maintained for a long time, fooling the gentry all through the Town, and she saw no reason to reveal her true self to a man she did not know. Even if he had been sent by the Three. “Yes, sir, history we have.”
The man nodded, turned his eyes to Hareton. “See to the horse, we shan’t be here too long, I want them ready to go,” he said sharply.
Hareton bowed. “Of course, Mr Holtzrichter.”
He turned to leave, but was prevented by Isobel’s hand on his shoulder. He glanced back at her, and she looked at Mr Holtzrichter, steel in her pale eyes. Demure and prim might have been a role she liked to play with mortals around, but no one ordered another under her roof except her.
“You have both travelled far, and I will have neither of you leaving without full stomachs.” For a moment Isobel was certain Mr Holtzrichter was going to stand and strike her, such was the coldness that swept over his face, but it soon passed and he smiled, nodding sharply.
“Quite the chit, are you not?” he said, good humour in his voice.
“When the mood takes me, sir, but don’t ever take it to mean I am bacon-brained,” Isobel returned, careful to keep her own tone light.
“Indeed not.”
Isobel returned his smile, and curtsied, which brought laughter from Holtzrichter’s belly. “Very good, my dear, I like the cut of you.”
“Hareton, be seated,” Isobel said. “I have a broth prepared already. Mr Holtzrichter and I can be alone shortly. To conduct our...business.”
Hareton walked over to the table and sat on one of the hard chairs, but he did not question the source of such business. Isobel felt sure he did not know, but he was not so foolish as to enquire in front of Mr Holtzrichter. Although he would return later. How could he not? He was on the high ropes and he, too, remembered their last encounter as clearly as she. And it was an encounter both wished to repeat.
As she poured the broth into bowls for the two men she had to consider, once again, just why the Three would send a special envoy all the way from France to see her. Certainly she had chosen her side during recent events, and she applauded the reforms the Lady Celeste had put into place over the last six months, but she was one among tens of thousands of their kind in England, and not worthy of such attention. It troubled her. Rumour had spread that Celeste was still removing her enemies, those who had taken sides with the Brotherhood. Could Celeste have been misinformed and now considered Isobel one such enemy?
She smiled at Mr Holtzrichter, who had offered his own smile upon receipt of his broth. Maybe she was looking too far into it, but there was something she didn’t like hidden behind his smile. And his name...it sounded German, and didn’t Celeste have a German consort?
Once the men had finished their broth, Hareton left to tend to the horse. Isobel busied herself with cleaning the bowls, all the while feeling Mr Holtzrichter’s eyes on her back. She stopped for a moment, and asked; “Is your name German?”
Mr Holtzrichter chuckled. “No,” he said, “although a common mistake. It is Prussian. I was born in a little town called Posen in 1722.”
Isobel turned to him. “You are a young one, too, then,” she said with a coy smile. “So you come from the home of the Tree King?”
For a moment Mr Holtzrichter looked confused, then he smiled. “Oh yes, your mad King George,” he said, referring to the tale of the ailing king who had once shook the branch of a tree believing it to be King Frederick William, the incumbent ruler of Prussia.
“Hardly my mad king, Mr Holtzrichter. I have lived a long time, seen this country at war many times over, ruled by many fools. Still,” she added wistfully, “it is my home, although I am very much no longer of Great Britain.” Holtzrichter nodded in acknowledgment of this, and Isobel smiled, thinking that another hundred years of life and he too would not consider himself of any one country.
The man nodded, turned his eyes to Hareton. “See to the horse, we shan’t be here too long, I want them ready to go,” he said sharply.
Hareton bowed. “Of course, Mr Holtzrichter.”
He turned to leave, but was prevented by Isobel’s hand on his shoulder. He glanced back at her, and she looked at Mr Holtzrichter, steel in her pale eyes. Demure and prim might have been a role she liked to play with mortals around, but no one ordered another under her roof except her.
“You have both travelled far, and I will have neither of you leaving without full stomachs.” For a moment Isobel was certain Mr Holtzrichter was going to stand and strike her, such was the coldness that swept over his face, but it soon passed and he smiled, nodding sharply.
“Quite the chit, are you not?” he said, good humour in his voice.
“When the mood takes me, sir, but don’t ever take it to mean I am bacon-brained,” Isobel returned, careful to keep her own tone light.
“Indeed not.”
Isobel returned his smile, and curtsied, which brought laughter from Holtzrichter’s belly. “Very good, my dear, I like the cut of you.”
“Hareton, be seated,” Isobel said. “I have a broth prepared already. Mr Holtzrichter and I can be alone shortly. To conduct our...business.”
Hareton walked over to the table and sat on one of the hard chairs, but he did not question the source of such business. Isobel felt sure he did not know, but he was not so foolish as to enquire in front of Mr Holtzrichter. Although he would return later. How could he not? He was on the high ropes and he, too, remembered their last encounter as clearly as she. And it was an encounter both wished to repeat.
As she poured the broth into bowls for the two men she had to consider, once again, just why the Three would send a special envoy all the way from France to see her. Certainly she had chosen her side during recent events, and she applauded the reforms the Lady Celeste had put into place over the last six months, but she was one among tens of thousands of their kind in England, and not worthy of such attention. It troubled her. Rumour had spread that Celeste was still removing her enemies, those who had taken sides with the Brotherhood. Could Celeste have been misinformed and now considered Isobel one such enemy?
She smiled at Mr Holtzrichter, who had offered his own smile upon receipt of his broth. Maybe she was looking too far into it, but there was something she didn’t like hidden behind his smile. And his name...it sounded German, and didn’t Celeste have a German consort?
Once the men had finished their broth, Hareton left to tend to the horse. Isobel busied herself with cleaning the bowls, all the while feeling Mr Holtzrichter’s eyes on her back. She stopped for a moment, and asked; “Is your name German?”
Mr Holtzrichter chuckled. “No,” he said, “although a common mistake. It is Prussian. I was born in a little town called Posen in 1722.”
Isobel turned to him. “You are a young one, too, then,” she said with a coy smile. “So you come from the home of the Tree King?”
For a moment Mr Holtzrichter looked confused, then he smiled. “Oh yes, your mad King George,” he said, referring to the tale of the ailing king who had once shook the branch of a tree believing it to be King Frederick William, the incumbent ruler of Prussia.
“Hardly my mad king, Mr Holtzrichter. I have lived a long time, seen this country at war many times over, ruled by many fools. Still,” she added wistfully, “it is my home, although I am very much no longer of Great Britain.” Holtzrichter nodded in acknowledgment of this, and Isobel smiled, thinking that another hundred years of life and he too would not consider himself of any one country.
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