Page 16 of The Toymaker's Son

“Well, yes. It’s huge.”

“I’s just a maid, milord. Let me find the valet.”

“Well, I’m here and ready and since Rochefort—I mean, the lord—isn’t here, and I don’t know where the dining room is, I’d appreciate your help. We don’t need to bother a valet for that.”

“Oh,” she said again. “I suppose I can show you the way to the dining room.”

“Thank you.” I walked alongside her.

She seemed a little shy, but that was the nature of housekeeping. They weren’t supposed to be seen, as though the house magically kept itself clean and in perfect condition. The whole thing was absurd. Rochefort was a grown man. He should know how to dress himself, open his own doors, and drive his own carriage. But since I’d been born poor, his world was as alien to mine as day was to night.

“Will Lady Rochefort be joining us for dinner?” I couldn’t imagine what Rochefort’s wife was like. Hopefully, more reserved than her husband.

“The lady of the house has taken ill. She won’t be joining you.”

We arrived at a splendid room featuring a long mahogany table fit for several dozen guests. “Goodness, will it be just me, then?”

“I assume so, milord.”

“Please, call me Valentine.”

She paled, horrified by the idea. I’d clearly broken some kind of etiquette rule.

“Or Mister Anzio is also fine.”

“Oh yes, milord.” She curtsied again and hurried from the room, ending our strange and stilted meeting, if one could call it that. Alone in another vast, overly elegant room, I wandered, admiring several enormous paintings of scenic landscapes.

Several staff arrived and set the table, the women curtsying and the men dipping their chins as though I were royalty. It was all something of a circus, and just for dinner. With the table set, a bell rang somewhere in the house, which I assumed signaled to the lord that dinner was served.

Unable to take my seat without the lord of the house being present, I stood behind the place setting to the right of the head of the table. As I waited, movement beneath the white tablecloth caught my eye. A little lump, no larger than a sprout, zigzagged around the set plates. I picked up a knife, checked the door for witnesses, and stabbed a hole into the cloth, right beside the trapped creature. It appeared to freeze, but as I widened the hole, the purple clockwork beetle crawled out—the very same one I’d left in my room at the Lost Penny.

“How on earth did you get there?”

Its wings buzzed, then slotted back under its wing cases.

“Ah, Valentine!”

I grabbed a bowl and plonked it over the beetle, hiding it from sight. “My er…” I cleared my throat. “Good evening, Lord Rochefort.”

“Call me Thomas, please. Goodness, you recover fast. Bright and breezy, I see.”

He took his seat and the servants swarmed in, serving enough food and wine for a family of ten. Rochefort sent them away.

“I’m sorry to hear your wife won’t be joining us.”

“Hmm.” Rochefort’s gaze danced.

We ate and traded small talk, avoiding the subject of my unfortunate incident with his carriage. Rochefort naturally liked the arts but was more interested in hunting game, and riding. I could ride but hadn’t taken part in any hunts. He asked after my time studying in Massalia, fascinated by my burgeoning career.

Once he was suitably relaxed, I eased in with some more pointed questions. “I wanted to ask about any history between you and the Barellas.”

“Oh?”

“It appears you and the toymaker’s son do not get along.”

“Does it?” Rochefort picked up his wine glass. “I’ve had little dealings with the man. Our paths rarely cross.”

“Really?” I found that hard to believe considering the vehemence with which Rochefort wanted me to find Devere guilty, and Devere’s warning that Rochefort was not to be trusted. “It’s a smaller town than it looks. Paths cross more often than outsiders assume.”

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