Page 13 of The Duchess Curse

The queen glanced between them. “Is something amiss? Surely, Braxton, you are not one of those who despises alchemists. I would not have guessed it, considering your usual stances in the Lords.”

“No, Your Majesty, that is not it,” Braxton said. “It’s only that Mr. Grant tried to slit my throat earlier.”

Guinevere tightened a fist in her lap. Of course his jugular had made close acquaintance with a blade because of her.

“Oh.” The queen’s dark brows drew together. “Do not do that again, Grant. Yes?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Another bow.

“There. All solved.” She looked like she wanted to tie them all up with a velvet bow. She pulled a small black stone out of her pocket and slid it across the table to Braxton. “Some things have changed since you last served the Crown. You’ll need one of these. A summoning stone. It glows hot when I need you.”

He pocketed the rock, and the queen waved them toward the exit. “You may go.”

As they made their way toward the door, Braxton stroked his jaw, and but for the pristine white glove, the movement could have been plucked from Guin’s memory. Bran used to⁠—

Good Gaia, was everything to remind her of her loss this day?

He dropped his hand, and the narrow slant of his shoulders reminded her he bore no resemblance whatsoever to her friend.

Curving slightly toward her, he whispered, “Well, here we are, wife.”

“Did you have anything to do with this?” she hissed.

“Wish I could say I had.”

Mr. Grant pushed between them. “Whatever has soured between you two needs to be put aside. The queen demands a successful mission, and she’ll have it. From all three of us.”

“You forget, Grant,” Braxton said, “you answer to me for this mission.”

Grant’s jaw ticked, but he nodded, and the shift of his greatcoat gave away the glimmer of silver. He had a knife—at least one—strapped to his hip. Bran had often worn them like that. Worn them everywhere, actually—hip, thigh, arm, ankle, wherever he could reach. Blades blood sharp and of a steel so fine it seemed to disappear when twisted in the light.

They stepped into the gray day outside, and Guinevere shivered. Braxton moved as if to take off whatever coat he wore beneath his glamour, but Ned appeared from around the side of the conservatory and helped her shrug into her pelisse.

“Who’s these nobs?” he asked. “What’d the queen want?”

“Obedience, Ned,” Guinevere said. “And, like everyone else, a potion.”

Ned shook his shaggy head, muscles ready to pounce, gaze trained on the two unknowns.

She laid an easy hand on his arm. “This is the Duke of Braxton, and this other gentleman is Mr. Grant. They will be joining my small army of guards.”

“We don’t need another,” Ned said.

“I’m well aware, but the queen insists.”

Braxton stepped up to Ned. He was not quite as tall, not nearly as wide, but he didn’t even tilt his head back to meet Ned’s gaze and say, “We are not joining it. We are leading it. You answer to me, do you understand?”

Ned’s fingers twitched.

“Don’t stab my husband, please.” Guinevere patted Ned’s shoulder, then took off across the lawn, not waiting for the others.

“Husband?” Ned cried. “Husband?!” Louder that time.

The three men caught up quickly, Braxton barking orders. “I want to meet with all your men as soon as can be. I need to know what your current procedures are, how you’re staying fit, who’s in charge of night watch⁠—”

Ned elbowed Guin in the ribs and hid his mouth to say with a chuckle, “Sounds like Bran, he does.”

Braxton snapped his mouth shut.