What A Rogue Wants (21 page)

“
Grey needs to stay,” the
king continued. “He’ll have to learn the code as well.”

Stratmore nodded, and the king smacked
his hands against his knees, his enthusiasm evident in his gesture.
“Show me how it works, and then I’ll practice.”

Madelaine’s father
unrolled the parchment and laid it on the table in front of
them.
Excitement quickened
Grey’s pulse as he leaned forward. The king
traced over the raised letters “QOTM” and “AKUWMK”. “What does it
spell?”

“
Might I suggest you
decode it? I think perhaps it’s the best way to learn.”

The king nodded. “A very sound idea.
Tell me how.”

“
Well.” Stratmore sidled
closer to the table. “Each letter is represented by the sixth
letter after it, created thus to stand for the Circle of Six. For
example the ‘O―’” Stratmore tapped a finger against the paper
“―would be decoded as an ‘I.’ The exception to the six letter rule
is the capitol ‘G,’ which is always represented by the first letter
of the alphabet, created thus to stand as symbolism of your
Christian name ‘George’ who as our leader is always
first.”

Digesting what he’d
learned, Grey studied the letters to the first word. “QOTM” would
actually be the word king. He had to clench his teeth to keep from
crying out the answer like an eager child. But he
was
eager, by God. He’d
not felt this excited about anything in his life.

Grey and Stratmore sat back at the
same moment, their gazes locking. Stratmore scowled at him before
turning back to the king. Deep in consideration, the king hunched
over the scroll, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The time it took
for him to decode the word ticked by. Grey’s patience strained
along with each passing minute, the wait made worse by Stratmore
strumming his fingers against the table and the wind howling
against the castle windows. Grey felt as if he were being stretched
on a rack and at any minute he might snap.

Finally, the king looked up, his eyes
disconcerting in their blackness. Grey blinked. The king’s eye
color seemed washed away by an endless, glassy darkness. The king
gazed sightlessly at Grey. A terrible feeling about the king and
the whispers Grey had heard, but never credited, rose to almost
choke off his air. He shook it off, as he’d discarded many ill
feelings. He was the king’s man now, for better or worse, he’d
protect and serve His Majesty until his death.

“
I’ve got it,” the king’s
voice lowered to a whisper as if there were someone in the room
besides Grey and Stratmore who might hear. “The first word is
“king”. The king smiled a disturbingly wide smile which looked more
like a jester’s comedic grin than a king’s. The hairs on the back
of Grey’s neck stood on end at the same time thunder boomed
outside.

“
Very good, Your
Majesty.”

Grey scrutinized Stratmore. Was it his
imagination or was the man talking to the king in a soothing
tone?

“
Can you decode the second
word?”

The king’s brows pulled together in a
deep furrow. What took Grey less than a few seconds to decode took
the king another long expanse of soundless, painful minutes.
Something was not right with His Majesty, and it wasn’t Grey’s
imagination. Lines of worry creased Stratmore’s forehead, and his
gaze darted continuously from the king to Grey. Damn him to hell if
Madelaine’s father wasn’t assessing him to see if he’d figured out
there was a problem with the king.

“
The next word is my
name.” The king’s voice held surprising asperity. Grey rubbed at
the back of his neck to rid himself of the prickly sensation
assaulting him.

Stratmore reached a hand toward the
paper on the table. “Perhaps we should continue another day, Your
Grace.”

The king slammed a hand down on top of
Stratmore’s. Grey held still as stone, unsure what to do or say.
“Don’t. Touch. The. Scroll.” Each word was a harsh, clipped
command. “We’ll finish now.”

Stratmore slid his hand away from the
paper. Wise choice, considering the king fairly foamed at the
mouth. His wild gaze locked on Grey. Grey’s first instinct was to
put distance between himself and his suddenly unpredictable
sovereign, but that would be cowardly and unworthy of his station.
“Your Majesty?”

With confusion apparent in his eyes,
the king shook his head. “I feel a spell coming on. It’s muddling
my thinking, but I’ll manage.”

“
Of course, Your Majesty.”
A spell? The whispers were of sudden spells of madness. The
prickling sensation was back, but now the tingling covered Grey’s
entire body.

“
Bring me the quill from
my desk,” the king demanded.

Grey glanced at Stratmore who nodded
agreement. The outer chamber was deserted as the king had earlier
commanded, yet a whisper of air moved through the room. Had someone
just been here? The king’s guards stood some ten feet away at the
outside of the door. They wouldn’t foolishly disobey the king and
trespass where they’d been expressly told not to, yet the feeling
someone was here, watching and listening enveloped Grey. He glanced
around him as he moved toward the king’s desk but noted nothing
unusual. The fire burned in the grate casting twisted shadows on
the wall, but they were just shadows. Still, his heartbeat picked
up speed.

Making quick work of it, he retrieved
the quill and brought it to the king. When he sat, he positioned
himself so he could see into the outer chamber. If someone was
there he’d catch them. As the king worked, Grey stared, unmoving,
into the other room and counted each noisy inhalation of
Stratmore’s impatient breathing. Finally, the king set his pen down
and wiped a distracted hand across his brow. “I’ve mastered it. I’m
sure of it. Check my work, Stratmore.”

Madelaine’s father hunched over the
list silently, but after a minute a hiss of breath filled the room.
When he looked up, his protruding eyes worried Grey. What the hell
had the king written down to make Stratmore look ill? A sheen of
sweat covered Stratmore’s forehead. The man pulled out a
handkerchief and wiped his skin with a shaking hand. “You do have
it, Your Grace.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he spoke. “But let’s
destroy this immediately.”

“
Not yet.” The king turned
his glassy gaze on Grey. Grey’s fingers convulsed spasmodically
against his leg. He didn’t like this strange situation, but he was
good and trussed to his vow. “Decode what I’ve written. I’ll see
that you can do it as well.”

At once, Grey scanned the first
sentence the king had written.

An angel of the lord came
to me with eyes like stars and clothed in fire. The angel revealed
to me a plot of the most insidious nature. My appointed
Administration is trying to overthrow me and must therefore all be
executed
.

Grey swallowed, but his mouth was too
dry. Now he knew what had taken the king so long. Before he’d
decoded what Stratmore had written, the king had written this
message, his own message. Despite himself, Grey glanced around the
room. No angels. The king was bloody mad. Or he had been for the
minutes the spell had taken him. Sweat broke out on Grey’s
forehead. He wiped it away with the back of his sleeve. Stratmore
was right to want to destroy this immediately.

“
Get on with it man,” the
king barked.

Grey’s cheek ticked rapidly. He
cleared his throat. “An angel of the lord―”

The king slammed his hand on the arm
of his chair. “I’ve heard of your humor, Lord Grey. But I’m not
amused. Read only what’s on the paper.”

Grey’s darted his gaze to Stratmore.
The man looked like he was on the verge of a fit. His face was
pasty and his eyes were bulging. Stratmore nodded. “Yes, Lord Grey.
Simply do as your told.”

Grey lowered his voice, wary to read
any of the contents aloud but aware if he didn’t comply, the king
might very well lose his temper and read the translation in a voice
loud enough to be overheard by someone besides Grey and Stratmore.
“Here,” Grey said, pointing to the first line after the mad
accusations the king had written, “you’ve written that my father is
to deliver a message to Nelson regarding the movement of Napoleon’s
fleet across the Atlantic. And each proceeding line regards a new
mission and who is to carry it out. Except I’m not on this
list.”

The king smiled. “Very good. I need to
add you.”

A distinctive clanking noise came the
outer chamber. Grey sprang out of his chair at the same moment
Stratmore grabbed for the paper.

Behind him, the king exclaimed, but
Grey didn’t pause to look back. Instead, he moved into the outer
chamber. The chambermaid Constance leaned over the fire with a
poker raised high in the air.

“
Who let you in
here?”

She whirled around and dropped the
poker to the ground with a clatter. “The guard. It’s time to stoke
the fire. The king requires it special every two hours, so he
doesn’t take chill. The guard said I could enter as long as I was
quiet and hurried.”

Grey curled his hands into fists. He’d
bloody well kill the idiotic guard. The swollen redness of the
wench’s lips and her half-unlaced bodice told Grey exactly why the
guard had made such a foolish choice. “Get out.”

He held still as she scrambled out the
door, but the minute she was gone he stormed out of the room and
jerked the guard toward him. “If you ever disobey the king’s orders
again I’ll see you hung before I eat my evening meal.
Understood?”

“
Yes, milord,” the young
guard sputtered without questioning who Grey was or what authority
he had over him.

Disgusted, Grey released the man and
strode back toward the king’s room. He paused at the voices of
Stratmore and the king raised in argument inside the chamber. No
doubt Stratmore was arguing to destroy the paper immediately. Grey
was in hearty agreement, but the thought of disagreeing with the
king did not sit well. Still, if he was to protect the king,
disagreement was necessary.

Decision made, he started toward the
men, but the creak of a door behind him stopped his pursuit. He
swung around prepared to bark out another order to stay out, but
blinked in surprise at Gravenhurst’s drawn face. “Grey, come
quick.”

A streak of fear went through him at
his friend’s grave tone. “What is it?”

“
It’s your sister. She’s
ill.”

Grey glanced back toward the king. He
needed to explain his sudden departure.

“
I’ll explain to the
king,” Gravenhurst said. “Go now. The physician says Lady Elizabeth
doesn’t have long.”

The dire pronunciation knifed across
his heart with more pain than any cut Gravenhurst had given him in
training. Grey flew out of the king’s chambers without another
word.

By the time Grey found the isolated
apartment where his sister had been removed, fear had dampened his
palms. When he tried to grasp the brass handle to her bedchamber
door, his fingers slipped. Cursing, he wiped his hands on his
trousers, then tried again. Inside, the room smelled of incense,
rosewater and medicine, and the curtains over the window were
pushed wide, allowing sunlight to flood it. His shoulders relaxed a
little. He’d expected darkness and the sickly stench of death.
Maybe Liz wasn’t as bad off as Gravenhurst thought.

But as he approached the bed, his
stomach pitched. Liz was asleep, her mouth half open and a line of
drool running down her cheek. Her skin looked strange, almost like
the wax he sealed his letters with. With a shaking hand, he touched
her cheek. By God, she was on fire. Glancing behind him, he swept
his gaze over the washstand for the pitcher of water, but the stand
was empty. Perhaps his aunt had gone for water, for surely his aunt
was caring for Liz.

He knelt down beside his sister and
picked up her limp hand. Grief tore through him when she didn’t
stir. Grey studied her. What could be wrong? Fever, for certain,
but what was causing it? Her thick black hair clung in wet tendrils
to her forehead and neck. Beside her pillow was a wet, crumpled
cloth she must have thrown off her head in a fit. She needed to be
cooled. He picked up the cloth and growled. The damnable thing was
hot. Where was the physician and his aunt?