rose had taught her to channel it when it all became too much, when the world felt like it was pressing down on her. She had called it yoga, something from an age gone by. The seamstress ran through the routine that steadied her mind, settled her spirit into place. The poor woman had to run through the motions three times before she felt better.
The suit was folded carefully, packaging the shirt separately from the other two items. They were placed inside soft packaging linen, then laid to rest in two white boxes. She tied a thick black ribbon around each one, securing them underneath. A larger burgundy ribbon wrapped around both boxes and tied with an extravagant bow, to match the muslin of the gift that the general had sent her.
Dennis arrived the next morning and she met him at the door with the package, so she didn’t have to look at it any longer, didn’t have to think of it any longer. She had hidden the sketchbook away…for now, just until after the wedding. She wouldn’t have to see him again, think of him again. It would be completely over.
“Take this personally to the Belvedere estate.” She gave him money to pay for a carriage to carry him there and back, with a little extra for his trouble of doing it. “You may leave it with the doorman.” Thomas? If she remembered correctly, but she couldn’t recall. Instead, another vision came to mind. The sight of Quinn rising from the bed, her fingers lingering on the wood of the couch as he approached her with all the speed and grace of an apex predator – no. Fuck no. Dennis departed and returned later in the day and didn’t really discuss the drop-off, while Clover purposefully did not inquire.
The next three weeks were a blur of white fabric and beading. The wedding gown was everything she dreamed it would be and more. The seamstress had really outdone herself, if merely to keep her mind and hands occupied. The day arrived and the rebel leader rose before the dawn. Dennis was not coming with her, but Maria had sent a carriage for her to arrive shortly. The dress had been packed carefully to prevent creasing, with extra beads, thread. She also tied up a small gift for the bride-to-be, a dainty silk chemise with a slit all the way up to her hip. Delicate lace plunged beneath the breasts and would be held on her shoulders with thin straps. Something for their honeymoon. Briefly, as she was assisted into the much nicer travel carriage than she was used to, her mind strayed to what someone else might think of her own body in – no. Fuck.
The familiar gates came into view as the carriage pulled around to reveal the front doors that she had walked through nearly two months prior. She could picture the stairs, the hallway…the room. The sight of the sculpted man hovering above her, naked and wanting and waiting. Clover closed her eyes tightly against the memory, the yearning the knotted itself momentarily in the pit of her stomach.
Avondale was already beautifully decorated and light began to stream over the horizon and onto the trees of Thebes. Servants scurried about, moving vases and flowers and chairs. Chloe was ushered into the bridal suite. No bridesmaids yet occupied the outer room that she was led through. The large room was filled with gifts already, varying sizes that Clover suspected were from her fiancé. A massive gold-rimmed mirror had its back facing the double doors leading to the private room. A servant shut the door behind her and she looked around. The bed at one end would do just fine and it was clearly not where the betrothed Belvedere had slept. Chloe unpacked the dress and laid it out on the bed before retrieving a hangar from the wardrobe. She lifted the dress up high above her and then hung it on one ornate end of the mirror, so that Maria would see it when she entered.
The doors opened and the seamstress turned, having just laid out her items on a small bench hidden from view by the mirror. Chloe turned and smiled. “I thought we might try one fitting before your hair gets done, just so you can see what it will be like.” Chloe smiled broadly, hiding her true purpose of eavesdropping among the servants behind the cultivated exterior of a humble seamstress.
“Ah, Belvedere. Thank you for coming. Sit.”
Quinn closed and locked the heavy wooden door behind him without a word, the latch echoing ominously in the stillness. The room was one of the largest meeting spaces at Compound, a cavernous former library that had been outfitted with a long, narrow table across from an enormous marble fireplace.
Quinn slid wordlessly across from Major General Arthyr Ridgemont, a hardened middle-aged officer usually stationed in the West, and Colonel Daveed Franklin, a man a handful of years older than Quinn who oversaw the Eastern Coastal brigades. He’d met them only a couple of times previously when they were in Thebes for their twice-yearly reports, an event that typically drew a far larger number of remote leaders to the capital than just two. Surely that couldn’t be what they were doing here now.
The other three high-ranking men in attendance were Compound mainstays, and he was not surprised to find them there.
“Gentlemen,” the High Commander addressed, his eyes narrow. “You know Brigadier General Quinnley Belvedere, son of Marius.”
The High Commander was in a mood; Quinn knew the man too well. His hazel eyes were icy, his lips pursed into a thin line. There would be no feigned pleasantries for this meeting, which evidently had already been going on for quite some time judging by the men’s state of frustration and the fading fire.
Quinn glanced to the papers strewn across the table and arched a brow. “Read me in,” the general prompted, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his broad chest. “You didn’t summon me across Compound in a windstorm just to admire my uniform, surely.” Despite the humor of his words, his tone was steely with caution.
High Commander Walther leaned forward slowly until his forearms rested on the table’s edge, his gaze locking with the Belvedere’s. “Quinnley,” he drawled. His tone was flat and dangerous, but Quinn didn’t get the sense the man’s ire had anything to do with him. Thankfully, he was right. “We’ve had new reports from a couple of the remote posts. Ridgemont and Franklin were kind enough to deliver this information in person.” He nodded to the men he named. Quinn narrowed his eyes. Something potentially important enough that two outpost higher-ups would insist on trekking into Thebes?
“Does the name ‘Clover’ mean anything to you?” The colonel looked to the Belvedere general.
Quinn nodded, slowly. “We’ve heard it repeated a handful of times during interrogations, from prisoners accused of treachery.” His gaze flicked to the High Commander, who granted his okay with a single dip of his chin. This wasn’t the first time this topic had been discussed, but never openly, with others outside Walther’s innermost circle of confidantes. “We’ve never confirmed a meaning, but we’ve assumed it’s some type of code. A code name, more specifically.”
The older General Ridgemont pushed a small scrap of paper toward Quinn. It was heavily creased and torn in the corner; the graphite used to make marks was smeared nearly beyond legibility, as though it hadn’t been a pencil but rather a piece of charcoal. The Belvedere man carefully pinched one tattered corner and held it to the dwindling firelight. It was a bizarre string of letters interspersed with roman numerals, but the pattern was regular enough to indicate it was some type of encryption. Simple, and crude, but a code nonetheless.
Wordlessly, Colonel Franklin slid yet another scrap of paper toward Quinn. A similar code had been scribbled in narrow handwriting on the water-wrinkled sheet.
“Discovered independently in the west and the east. The first was found in the Blue Ridge encampment, intercepted between two second-year recruits,” the High Commander explained darkly. Quinn did not have to guess what happened to the soldiers from whom the message was taken. “The second was discovered in a western barracks during inspections.” Walther drew a long, strained breath, the only tell that belied the eerie calm in his tone. “We deciphered the messages easily enough. But we cannot ascertain whether they are connected. Or, furthermore, if either or both have a connection to ‘Clover,’ whatever it is. Or whoever he is.”
Quinn looked to Ridgemont and Franklin. “And you two brought your discoveries directly here?”
“We did, General.”
“Independently?”
Ridgemont nodded, his weathered face stoic. Franklin spoke. “It seems too much of a coincidence to have discovered both messages within days of one another with such similar contents. But we also can find no definitive evidence to support our suspicions.”
“I presume the contents are unhelpful or unnoteworthy, if you haven’t told me what they said,” Quinn commented dryly.
Despite the High Commander’s mood, a trace of a smile flitted across his face, so quick that Quinn was sure no one else had seen it. “Names and locations,” he supplied. “All names were confirmed to be rural recruits in the camp books, none older than their fifth year. The locations listed matched their records as places of birth.” The man waved his hand. “Middle-of-nowhere settlements. Most hardly larger than a few families living in a group.”
“Meaningless,” grunted one of the mainstay generals, Mandeville.
“You can’t know that,” shot back Franklin, bringing a clenched fist down to the table.
Quinn sat up a little straighter. The source of tension he’d detected in the room upon his arrival had become clear. The outpost officers believed there was something more to these messages than the face-value contents, but at least one, if not all, of the regime’s Thebesian cronies did not agree. Quinn couldn’t yet tell where the High Commander stood. “Surely you have the manpower in your respective regions to investigate these settlements,” Quinn stated, barely concealing his annoyance at having to point out the obvious to the seasoned men.
“Exactly,” Franklin exclaimed, his triumph laced with poison as he glared across the table at Mandeville.
“A waste of resources and time. And a needless display of paranoia.” One of the High Commander’s other close advisors, General Mallory, bared gritted teeth. “What does it say about our forces if we fly off the handle at a couple of schoolgirl notes confiscated under a pillow? What do you imagine these hill rats could even accomplish? They’re not even through their training.”
Quinn listened intently to the exchange, but his eyes were trained on the High Commander. The dictator had leaned back, his fingers knotted together, and his hazel gaze glittered dangerously. His attention darted from one side of the table to the other, settling at last on the Belvedere general opposite him even as others spoke.
Ridgemont chimed in next, breaking his silence. “The note at my facility was discovered beneath a loose tile in the floor that had been chipped from its grout to conceal a hidden compartment,” the man said, his deep voice low and steady. “I implore you, General Mallory…why would someone go to such lengths to stow away a message if it held no significance?”
High Commander Walther sat up straighter. “Gentlemen,” he addressed, still looking at Quinn. “You’re aware that General Belvedere is acting as our Interim Chief of the Academy.” No one dared break the pause that followed those words. Even Quinn wasn’t sure what was going to be said next, and he drew a slow breath. “He’s well on his way to securing the position permanently. As both reports have originated from training facilities, the issue is Belvedere’s jurisdiction. I summoned him here for his insight.”
Quinn held the High Commander’s gaze for a long moment. This was a test. “Frankly, gentlemen, I fail to see what you’re arguing about,” he confessed, earning a quirk of Walther’s brow that he couldn’t interpret. The others stared at him as though seeing him for the first time. He pressed on, confident. “We may not know who, or what, this ‘Clover’ is, or even if these notes are related. But who’s to say it doesn’t originate beyond the walls of the capital? At this point, considering how little we know, it makes the most sense to investigate every lead.” He looked pointedly at Mallory, who seemed the most vehemently opposed to pressing the matter further. “Even if traipsing through backwater shitholes isn’t glamorous enough for some of you.”
The man’s ruddy complexion paled slightly. Curiously, General Mallory was also the least close with the High Commander out of his regular cast of compatriots; if Mallory hoped this bizarre defense of the militia’s image would win him favor, he was sorely mistaken.
“The recruits listed by name,” the Belvedere general went on. “They’ve been detained?”
“We sent a messenger to each camp this morning as soon as we cross-referenced the records,” affirmed Franklin. “They should arrive before nightfall. Our majors will apprehend them.”
“I’d like them brought here.” Even the colonel looked surprised at that. Quinn looked to the High Commander, who did not react. “Those names have at least one thing in common, and I intend to find out if there’s more. We’ll question them all separately, find the weakest in their chain. If they’re young and stupid enough to fall in line with some kind of rebel group, then they’ll be easy enough to break. And if they don’t, then surely they knew what was coming to them when they willingly participated in treason.”
He turned to the outpost officers. It felt strange, but also a little thrilling, to be delivering an order to someone like Ridgemont; his designation of Major General would normally outrank Quinn’s Brigadier status were it not for the Chief title. “In the meantime, I’d like each of you to lead an inquisition into those villages when the interrogations are complete,” he continued. “But keep your mission quiet. Read in only your most skilled majors. If this is somehow connected to a larger network, it would behoove us to get ahead of it quickly.”
Leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table, he met the eyes of each officer in turn, lingering on Ridgemont and Franklin. When he spoke again, his tone had taken on a dark timbre. “I trust you to deal with civilians who get in your way appropriately, but keep in mind that I will not have the reputation of my training program weakened by letting anyone believe they can get away with disloyalty. Set an example, if it comes down to it. I won’t have these ideas proliferating out there in nowhereland.”
“Understood, General,” the colonel quickly agreed.
“Understood,” came Ridgemont’s curt response.
The High Commander rose to his feet, cueing the others to do the same. “It seems we have a way forward,” Walther declared. He dismissed them with a grunt and a wave of his hand.
“I’ll expect a report as soon as you return,” Quinn instructed as the men quickly departed. He lingered behind, leaning over to rest his fingertips on the table before him. The Belvedere general said nothing, and neither did the High Commander. Quinn wanted to shout at the man to speak, to say anything at all, but he knew patience was the only method to enduring the loaded silence.
At last, Walther looked up. Fierce hazel eyes met honey-brown as he strolled leisurely toward the door, pausing at Quinn’s side. Wordlessly, he clapped a hand on Quinn’s shoulder. The ghost of a wicked smile passed over his features. Even as well as Quinn knew him, there was no way to tell whether the expression was born of approval, or pride, or of private knowledge that the Belvedere’s orders were foolhardy.
But only time would tell, because the military dictator certainly wouldn’t. Time…or results.
————
Two weeks later, Quinn was stepping out of the shower when an urgent rapping on his bedroom door pulled him prematurely from the embrace of steam. Hastily donning his robe, he tiptoed, still dripping, to answer Thomas’ insistent call.
“There’s been a radio correspondence from Compound, Master Belvedere,” the butler said, handing the general a handwritten transcription. “You’re needed immediately.”
“Thank you, Thomas,” he dismissed calmly, but his pulse had already skyrocketed. The beat thundered in his ears as he quickly dressed. His hair was still a mess of damp tresses atop his head when he set out into the cold early morning, the waves immediately stiffening with ice.
High Commander Walther was already waiting for him outside when the Belvedere carriage pulled up to the central headquarters. Unsurprisingly, Quinn couldn’t read the man’s expression. He saluted Northam’s leader with a fist across his chest. A snide, triumphant smile spread slowly across the High Commander’s visage. “They’ve arrived,” was all he said, but it was all he needed to say. Quinn immediately knew he referred to the alleged rebels from the remote training camps, the ones he’d requested be transported into Thebes for questioning. “Shall we get started?”
A dark, predatory smile crept across the general’s face and turned his amber eyes fiery. “I thought you’d never ask, sir,” Quinn replied, earning a chuckle.
They met a travel-weary Colonel Franklin and a better-rested General Ridgemont in the lobby of the prison stronghold, both of whom downloaded Quinn on everything that had transpired on their respective journeys. Five accused recruits had come from the Eastern post, and four from the West. According to their escorts, two had already broken down on the trip to the capital, and it was only a day’s ride.
“Start with them,” Quinn instructed immediately. “Easy extraction. Whatever we learn, we leverage against the others. They’ll be singing before lunch.”
The High Commander’s eyes glittered with approval. Quinn’s relief was immense, as though he’d been holding his breath for the past week and was finally allowed to inhale. This was the first major situation he’d navigated since his appointment as Interim Chief of the Academy, and while he’d known the High Commander’s eyes had been on him for some time, this felt different…like he’d arrived at a juncture. Not a crossroads, with a simple choice of left or right, but a cliff, where it was fall or fly.
And it wasn’t the first time in as many months he’d felt the High Commander’s hand pushing against his back on the precipice.
The Belvedere’s guess at how long it might take in the interrogation chambers for the suspected traitors to break turned out to have been an overestimate. They called off the inquisition well before noon, and the prisoners, having each confessed at various stages of coercion, were transported below ground through Compound’s labyrinth of tunnels to await their grim fates.
Colonel Franklin emerged from the subterranean cells flushed, his mussed hair clinging to a sweat-dampened forehead, his blue eyes wild with a look Quinn knew well—the sort of half-mad, excited expression soldiers wore marching off a battlefield. As their Chief, Quinn had delegated the bulk of the questioning to Franklin and Ridgemont…not out of unwillingness to do it himself, but rather because he knew the prisoners were already familiar with, and afraid of, their respective heads of camp. Quinn was just another uniform to them, some untouchable rank too far removed from their lives to have much visceral meaning. But their immediate supervisors were men they’d already witnessed giving orders and doling punishments, with names and faces they’d feared since their first day as recruits.
It had been an easy decision to put them in charge…and even easier to see how little Franklin had minded.
“General Belvedere,” the colonel greeted breathily, baring his teeth in a grin. He ran a hand through his hair and heaved a deep breath, the glint in his gaze diminishing as he moved to stand in the sunlight. “It seems you made a wise call.”
“Indeed.” Quinn locked his hands behind his back and strode to the window next to Franklin. “I think it’s a dead-end with this ‘Clover’ business. Far too sloppy…it’s not at all consistent with what we’ve pulled here.”
“I imagine it was a rude awakening for these bumpkins to learn how things really are in Thebes,” the other man said. “They hear about it all their lives, but the truth is that most of them don’t leave their villages to go farther than training camp, and then they get deployed to the same regions. They’re sheltered. And naïve.” He laughed. “They thought they were being clever. But they have no idea what happens even thirty miles from their homes.”
Quinn looked thoughtful. “Maybe that warrants bringing a little of Thebes to them, then.”
“Sir?”
“When you visit the locations listed in the notes…” he said, his tone suddenly dangerous. “You said they were the rebels’ birthplaces, correct? I suggest letting them all know that it’s not just themselves they’re sacrificing when they choose to defy us.”
A knowing smirk contorted the colonel’s features. “I was hoping you’d say that, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Quinn smiled, but a small jolt of self-awareness struck him then, catching him off-guard. His duty as a soldier, regardless of rank, dictated he protect the interests of Northam and its militia. Executing the families of confessed traitors meant fewer might try to resist in the future, setting a powerful example that the reward for defiance was unfathomable pain. Frankly, Quinn had no qualms about making that call. But where did one draw the line? At what point was killing off Northam’s citizens just as much a detriment to the cause, harming their own numbers?
“Spare no one older than thirteen.” His tongue formed the words easily. He knew it was too simple a solution to the questions whirling in his head, but it was at least a start. “Let any children see what happens when they get too many ideas. When they’re old enough to begin their service, they’ll think better of following in a traitor’s footsteps.”
“Excellent thought, Quinnley.”
The unexpected steely voice came from behind the two men. Colonel Franklin jumped, then spun to salute High Commander Walther. Quinn turned more leisurely, saluting in turn.
“No sense in eliminating future recruits without good reason,” the High Commander continued. His eyes crinkled in the corners with a warmth that was disturbingly close to genuine, almost patriarchal. He was pleased. Possibly even impressed. “They’re a useful investment, after all. Waste not, and all that.”
With the High Commander’s approval, a modicum of the Belvedere general’s doubt was assuaged. He could abide by violence; it was a hard, inescapable necessity of the world, and he’d spent his life in the thick of that very truth. So it wasn’t bloodshed that he detested, but rather senselessness and inefficiency. He would always do what needed to be done so long as there was a reason why. Killing for killing’s sake was just as the High Commander said—a waste.
The rest of the day proved far less eventful, and the triumph of the morning slowly ebbed until only exhaustion remained. Quinn watched the passing city in a daze from his cab window as he returned to Avondale that night, the last light of the evening fading quickly behind the hills.
He had the estate to himself again now that Maria and Max had set off for Ponte Vedra, and according to a telegram he received from them a handful of days prior, they would be spending their remaining time before the wedding in Washentown. His sister’s absence, despite the brevity of her stay, was keenly felt. Perhaps it was their bond as twins that was making it so pronounced…or maybe he just hadn’t realized how lonely he’d been until she broke his routine.
The butler greeted him at the front door as the carriage returned to the stables. “Dinner in my quarters tonight, Thomas,” Quinn instructed, hunger gnawing at his belly. “Bring a bottle of red, as well.”
“Very good, Master Belvedere.” He cleared his throat. “A package came for you while you were away. I took the liberty of placing it in your room.”
“Thank you, Thomas,” he said as a dismissal, and found himself taking the stairs a little faster than usual at the behest of his sudden curiosity.
A stack of two shallow white boxes awaited him on the foot of his bed, tied together with a burgundy ribbon so deep it was nearly black in the evening light. Quinn flipped on another set of electric lights, and the sconces on either side of the fireplace burst into light. He slipped off his uniform jacket, assessing the package from a distance first before stepping up and extending a hand to it. The curling satin loops of the bow were soft and luxurious between his fingers. And although no note was attached to the outside, he knew only one source of ribbons as fine as the ones embracing the boxes.
Miss Chloe Paice.
His hunger and exhaustion were immediately forgotten as his pulse skyrocketed, and the rush of heat that flushed the skin of his chest made the room seem suddenly hotter and colder at once. He tucked his lower lip beneath his front teeth and tugged the ribbon loose.
The garment inside was nothing short of spectacular. He lifted it up delicately by the shoulders, marveling not only at its appearance, but at the supple feel of the fabric in his hands. It was Chloe’s sketch come to life in three dimensions. He’d wanted to look better than the part as he gave his beloved sister away. Certainly, she had delivered.
Unable to help himself, he slipped the perfectly tailored piece over his undershirt and stepped over to the full-length mirror. Quinn himself looked haggard from a long day at Compound, his eyes haunted by dark circles of exhaustion, but the jacket instantly made him look top-form. Despite himself, he grinned. It was everything he’d wanted and more. He ran his fingertips along each edge and each seam, slipping his hands in and out of each outer pocket, then exploring the inner ones—perfect for a concealed blade, he noted, looking down. A small pattern of stitching caught his eye then, just barely there against the satin black lining. He’d nearly missed it completely. He narrowed his eyes and craned his neck downward, dissecting the pattern with his stare.
No, not a pattern. Words.
To the verge of madness. ywt.
“Wicked indeed,” he murmured to himself, unable to keep the devilish grin from his lips. His touch traced the secret chain of stitches, brushing against where her furious hands had previously imparted them—a caress of their fingertips displaced by days and miles. The fire on the hearth crackled, as if sensing the warmth that had once again spread across his skin.
Yet as he slipped off the masterpiece of a jacket and slid it carefully onto a cedarwood hanger, the heat in his blood shifted from desire to frustration. Had he missed Chloe once again? A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts, and he answered the door to Thomas, who had brought his dinner tray and wine. “Say, Thomas,” the general said as the man was closing the door, “who dropped off the package for me today?”
“Oh, it was delivered by a boy,” the butler replied, furrowing his brow in remembrance. “He didn’t offer his name and I’m sorry to say I didn’t inquire, but he walked with a limp.”
So he hadn’t missed Miss Paice after all. The cool sting of disappointment sent a pang through his chest. She’d sent her apprentice, the boy with whom he’d left her sketchbook, to deliver his suit. He poured himself a glass of wine and downed it with a burgeoning scowl. He supposed he had no right to be disappointed, but…now that he had a moment to consider it, she’d also never acknowledged his gift. He refused to believe it was because she hadn’t liked it; he doubted even the most eagle-eyed of librarians could find issue with Mr. Porter’s stellar bindery work. So to send her errand boy to deliver his rather expensive commission, without so much as a note?
Unless the one stitched on the inside of the jacket counted…which, Quinn decided, it did not.
Embroidering their heated words by hand would have taken time, and a very conscious effort. Yet her silence seemed somehow just as pointed. He couldn’t decipher what sort of message she was trying to send, if any at all.
But who was he to be bothered by a one-night-stand losing touch? Because she was the best you’ve ever had, his thoughts answered hungrily, and he nearly choked on a swallow of wine. But for now, given how explosive their night together had been, he’d earned the right to wallow a little. Maybe he was lonelier than he cared to acknowledge. Yet despite the handful of names to whom he knew he could send a message and find his bed warmed by a willing woman within the hour, a tumble betwixt the sheets with anyone but Chloe Paice sounded…well, it sounded like a setup for disappointment, frankly.
The fucking seamstress had ruined fucking.
A bark of laughter escaped him. Time would quell the spell she’d cast over him, he knew. The game they played required two players, and he was certainly not guiltless in their strange exchange. She’d left him a portrait and a note; he’d shot back with a lavish sketchbook. Now, it seemed, retaliation came in barely concealed stitches.
Taunting one another. Haunting one another.
To the edge of ruin indeed.
————
Avondale had never looked so grand.
The thin layer of snow that dusted the ground overnight had given way to frost on the lawn, and bright beams of sunshine broke through the remaining wisps of clouds to bathe the hills and distant sea in warm autumn light. What few leaves still clung to the surrounding trees glowed with vibrant hues of vermilion amidst the evergreens.
Maria Belvedere had made it through a childhood as General Marius’ daughter, survived to graduate from the prestigious and dangerous Thebesian military academy, fought duels and challenges with men far larger and more experienced than she, and had navigated a world determined to dampen her fire. And yet, despite all of her accomplishments, and despite the fact that she’d never let it show…as she ascended the front stairs of her family’s estate on the morning of her wedding, the brunette had never been more nervous.
The calm of the second floor belied the organized chaos of preparations below. She ventured up the interior staircase unnoticed and headed straight for the bridal suite, where she slipped through the door and latched it quickly behind her…taking comfort in the privacy and quietude that the barrier afforded, even if only temporarily. The outer room was already full of beautifully wrapped gifts, but she wandered past them as though they weren’t there, making her way to the adjoining bedroom where she would dress.
What she saw when she crossed the threshold halted her in her tracks, nerves forgotten.
Golden sun streamed through the window like a spotlight upon her magnificent gown, which hung suspended from an ornate gilded mirror. A smile dawned across her face until it stretched to a full, giddy grin. This was it. This was the day, this was the dress. Now the fluttering in her stomach felt like excitement rather than fear.
Chloe stepped around from the side of the mirror, greeting her with an equally broad smile. Maria was surprisingly relieved to see the familiar face and told her so.
The initial fitting, and then the rest of the preparations, was a flurry of activity that passed more quickly than she’d imagined possible. Her long brunette tresses were curled and twisted and pinned until a sleek, simple chignon hugged the back of her skull. Simple makeup was brushed onto her eyelids, with mascara elongating her sweep of dark lashes, and her lips were painted a deep ruby red the same shade as the beaded rose on the left arm of her dress.
When at last she stepped into her dress, Miss Paice at the ready, Maria felt like a queen ready to conquer Northam. And, as promised, she looked the part. Better than the part, Quinn would have said. She stood statue-still as Chloe worked to finish stitching her into the garment, rotating when instructed to do so.
The other staff had been banished to the outer room as she dressed, and she reveled in the newfound quiet as she stood before the mirror. So when a single tap on the door frame was followed by the twist of the handle and the rhythm of padded footfalls on the carpet, Maria was startled enough to turn her head.
“Mia,” her immaculately-dressed brother said as he approached, his hands clasped dutifully behind his back, “the guests are arriving, but I built in an escape route if you’ve reconsidered and feel like making a break for it.”
There existed a small window of time after loitering with the servants, after hearing about the summoning of the General to the High Commander suddenly just the other day. She tried to discretely ascertain the purpose of the impromptu meeting but could not manage it with the bustle of everyone preparing for the event of the decade. The Belvedere beauty wedding a spice merchant far below her station. Everyone exclaimed how truly amazing it was that they had found a love match - after the marital arrangement of the previous masters of the house.
Clover found herself back in the bridal seat, seated in an inconspicuous spot by one grand window, while the bride had her lips painted. She withdrew a thick leather-bound book from her satchel and stared at it before turning the first page and setting graphite to paper. Intelligent eyes flicked from the seated bride to the page intermittently as she sought to capture the brightness of the woman’s complexion. She truly radiated. As she made sharp lines and blurred them with the pad of her finger, the rebel leader wondered what that must feel like - to be so confident in the decision one was making about binding themselves to another…forever.
Soon the military graduate was ready and Chloe demurely popped up, washed her hands under the running warm water of the sink and scrubbed with soap to ensure her hands were spotless. She helped her into the gown that fit precisely like a custom made glove. “You look absolutely magnificent. But now just hold very still because I do not think your groom would be amenable to me stabbing his bride.” She smiled and began her task.
Mia. The deep rumble of a familiar voice met her ears as she had been working on the final stitches to secure Maria into her gown. Every single muscle in her body stiffened in an effort to suppress the unwanted shiver. She had only heard the voice over the course of a single evening, but it had somehow wound itself deep into her memory like thorn-covered vines. Clover swallowed, stilling her heart and mind long enough to secure the final stitch in place with practiced fingers, looping the final blush bead just above the woman’s backside. It wouldn’t do for the bride’s entire bottom to become visible because the seamstress had heard the voice of a one-time lover.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. God damn fuck. He was here. In the same room she was. Likely wearing the suit she had spent far too much time on. The suit she had stitched secret words into, words she wondered if he had seen. What if he hadn’t? Her heart fell into her stomach. But what if he had? Bloody fucking fuck. The twins exchanged a light banter and Clover turned her back to the pair, busying herself with the storage of her remaining beads and thread. Then Maria fucking said something to her. Bitch. She thought, half serious and half joking in her own mind. The man’s twin drew attention to the hiding seamstress and there was no escape.
Clover rose slowly and turned. Eyes of a summer storm attempted to maintain focus on the stunning bride. All she had to do was keep her composure- something her whole identity was based around and should have been as Maria’s as breathing. Yet Quinnley Belvedere was a thorn in her side, breaking her concentration.
His form was out of focus at first but she could feel his eyes on her, the momentary surprise as if he had not expected her to be present here. Then finally, their eyes met and Clover cocked her head slightly, if only to hide the bolt of electricity that shot through her. It was worse than the first time. It was far more intense because she knew what a night with him was like. She knew how utterly fulfilling it was to be his lover.
The general, dressed in the midnight blue suit, stood there as an Adonis of old. Dark hair - tangled between her fingers - was perfectly coiffed back. Broad shoulders - her nails dug into his skin - perfectly filled out the jacket. His mouth - nipping at her skin behind her ear - tipped into a slight smirk, almost smugly. His hands - splayed against her back to keep her close - hung at his sides. Clover found herself somewhere else when she looked at him, wrapped in sheets, then her back against an ornate rug. The mask of Chloe, though, stayed in place. She dipped her head after a hot blush pressed along the bridge of her nose and high part of her cheeks. “General Belvedere.” The title left her mouth without any of the passion from their rendezvous. It sounded foreign. Wrong. Quinn. “I hope you found the suit to be to your liking.”
Because I’d like to see it crumpled on the floor of your bedroom right about now.
Fuck.
Well before the dawn was even a blush on the horizon, Quinn was downstairs setting the wheels of the day in motion.
From bustling kitchen staff to the extra help he’d brought in to finish decorating the estate, the house was a whirlwind of activity from cellar to rafters. Yet despite the impressive number of people all doing separate tasks, it did not feel chaotic. Rather, a dutiful sense of calm—regimented and efficient—hung in the perfumed air, a quiet born of confidence and direction and probably a little bit of healthy fear.
If it weren’t already obvious that this was a military household, then the fastidious preparations down to the very last detail surely cemented the reputation. All the meticulous planning Quinn and Maria had put into the grand event ahead of time was paying off now as the morning progressed without any major disruptions to speak of.
As afternoon approached, Quinn extricated himself from the organized commotion and ventured alone to his quarters, officially resigning his post as the preparations’ chief overseer and assuming his new dual role of head of the estate and brother of the bride. Guests would begin to arrive shortly to mill about and mingle amongst themselves, but everything was ready for them—lavish drinks and exotic hors d’oeuvres curated by Max and the Lane family, served in the sparkling rotunda outside the ballroom. Everything was as it should be, and it was time to release the reins. Now was the time to impress.
On an occasion like this, nothing less than perfect was acceptable. The general scrutinized himself before the bathroom mirror, flashing his reflection a broad, convincing smile of white teeth. This was Maria’s day, but he would be a fool to believe just as many eyes would not be on him. Everything—from the grooming of the Avondale grounds when the guests pulled in, to the cleanliness of the carpets they treaded upon, to the music that filled their ears and the flavors that coated their tongues—would reflect upon General Quinnley Belvedere, the new head of one of the most private estates in Northam. This was an opportunity to prove himself worthy in the eyes of Thebes, to demonstrate that he was more than capable of carrying on his legendary father’s legacy.
But part of that was to begin building a legacy of his own. And he didn’t care whose feathers it ruffled.
His practiced smile darkened to a smirk as he finished getting ready. He tamed his hair into a coif of soft waves atop his head, leaving a few strands wild to fall casually over his forehead. An edgy, fashionable auburn scruff clung cheeks and chin, meticulously trimmed and groomed to emphasize the sharp line of his jaw. All that was left was to don the suit.
The valet had pressed and laid out Chloe’s masterpiece of a garment and left it waiting for him on a cedarwood hanger next to the full-length mirror—the same one before which he’d stood while the seamstress’ hands deftly, and daringly, had taken his measurements all that time ago. As though his skin still recalled the exact sensation of her touch, a thrilling shiver raised gooseflesh over his limbs. He bit back a grin as he stepped into the perfectly-tailored trousers. No sense in frightening the young hired valet, who waited an arm’s length away with the long-sleeved shirt at the ready.
Still, it was difficult to keep his thoughts from straying to the enigmatic seamstress when her fine work was currently embracing every intimate curve and angle of his body.
The valet approached from behind, and Quinn slid his arms into the sleeves of buttery fabric. The color was a pale, delicate blue that appeared all the richer against his golden skin, and the perfection of its cut became undeniably obvious as soon as his nimble fingers buttoned it to the collar. He held out his wrists, where the valet ensured the folded cuffs were aligned, then inserted his cufflinks—small, simple roses in brushed silver, the same pair Marius had worn when he married Irina.
The only thing left now was the star of the outfit: the magnificent jacket, with its daring midnight fabric, sharp black lapels, tasteful embroidery…and its smoldering secret message pressing against his chest.
If the matter were to be judged on appearances alone, no one in Thebes could question Quinn’s authority as the new Master Belvedere. He looked himself over as the valet brushed any lingering threads or lint from his back and shoulders. I’d like to look better than the part, he’d insisted all those weeks ago, and Chloe had made it happen. That much was undeniable.
A spritz of cologne ensured that the subtle, rich fragrance of vetiver emanated from his person like an aura—the final finishing touch on an ensemble that was sure to dazzle. All that was left to do now was check in on his sister, who should have been finishing up by now. He knocked on the guest suite’s bedroom door twice, but waited only a beat before striding in, latching the door quickly behind him. Maria stood confidently before an impressive gilded mirror, her hands planted on her hips, her painted face distorting into a scowl he recognized as the one she reserved exclusively for her troublesome twin sibling. Some things never changed.
Despite himself, he grinned. “Mia,” he drawled, a hint of brotherly affection glowing in his amber gaze as he studied her in her dress. “The guests are arriving, but I built in an escape route if you’ve reconsidered and feel like making a break for it.”
“As if I wouldn’t already have my own contingency plan,” she replied curtly. “Brother, you insult me.”
“So I take it you haven’t changed your mind, then,” the general said with mock disappointment, stepping closer to admire his sister’s gown. He was by no means a connoisseur of contemporary women’s fashions, but the garment Maria wore was unlike any he’d ever seen before—and it was so undeniably Mia that he might have laughed if he weren’t so proud of her. It seemed they were both ready to make some societal waves.
“Have you finished with the beading?” Maria said suddenly.
Quinn quirked a brow. “Wh—” he began, but the syllable halted on his lips with an exhale of realization. Of course she wasn’t alone. And when he caught sight of the familiar woman putting the finishing touches on Maria’s gown, his heart nearly stopped mid-beat. If his sister’s smug expression was any indicator, his efforts to tamp his shock had not met his usual standard.
He’d imagined seeing her again a hundred times, in a hundred different scenarios. But never like this, and certainly never in the same room as his all-too-amused twin, who seemed to be reveling in the tension that suddenly stretched taut in the air. God damn you, Mia, he thought, but even as the silent curse echoed through his mind, his lips were already tugging into a devilish smile.
“Forgive me, but I believe you two are already acquainted,” Maria said, the knowing glint in her brown eyes belying her casual tone. She held out her left arm and made a point of studying the beading that twined its way around her sleeve. Quinn saw right through her charade. “Wasn’t it good of Miss Paice to…come?”
“Miss Paice,” the general greeted, unfazed by his sister’s crass innuendo. The seamstress, who seemed to have been looking everywhere except at him, at last met his gaze. That same electric thrill, just like the first time he’d looked into those enthralling stormcloud eyes of hers, sent a shockwave down his spine that settled as a smoldering heat in his core. And though it wasn’t his formal title he longed to hear from her rosy lips, his smile broadened when she spoke his name.
At her inquiry, he extended his arms slightly and tore his stare from hers just long enough to sweep over his crafted sleeves, not unlike Maria had only moments ago. “It’s everything I wanted, and everything you promised,” he continued, returning his fierce attention to her. He lifted his right hand and placed it on his chest—almost a salute—his flat palm resting atop his heart…and directly over the wicked missive she’d left for him in near-invisible monochrome thread. “And much, much more.”
Chloe pretended as though the innuendo soared straight above her head, though Clover inwardly rolled her eyes at the not-so-subtle jab. Her focus was on avoiding the man in the room for as long as was decent for a woman of her station, which unfortunately, was not a substantial amount of time. Thankfully, he did not address her by her first name and Clover searched his eyes with her stormy gray gaze. Then her eyes followed the same path as his, sweeping over the extravagant suit that she had crafted over a long month and a half.
Electricity shot through her when their gazes met once more. The hairs on her arms almost stood up when she suppressed the shiver that longed to course the entirety of her spine. Clover felt her heart slam against her ribcage as his hand rested over the words she had stitched in lust, in anger, in confusion. He had seen them. He had read them. And he still put the suit on, he wore it knowing that her words resided directly above his heart. Words that they had exchanged verbally, then in written form…a game of two predators circling each other. Emotions swirled inside of her and she didn't quite know what to do, what to say for the briefest of moments. What did he think about them? Was he amused? Displeased? Intrigued? She shouldn't have sewn them. She should have never responded in any manner to his expensive gift.
Chloe dipped her head, well aware that Maria was standing there and that the tension was palpable. “I am glad that we were able to meet your exacting expectations, General.” A blush dappled across her nose and cheeks as she turned her attention back to the bride standing on the small dais before the trifold mirror. “Though as spectacular as my tailoring for menswear is, you will be completely overshadowed by your sister.” And it was the complete truth, because the white dress with intricate beading sat perfectly on Maria’s tanned shoulders. Even the miniscule movements she was making now showed off the flow of the fabric and the lithe form contained beneath it.
“Now I know she is your sister and I would never seek to give commands to a general…” behind Maria’s back, safely hidden from the mirror’s reflection, Clover darted her eyes dangerously, briefly, to Quinn’s, “but if you would excuse us to finish the final preparations. She will be ready precisely on time, but only if we are able to finish now.” Chloe dropped her head, keeping is low and her gaze at the ends of the dress. She wanted to give the bride the two gifts she had made for her (of course, she would be billing Quinnley Belvedere for the fabric at least), without the golden gaze of the man that unsettled her the most. It wouldn’t take long for Maria to open them and then she could slip back to the servants’ quarters to gather some intelligence before the ceremony was over.
Maria watched her brother leave, momentarily torn between calling him back to her and yelling at him to get out faster. The Belvedere general paused at the door and glanced to her one last time, his insufferable face flashing her one of his insufferable smirks, and she rolled her eyes. But she didn’t miss the pride in his gaze—or the way his attention flickered one last time to the diligent seamstress threading the final stitches into her gown—before he disappeared into the bustling corridor.
She straightened her posture before the mirror, calming the flurry of butterflies in her belly with a series of deep, even breaths. “I apologize,” she said suddenly. “For being so crass. About Quinn.” Her amber gaze strayed down to Chloe, who was intensely focused on the last of her sewing; if the mention of his name had any effect on her, she didn’t show it. Maria sighed. “I haven’t been this nervous since…well, probably since the Academy. At least here, no one wants me dead.” Her painted lips curled into a sardonic smile. “That I know of.”
The seamstress stood at last, and the bride-to-be twisted to examine the freshly finished dress in the reflection. The cascading white fabric shifted around her legs like water when she moved. The open shape of the back had come together with elegant, effortless draping at the base of her spine, the perfect soft complement to the structured shoulders and beaded sleeves.
“You’ll be the unsung hero of the day, Miss Paice,” Maria declared, beaming, her nerves half-forgotten. The ruby red rose on her left forearm—like a splash of blood—shimmered in the light as she moved. Her mother would have been horrified, which only made the triumph of the design all the sweeter. “I imagine you’ll have to get used to turning down requests after today.”
————
By the time Quinn returned to the main floor, the majority of the guests had been seated in the ballroom. He strode into the rotunda with his hands clasped behind his back, looking every bit the part of authoritarian head-of-household. The soldiers posted on either side of each set of doors saluted in unison as he passed.
Right on schedule, Max appeared, flanked by two male attendants and a stern-faced guard. He wore his nerves in the pallor of his complexion and the stiffness of his shoulders, but otherwise the spice trader looked impeccable. If Quinn hadn’t known the Lanes were of a lesser social station, he’d never have guessed it from the man’s appearance now. His suit was a rich black, perfectly tailored to his lean form, and his silk tie shone with a subtle pattern of blooming roses. Thoughtful, Quinn thought approvingly. He stepped up to the man and extended a hand. “Welcome to the family,” the general said quietly, offering a small but warm smile as the nervous groom clutched his palm.
They were soon joined by Max’s younger brother Benjamyn, the best man and only groomsman. Benjamyn greeted Quinn with a formal military salute before taking his place behind the Lane parents.
Quinn stood at a distance as the line took its form behind the closed ballroom doors. The procession would be short—vastly different from the massive affairs most high-society weddings became. As adamant as Maria was about keeping the ceremony small and intimate (or at least as small and intimate as a Belvedere could get away with, given certain societal expectations), Quinn was beginning to see that aside from their mandatory list of elite Thebesian guests, they hadn’t actually had much choice.
The Belvedere twins were the last of their line. He knew that, of course. But seeing the absence of living family now—the empty spots where parents and grandparents should have stood, proud in the face of their legacy—his chest twinged with a pang of emotion he couldn’t quite identify. It wasn’t grief, not really. Marius and Irina would never have sanctioned this marriage, for one. And both grandfathers had both died in their military uniforms defending Northam to their last breaths. Their grandmothers, too, had been distant at best. A family of soldiers is no family at all, he remembered Grandmother Vittoria bitterly saying to him at some social function when he was a child. Maria will understand someday. But you, your father, your grandfather…you’ll never see past those blue blinders.
He was certainly seeing past them now, and she’d been right.
The deaths of Marius and Irina Belvedere had been a closely guarded secret outside the High Commander’s innermost circle for the first several weeks after their fateful passing. Since then, their disappearance from society had prompted rumors and speculation—everything from illness to conspiracy—and Quinn had neither admitted nor denied the fact that they were gone. After this, however, the proverbial cat would be out of the bag.
Maria’s wedding was doubling as a death announcement. There was no way to avoid it.
Quinn drew a steadying breath as the ballroom doors opened and the procession began, first with the elderly officiant, then the Lane family. As soon as the groom made his way to the front, the attendants pulled the great doors closed again to await the bride.
Norah Brown, a wealthy friend of Maria’s from Washentown who he didn’t know well, was the only bridesmaid; she drifted down the stairs in a flowing dress of sage green gossamer, two bouquets of champagne-colored roses in her manicured hands. She was a pretty girl, with bright blonde hair and blue-green eyes. Quinn met her gaze and smiled. A nervous blush deepened the rouge on her cheeks, and she chose to stand at the opposite side of the landing as they waited for the bride’s arrival.
His noble sister descended the stairs like a queen, exactly on time. Quinn felt his face pull into a broad grin as she glided toward him, her chin high and her honey eyes glittering. If Norah was beautiful, then Maria was otherworldly—her confident expression held its usual wild edge, a lioness on the hunt. The beading on her dress sparkled in subtle, differing hues of white, like fresh snowfall in the light of sunrise, punctuated by a single blood-red rose on her left arm. The structured shoulders, so reminiscent of the military uniform she’d been denied, did not dominate her silhouette but rather enhanced it, and the daring open back left no battle scar to the imagination. She wore the marks like badges, and they shone as silvery and luxe as the thread that embroidered the hem of her gown.
Show ’em all, Mia, he thought, his gaze shining with boyish mischief.
Norah passed Maria the larger of the bouquets while two attendants straightened the train of luxe white material in her wake.
“It’s not too late to run,” he murmured to his sister, glancing to the bridesmaid preparing to enter the ballroom. An attendant propped open the doors once more and ushered the blonde inside, the soft purr of a string quartet drifting to the twins’ ears as they waited for their turn. “But I’d be pissed if you ruined that dress. I’m guessing it’s going to cost me a small fortune.”
“Naturally.” Maria flashed him a dazzling smile. “Your girlfriend will be invoicing you,” she added, but her tone lacked any real barbs. Nevertheless, Quinn had to stop himself from reaching up to his lapel, behind which dwelled Chloe Paice’s wicked stitches against the steady rhythm of his heart. He pushed thoughts of the seamstress aside and returned his attention to his sister.
Maria threw her shoulders back, almost as though preparing for a fight, and drew a long breath that quaked just enough for Quinn to arch a brow. “I’m fine,” she reassured. “Now go. Don’t make them wait for me any longer.”
With one last impish grin, Quinn did as she asked. As they planned, he was to walk down the aisle first and then wait for Maria at the front, where he would stand in for their father and give her away.
The guards posted on either side of the entrance saluted General Belvedere as he strode in. He felt every pair of eyes settle upon him as he made his way to the altar, his face schooled to a cool neutral. He offered a small nod to each gaze that locked with his along the way—the Hathaways, the Terrils, a handful of other military families—until at last he caught High Commander Walther’s attention at the very front. The man’s face was unreadable except for a twinkle in his hazel eyes that Quinn didn’t know how to interpret. Was it disapproval? Pride? Amusement? Impossible to tell.
Quinn clasped his hands behind his back and turned to face the back of the ballroom. Framed powerfully by the impressive, gilded doors was Maria in all her glory, looking every bit like a general ready to command her army. She did not saunter down the aisle, she did not march; she glided, each step forward a stride of smooth, military precision—an elegant, stately procession to her happily ever after, on her own terms. Quinn scanned the guests’ expressions as she passed each row of seats. A few wore their surprise openly; others looked genuinely impressed; more still were smiling. For better or for worse, it seemed, the Belvederes had made their impressions.
He offered his arm to Maria as she approached, which she took with a firm squeeze. Max gazed at her with unbridled awe, his eyes not once straying from his bride as the officiant began the ceremony. Judging by his sister’s subtle smirk that she tucked carefully behind a beaming smile, Quinn figured that had been the desired effect. He moved to the side and took a seat, sitting as motionless as a man carved from marble until the officiant announced their union to enthusiastic applause: “By the power vested in me by the esteemed and venerable High Commander Walther of Northam, by the city of Thebes, and by God and by man, it is my honor to introduce Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell Eustace Lane.”
The couple shared a chaste kiss as their audience rose to their feet, a chorus of restrained cheers joining the applause. They joined hands and stepped forward, together turning away from Quinn to face the High Commander. In unison, Maria and Max gave a formal military salute to the man. His ruggedly handsome face sported a warm smile, and he spoke a few hushed words to them Quinn couldn’t make out. Maria laughed easily, and Max’s effort to act natural was actually quite admirable given that it was likely first time the spice trader had ever met their High Commander face-to-face.
Quinn followed, meeting up with Walther in the aisle, and they walked together out of the ballroom, their polished dress shoes treading on a carpet of scattered white rose petals. “Well done, Quinnley,” the man murmured, clasping the Belvedere general’s hand. They paused together in the rotunda. “You’ve outdone yourself. And your sister is as much of a beauty and delight as I’d anticipated.”
Quinn nodded his appreciation. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “Your presence has truly been an honor, especially for the Lane family.”
The High Commander’s smile faltered just enough to reveal a calculated look of pity. “Almost a shame. A woman so beautiful, so unique, so accomplished, dragged so low by a mere trading family. Swapping the name ‘Belvedere’ for ‘Lane’…that’s practically a crime.” His gaze settled on Quinn. “I’ve heard said it’s a love pairing, however. I would presume that’s the only reason why the head of household would even consider approving such a wildly unbalanced match.”
“Obviously,” Quinn responded smoothly, despite the lie making his teeth itch.
“Well,” conceded the High Commander, “I’ve not known a Belvedere to lack good judgment. Perhaps your sister sees an opportunity with the man that we do not.” He chuckled. “No matter. What’s done is done. And it seems you’re up next, Quinnley.”
Quinn snorted, cool amusement flickering over his face. “We’ll see.”
The guests began to flit by as they left the ballroom to mingle before the reception, and the eyes of more than a few of Northam’s elite young ladies lingered over the new Master Belvedere. The High Commander smirked. “Don’t pretend that you haven’t been one of Northam’s most eligible bachelors for quite some time. But especially now,” he said, the implication—now that they know your father is gone—haunting his words. “Play the field all you like, Quinnley, but I think it’s only a matter of time before it’s you delivering your vows.”
A laugh shook Quinn’s shoulders at that. “As if a few words could keep such a skilled player from his game.”
The High Commander guffawed and clapped Quinn in the shoulder. “Quite right!” he exclaimed, shaking his head. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…I mustn’t keep my public waiting. Try not to break too many hearts, Master Belvedere.”
They exchanged a quick salute and parted ways, High Commander Walther dissolving into his crowd of adoring cronies. Quinn sauntered around the perimeter toward the stairs, taking them slowly, but two at a time, until he reached the second floor. A gentle hand on his forearm stopped him in his tracks.
“General.” A woman’s voice. Soft, hesitant.
He turned to see Norah gazing up at him through long lashes. “Ms. Brown?” He glanced down to her hand, which still rested on his arm, and she withdrew it as if slapped.
“I…are you going to see Maria, General? They…she asked me to…delay you.”
Quinn’s eyebrows arched high onto his forehead—first in surprise, then in defiance, and finally in understanding. “Fine.” He looked to Norah and smiled. She smiled shyly in response, angling herself toward him as they hovered together near the railing. The afternoon light filtering through the tall windows above the staircase turned her blonde hair to gold and accentuated the flush on her cheeks.
Still, despite Norah’s beauty, something held him back from what he might have done before—he might have complimented her, taken her hand, stepped a little closer. He might have bowed his head to whisper something in her ear, exchanged flirtations all night until eventually they found themselves tangled together between his sheets. But nothing compelled him to do any of that, not even as Norah found her confidence and reached out for his wrist.
Movement caught Quinn’s eye from down the corridor—a familiar figure—and all at once, his pulse thundered against the hidden words stitched on the inside of his jacket. He knew that dark hair, that svelte form…he knew it intimately.
“Excuse me, Ms. Brown,” he muttered, pulling his hand out of a disappointed Norah’s light grasp. He stepped away quickly and made his way down the hall, his footfalls practically soundless on the carpet.
As soon as his fingers wrapped around Chloe Paice’s elbow, a bolt of electricity raced through his arm. He tugged the seamstress into the nearest vacant room. The door latched behind him with a pronounced click, leaving them alone in the quiet dimness.
His voice was a deep, dangerous rumble when he asked, “What are you still doing here?”
Clover slipped down the back hallway with all of the other lower class individuals that were working diligently behind the scenes to ensure that the event went off without a hitch. The ceremony was about to start and there was an intensity to the day that was almost oppressive amongst the staff. The kitchens were bustling as the chefs prepared the elaborate hor d'oeuvres and began the playing for appetizers, entree and desserts for the seats meal in the grand dining room. The seamstress knew how to ingratiate herself to others, offering a set of steady hands when needed and by doing so was able to listen with ready ears to the gossip.
“Going to be quite the shock when the parents don’t show.” One of the sous chefs said as he began to place a piece of micro basil on top of a cut of mozzarella cheese and thinly sliced cherry tomato.
“Crazy innit?” Another muttered. “Behind.” He added as he slipped to the other side of the kitchen.
“Her parents aren’t going to be at the wedding?” Clover asked innocently as she moved completed trays to the area where servers could more easily retrieve them.
“They’re dead. Big secret. Doubt we’ll know. Karl suspects a murder-suicide.” He snorted. “Bea said she overheard they died together in a mysterious way… Resistance most likely. Bastards.” At that, Clover turned slightly and frowned with her back to everyone else. It most certainly was not her crew. It was a complete surprise to her that General and Lady Belvedere were no longer counted amongst the living. Hell, she had thought she was going to be making Maria’s father a suit…not him.
“Bastards indeed.” Chloe agreed, shaking her head as she did so, gently brushed of loose hair grazing her cheeks. “Must have been hard keeping that secret - not being able to grieve for your parents.”
“The twins are tough. Known ‘em their whole lives. Used to make Master Quinn toast; cutting the bread into shapes before his father forbid it. He liked the roaring lion with an egg in its mouth the most,” the chef chuckled to himself as he began to plate salads of arugula, spinach and lettuce. Chloe gave a gentle smile, finding it hard to reconcile the version of Quinn she had met with the boy who liked animal toast.
“If only he’d find himself a Lady,” a new arrival chimed in. She was a pretty woman a little younger than Clover with striking red hair and a smattering of feckless across high cheekbones.
“Mmm, we all know you’d be happy to volunteer, Greta.” One of the chefs called, sending a rumbled of laughter among the others. Clover felt her skin heat beneath her clothing, focusing on her small task.
“What woman wouldn’t? Have you seen him? He turns the heads of men and women.” Greta laughed, clearly enjoying herself as another maid swatted her out of the way. Clover couldn’t help a small smile of amusement from forming on her lips.
“I take it the general doesn’t have any prospects then?” Chloe said softly, slipping in and out of the conversation.
“More like too many,” one individual said amid the din.
“So many but he doesn’t linger on one partner long. Samples the wares and moves on. Tastes the fruit but leaves the orchard behind. Milks th-“
“For godsake Ted, we get it.” Greta snapped, causing a roar of laughter. “He’s the most eligible bachelor in Northam and doesn’t show any interest in settling down. No more Belvederes now with Maria becoming a Lane.” The last name left her lips with a bit of sadness mingled with annoyance as though Maria’s choice was an affront to all Belvedere staff at such a lowly pairing. “But you can’t find a bride if you keep being whisked off in the middle of the night to the High Commander’s secret meetings.” She added with a tsk.
Clover felt her skin begin the vibrate at the possibility of some actually useful information. She finished the set of plates she was currently moving before returning with a slight turn of her head so she could hear everything about to be said.
“Gunna raid s’more Resistance villages. The ones far out. Lookin’ for some ringleader I think from what I heard two of his subs talking ‘bout. Some big man that runs it.” Clover inwardly smirked. Always assuming it was a man. Their greatest mistake. Fools. “Wouldna catch me in wit them folks. Not tryinta get my whole family killed.”
“They killed entire families?” Chloe asked, her voice trembling.
“Sure nuff. Squashed ‘em like bugs under boots. They don’t tolerate traitors.”
“The..kids?”
“Suspect so. Goin’ against the High Commander just plain foolish. He can’t be beaten. Not with men like our Quinnley.”
Clover finished helping before the bustle got all too much for her and she was kindly but firmly pushed aside. Soft tread led her back to the bridal suite, where she gathered her things and left two boxes on Maria’s bed. She assumed the couple would be staying elsewhere for the evening but surely they’d check this room before their departure. A little gift for the bride…and the groom. A soft smile played her lips as she shoulder her satchel, with the expensive gift from the master of the estate tucked safety inside.
It would be best to slip out now, right after the ceremony in the bustle of excitement and congratulations. No one would notice and she’d be able to potential go to Aaron’s with information there there with other small rebellions in villages that they may be able to recruit to their cause…very carefully. After all, if General Quinnley Belvedere was half as good as his job as he was in bed then there would be a swift end to new recruits. Swallowing, Clover lost herself in thoughts of her Rebellion as she moved swiftly down a hallway towards a rear Avondale exit.
So deep in her own mind, the slender seamstress failed to notice that someone had taken notice of her. A bolt of lightning raced up her arm at the moment of physical contact and the brunette spy did not need to turn her head to know who had touched her. Resisting the urge to fight, settling firmly into Chloe, the spy allowed herself to be pulled into a vacant nearby room without protest. Stormy eyes flicked up to his, a flash of anger igniting there despite herself. Clover could feel the heat of his body now, the familiar earthy scent of him filling the space between them. Despite her irritation, those amber eyes sang to her a song of promise, of offering. And yet something lingered there, something curious, some almost furious. Fuck she’d do anything to see those eyes dance with the fire they had a few short months ago
“My job.” She hissed, tearing her elbow out of his grip. While Chloe had been manhandled a few times, Clover was not tolerant of such intrusions. “I was leaving a gift for your sister on her wedding day and ensuring she had the appropriate tools to extricate herself from a gown that will come close to bankrupting you.” It would now, for certain. Stepping back, the hurricane swirling in her eyes held his gaze firmly. Arms crossed firmly against her chest, crumpling the pale blue cotton fabric of her long sleeved shirt that tucked into the navy flowing skirts that brushed the tops of her brown boots. Despite her outward anger, Clover felt her heart pounding at the idea of them being alone, together, again.
“Do you think that one night together gives you the right to treat me this way? I know I’m not of your station, General, a lowly seamstress,” words echoed the sultry ones she had murmured in his bedchamber just upstairs, “but if you want the pleasure of my company, this is not the way to go about it.” Chloe was dying on the inside. How could she dare to speak to him like this? It was breaking character, shattering the meek facade she had created. Around him, Clover - her true self - took the reigns and steered directly into disaster.
The room in which they found themselves was dim, with heavy insulating curtains drawn over the tall leaded windows. Old pieces of furniture draped with dusty sheets were poised like frozen phantoms in the corner, their irregular shapes stacked together amongst storage boxes and piles of old leather books. The Belvedere residence, stately though it was perched atop its hill outside the city, had been entirely too large a home for its dwindling inhabitants for a good many decades, and many upper rooms had been converted to storage long before Quinn had had anything to do with running the estate. Judging from this one’s shadowy farrago of unused objects, it likely predated even his father.
Still, it was the perfect refuge for the mismatched pair: a rising general with the High Commander’s ear, spoken about in whispers more so than the bride herself, and the dark-haired tradeswoman who was anything but common…and who had relentlessly occupied his idle thoughts for months.
After the bustle of the ceremony and its aftermath, the quiet was deafening—unless, of course, that was a trick of his own blood rushing in his ears. Truthfully, the general wasn’t sure what he intended by pulling Chloe out of the corridor and into these dusty shadows. His body had leapt to pursue the svelte seamstress practically on its own accord, like a predator allowing instinct to take over, leaving poor Norah Brown standing dejected on the balcony. He just knew he wanted, needed, a moment alone with the seamstress—even if it was just to see whether the flames they had kindled together that fateful night had smoldered to cold ash…or continued to blaze.
At first he was taken aback by her tone. She planted herself before him without any pretense of deference or submission, her blue-gray eyes flashing a passionate fury that resonated familiar with the darkness that resided within himself. But as she delivered her explanation, her tone sharp as the blade he’d tucked inside his tailored jacket, Quinn felt a smile inexplicably begin to dawn across his face. Not a smirk, not a look of derision or condescension, but a genuine, amused smile that lit his amber eyes with mirth despite the anger in hers. She’d taken a gamble in challenging a man of his rank and status in such a way, but the Belvedere general was not so easily offended.
“Treat you in what way, exactly, Miss Paice?” he asked innocently. Despite his good-natured reaction to her insolence, the general’s pulse had accelerated to a steady, heated clip behind the hidden message stitched in his coat. “Suppose I just wanted a moment alone to congratulate you on your fine work. You presume to know my intentions?” In another tone, it might’ve been an accusation. But with the chuckle that spilled from his lips, and the brow that quirked high onto his forehead, it was almost teasing.
He stepped away from the door and extended an arm, gesturing toward the exit in a broad sweep. “You’re free to be on your way, Miss Paice,” he told her, his casual delivery belying the fact that every ounce of his being was willing her not to storm out of their hiding place. “But before you go, please tell me…what is the proper way to ensure the pleasure of your company, should the need arise?” His attention intensified as he studied her, peering into the hurricane of her gaze. “I’ve learned it cannot be bought with fine leather books, at least.”
