The Ring and the Crown (The Ring and the Crown 1)

“To represent your house and honor. Not that you have any,” Oswald said with a raised eyebrow.

“I need to fight, Oz. You know that. Especially since they wouldn’t take me to Lamac.”

“You know why your father sent you away. If your brother had lost, then you would be king.”

“Ha, the odds of that happening are about as good as Leo beating me in the ring.” Wolf grinned. The heir and the spare. Wolf was the one in the shadows, the one who would inherit little…some land out in Bavaria, maybe. There, he would be nothing but a titled and glorified sh

eep farmer when it came down to it, unless something happened to his brother, the future king, who had the duty and honor to lead the Prussian troops into battle.

“Your brother is a good soldier,” Oswald admonished.

“Only thanks to that demon’s tool,” Wolf said. “Practically cheating.”

Pandora’s Box. Supposedly it was the last one on earth, able to conjure horror unlike anything seen in this world. “I don’t need magic to win my fights,” he said bitterly. Leo had been something of an apprentice to his father’s oldest and most trusted advisor, Lord Hartwig, who had been intent on finding a way to combat the empire’s monopoly on magic. Wolf had to hand it to him; he had certainly succeeded wildly on that front. Growing up, Leo had taken to Hartwig in the same way that Wolf had taken to Oz. Both of them were searching for a father figure, as King Frederick, busy monarch that he was, never had time for either of his sons.

“No doubt your father will find some use for you.”

“Ah well, could be worse. Could be goats rather than sheep.” Wolf winked. He leaned back into his chair, wondering exactly what he would do with his life. He hadn’t a clue. Nothing was expected of him, other than to remain alive in the event of his brother’s death.

“We are sailing on the Saturnia in the morning. And good timing, too—a quick escape, shall we say—for there is another one now,” Oswald informed him.

“Not again?” Wolf groaned.

“Yes. That makes three young ladies of gentle birth accusing you of fathering their babies since we arrived in the Americas. The latest one is a baron’s daughter visiting from Sussex.”

“She has done this publicly?”

“No. They are—taking care of it,” Oswald said delicately. “Unless…”

“Unless I marry her. Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“She’s lying. They all are.”

“Oh?”

“I didn’t touch her. I didn’t touch any of them.” Wolf smiled at the memory. “It was merely an innocent game of strip billiards. Surely you know the game?” he teased. The memory of a certain night several months ago flitted into his mind. The eight-ball sinking in the corner pocket. Click. Swish. Thud. “Strip.” The girls, standing at the back wall, giggling, with only their long hair to cover themselves; not that they hadn’t wanted to show him everything they had…they were more than eager…but he had not touched any of them, and that was the truth. But there was no harm in looking, was there? “Really, Oz, do you think I’m that stupid?”

Oswald looked cross. “You are accusing these fine young ladies of harlotry.”

“Whoever they’re sleeping with, it wasn’t me.”

“So you deny it all? Every one?”

“Oz, don’t you know me by now?” Wolf said, feigning hurt. “Let them make their accusations all they want; they are without merit. I’m as pure as a maid,” he added, his face set. Unlike his vaunted older brother, he had no taste for womanizing, no desire to father a litter of bastards. He vowed that once he was married he would never take a mistress, not after seeing his mother cry in her room over his father’s indiscretions. When she was alive, she had cried all the time. He would never add to another person’s misery in that way, and his future lady wife—whoever she was—would not suffer the fate of his mother.

It was his darkest secret: Wolf, the Beast of Berlin, was more Labrador than fox when it came to the ladies. “This is my only vice,” he said, holding up the bloody handkerchief.

Isabelle had never been across the Atlantic, but had heard that the richest Americans, whose fortunes rivaled even the queen’s, lived in grand, palatial homes. There was no need for fireplaces, as they were built with central heating and wired with electricity. And so, when she thought of that faraway land, she thought of being warm. With their astonishing technical inventions, the Americans had learned to live comfortably without magic. Critics of the Merlin accused the magician of keeping scientific progress at bay. In the empire, if one had no magic, one had almost nothing. It was always cold in this house, ever since her family’s witches had been burned at the stake. Not that Isabelle had any more faith in the power of magic; far from being able to save her family, magic had been its destruction. Magic had rendered her a charity case, one to be pitied or cast aside. And now magic was taking her dearest love away from her, along with her dreams for the future. She cursed the Pandora’s Box that had won the Prussians the war.

The reality of her situation made the walls feel colder, the ceilings taller, the drafts more intolerable. Her home was more cave than castle. The parlor they were sitting in stank of oil lamps, and the walls had acquired the gray sootiness of a decade’s worth of ash and candle flame. The great fireplace in the middle of the room had a hearth taller than her head. The thing was immense, medieval, originally designed for roasting whole hogs—perhaps two at a time. It was all so primitive.

Through the high windows she glimpsed the family vineyards, long rows of knotted vines stretching over rolling hills. The castle was overrun with vintners, field hands, and armies of grape sorters and bottlers. There were hundreds of wine barrels in the cellar, and more in the servants’ chambers below the house. Now that she thought about it, she’d seen wine barrels in just about every cool place they could be stacked. The whole castle was one big, rotting barrel, stinking of vinegar and fermentation. It smelled like defeat.

The horrid letter from the solicitor’s had arrived that morning.

“This is the Merlin’s doing, isn’t it?” Isabelle said bitterly, feeling sick to her stomach. She felt like throwing up, she was so upset. “It has his foul hands all over it.”