Page 36 of A Royal Kiss & Tell
She looked frantically about, her eyes growing wider. “I told you, I could lose my position!” she whispered harshly.
Leo was not used to anyone saying no to him and wasn’t quite certain how to convince her she must do as he said without causing a scene. “It is imperative that I speak with you—”
“Not here,” she said quickly, and craned her neck to see past him. “In the market on Wednesday.” She glanced up at him warily.
Leo stared at her. “The market? What market?”
She whispered something.
“Pardon? I didn’t catch that. I am not... I don’t know the markets,” he admitted. How could he possibly know? Everything he needed was purchased for him.
“Half past two. I’m to buy poultry. The good chickens come on Wednesdays.” And then she whirled and dipped to one side, as if she thought he would try to stop her, and fled down the hallway.
Leo stood there like a dunce, confused. What had she said? All he’d heard was half past two on Wednesday and good chickens. But which market? How did he go about finding a poultry market without drawing attention to himself? And bloody hell, as if he didn’t have any number of things he must do on Wednesday, the lass had summoned him like a suitor...
All right, he didn’t havesomany things to do on Wednesday. Tea with the Alucian ambassador, that was all. He never had anything of importance to occupy him—he generally filled his days with social calls and gentlemen’s clubs. In light of what he was endeavoring to do now, that all seemed rather...indolent. Yes. In light of what he was trying to do now—very much on his own, thank you—it was embarrassingly indolent.
Beck finally emerged from his sister’s room, his vivacity and naturally jovial spirit having returned to him, babbling about her renewed health and the fact that she’d lapped up that bowl of soup with the eagerness of a dog. Off they went to the club, where Beck passed around the room, reporting to anyone and everyone that his sister was “much recovered”—although she hadn’t looked so recovered to Leo—and “fit as a fiddle.”
Then Beck sat and complained that Leo had hardly touched the gin and wondered aloud why that was. “You don’t think you’ve come down with an ague, do you?” he asked. “Caro might have been very contagious.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” Leo said. He’d lost his appetite for drink, that was all. His thoughts were on the need to discover where one purchased chickens in London, and what one had to do to gain entrance to the market. He was too bothered by this business with these poor Weslorian women and the men who would treat them so ill, and how ill prepared he was to do anything about it. Last night, he’d lain awake, tossing and turning, trying to make sense of his life. It was as if his twenty-ninth year had crept up on him like death and had found his life lacking in so many ways. He’d done nothing worthwhile.
Leo was ashamed of himself. But on the other hand, he wished he had tackled something a little less complicated than freeing women sold into slavery.
He and Beck were soon joined by two other men, Mr. Humble and Sir Granbury, both of whom were eager to celebrate Lady Caroline’s return to health, although neither seemed to know her. When the talk turned loud and boisterous and Beck complained of hunger, he insisted they carry on to a restaurant nearby that he claimed prepared a very good beefsteak.
Leo saw his opportunity and blurted awkwardly, “I’ve had a hangering for good poultry.”
The three men looked at him.
Leo looked back.
“I believe you meant to sayhankering, Your Highness,” said Sir Granbury.
“Pardon?”
“The word you are seeking ishankering, nothangering,” Beck supplied, grinning.
“Ah. Thank you.” Leo could feel a warmth in the back of his neck. He’d picked up some words in the last few years that he had not learned from his childhood English tutor.
“If it’s poultry you want, I’ve the best in Lancashire,” said Mr. Humble. “You’ll not see better meat than what is produced on my land. Plump birds.” He used his hands to demonstrate just how plump.
“It is good poultry, Davis, I will grant you that,” Beck agreed.
“Perhaps something a bit closer than Lancashire,” Leo suggested. “Surely there is a market...”
“What have you got all those servants for?” Beck scoffed. “Send them out to fetch good poultry and don’t concern yourself.”
The three men nodded in agreement. Leo would have, too, because naturally, if he wanted poultry, he would tell someone, and it would magically appear on his plate. “Truth be told, sirs...my man does not have an eye for the fattest hen.”
“Neither do I,” said Sir Granbury, and the three men burst into laughter. Various jests about the gentlemen’s appendages and how they’d like to fit said appendages into fat hens went round the table while Leo tried to think of another way to ask about the market.
When the laughter died, he said, “But is there a market for poultry? Someplace I might send him?”
Mr. Humble shrugged. “There is Leadenhall. Or Newgate.”
Leadenhall!That’s what Ann Marble had whispered.
