Blackmailing His Bride (Court of Paravel)

“No, thank you.”

I turn to go, but he reaches the door first and plants a heavy hand on it, keeping it closed. “I think we should talk.”

“About what?”

“I can choose another venue if you prefer. Say, an interrogation room at the City Guard station.”

Panic fills me from my head down to my toes. He does know what I did. He knows everything. “Why don’t you just arrest me?”

“You don’t want that, Sachelle. I can be very nice, but in there…” He trails off meaningfully.

In there. The City Guard station. “Where my cousin is being held, you mean? Why don’t you just come out and say what you want?”

He bares his teeth as he steps back, a tiger trying to be my friend. “I already did. I want to take you to dinner.”

The door opens, and Dad and Tamsen come into the room. Tamsen doesn’t acknowledge that anyone’s here, and flops down on the sofa with a paperback novel. Dad’s gray-faced and there are dark circles under his eyes. His movements are stiff and weak, and his hands are trembling. He draws himself up when he sees we have a visitor, and blinks watery eyes.

“Mr. Rasmussen. Should I be worried about the security of this house?”

That easy smile spreads over Rasmussen’s face again. “No, Your Grace. You’re all safe here.”

Dad waits for Rasmussen to explain his presence, but all my visitor does is turn to look at me, one dark brow raised. Should I tell him, or will you?

When I don’t reply, his eyes narrow as if to say, Fine. I will, and he turns back to Dad. “Your Grace, I came here to—

I speak over him. “Mr. Rasmussen’s taking me out for dinner. I’ll go and get ready. Excuse me.”

A pleased smile appears on Rasmussen’s lips. I hurry to the door, hoping that my agreement means my date will keep his mouth shut.

“Sachelle. One moment please.”

Dad’s disapproving tone stops me in the doorway, and I glance over my shoulder. Dad says to Rasmussen, “Would you mind waiting in the hall? I’d like to speak to my daughter.”

Irritation flickers over Rasmussen’s face, but he does as he’s asked. As he steps past me, he shoots me a warning look. Yes, I know. Persuade Dad to let me go, or he’ll show that video to my whole family.

I fix a neutral expression on my face and turn to face Dad.

“Why is that man taking you to dinner?”

I haven’t been on any dates since the revolution. No one at Court has caught my eye, and I haven’t caught anyone’s either. No one except the man currently standing in the hall.

I decide to play dumb. “Is it not appropriate?”

“Please don’t answer a question with a question, Sachelle. No, it’s not appropriate. Where is he taking you?”

“Hotel Ivera.”

Dad purses his lips; at least the venue is suitable. “I don’t like the idea of you dating outside the Court. There’s an unsettling trend for that sort of thing lately.”

Lady Aubrey becoming engaged to a stable owner, he means. I force a laugh. “It’s nothing like that. I’m curious about Paravel’s history, that’s all. I thought Mr. Rasmussen could help me with some questions I have.”

My voice sounds false and shaky. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tamsen look up from her book. I flick her a look that only a sister would understand, warning her to keep out of this.

“And you went to a stranger for help? There are other ways you can find out what you want to know.” Dad looks hurt. Even if Mum wouldn’t be angry with me for asking Dad about the People’s Republic, I don’t think there’d be much he could tell me. I was fourteen when he had his first heart attack, and for the last six years, he rarely went far from our old rundown home out by the warehouses, and more recently, Balzac House. He refused to read the newspapers, saying that they were Varga’s mouthpiece. He’s not wrong, but the humiliation of losing our family’s home and title made him shut himself off from everyone and everything.

“I’ve already asked Mr. Rasmussen, and it would be rude to take back the invitation. Please can I go?” The words sour in my mouth. I can’t believe I’m pleading to have dinner with that man.

After a moment, Dad nods. “All right, sweetheart. Just this once. King Anson’s mentioned to me several times how much he’s indebted to Rasmussen for helping to liberate the country.”

“Thank you, Dad.”

Out in the hall, I walk quickly past Mr. Rasmussen, without looking at him, and head for the stairs.

“And where are you going?” he asks.

“To get ready.”

“How long will you be?”

“At least an hour.”

He growls, and I stop with one hand on the bannister and look over my shoulder at him. “Is that a problem? That’s how long I take to get ready for dates. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”