The king: His mail-order mate

The secret she is

*Kingsley*

I have the enviable skill of concentrating on more than one thing at a time, so as Lancaster waxes on about his invention, a clock that emits an alarm at a particular time designated by its owner, I appear to be giving my full attention to the inventor while out of the corner of my eye, I admire Pettifur’s new dress.

It's dark blue. Of course, it's dark blue. She only ever wears dark blue. However, because I also possess a gift for memory, I know that despite it not daring to reveal so much as the dip of her collarbones, it has two fewer buttons than any of her other dresses, the sleeves running all the way to her wrists are a slightly closer fit, and the bustle smaller. I wonder when she had time to have it sewn, but then, she is a paragon of efficiency. I once asked her why she always wears dark blue instead of a cheerier color, and she immediately took offense. “Do you ask your solicitor why he doesn’t strut about in brighter jackets like a peacock?”

Of course I don’t. I don’t give a damn about Beck’s attire, but she made her point. She takes her position seriously and wears nothing to give the impression she is flighty by nature. Still, I think a hunter green would accomplish the same result while also serving to bring out the green shade of her eyes, sharp eyes, clever eyes. They are the reason I employed her.

A dozen men had applied for the position when I announced it. She was the only woman. She was also the only one to meet my gaze straight on, to never look away, to never flinch, not even when she lied. If she is a vicar’s daughter, then I am a beggar’s son.

I hired the best investigators, detectives, spies, and they were unable to discover a single thing about her. It is as though she did not exist until the moment she walked into my office for her interview.

I, with my shrewd mind, who considers odds, is willing to suffer a loss for a larger gain, and weighs risks, have taken a hell of a big one with her and given her the position. Without knowing anything about her other than what she shared that long-ago afternoon. And I have yet to regret it.

She is a marvel. Quite possibly the most intelligent person I have ever known. That, too, is reflected in those emerald eyes of hers.

Now we are concentrating on what she is scribbling as Lancaster speaks. She has perfect penmanship, no matter how quickly she writes. Although at the moment, I know she is using something she refers to as the Pitman method, a series of curls, slashes, and dots that make no sense whatsoever to me, but then they don’t have to. She will translate it all and write it out later for my records.

I seldom forget anything but prefer to have the reminders all the same. Besides, she often catches the smallest of details that I might have overlooked or decided at the time had no bearing, only to discover later they were crucial. We are a team, she and I. Other than my three best mates from Alpha school, I trust no one more.

Although I am not certain she can say the same of me. Otherwise, why has she shared nothing else of her past, other than what she had that first afternoon? On one hand, I feel I know her as well as I know myself. Yet I can’t deny the gaping holes that seem to yawn wider with the passage of time. I tell myself her past is of no consequence. She does what is asked of her and she does it flawlessly.

Besides, she has a right to keep her secrets. After all, I am damned good at keeping mine.

But still, I sometimes wonder…

I become acutely aware of the expectant silence looming around me.

Uncharacteristically, I have stopped listening intently, but I have the gist of what Lancaster is proposing. “Interesting. Your invention would put knocker-uppers out of business.” Those paid to tap on windows to awaken workers at certain hours. Lancaster appears stricken by the notion, as though he has not considered all the ramifications of his invention. “That said, all progress results in someone losing. Look at the railroads. Taxie services are used less frequently, and inns along well-worn paths have fewer customers. But opportunities open elsewhere. People can more easily travel to seaside resorts, which are thriving as a result. So you will need a factory. That’s what you are seeking from me as an investor, I take it.”

“Yes, My Alpha.”

“I shall consider it, Mr. Lancaster, but will need to do some research of my own first. Within a fortnight, we will meet again, in my city office.” I prefer its austere businesslike setting when the possibility of negotiations looms. “I shall have an answer for you then.” As I come to my feet, I extend a card to the man as he also rises. “Leave your own card with Miss Pettifur. She will be in touch regarding the exact date and time for our next appointment.”

“Thank you, My Alpha.”

He rushes over to my secretary and gives her his card. She smiles. “Well done, sir.”

Her response gives me no hint as to what she is truly thinking, because she says the same words, in that cheerful tone, to anyone who pitches me an idea, no matter how atrocious or ridiculous it might be. It is as though she knows what it is to never be encouraged, as though she wants to provide hope in a world without any.

Once Lancaster is gone, I drop back into my chair, meet my secretary’s gaze, and settle in to enjoy my favorite part of any investment opportunity. “What are your thoughts on the matter, Pettifur?”

As always when she shares her initial impressions, she removes her spectacles to gently massage the bridge of her nose. A few blond strands have attached themselves to the wire frames and managed to escape the prison of her severely secured bun, so they now dangle loosely along her temple and the edge of her jawline.

They catch my attention because it is seldom any aspect of her is unruly. It makes her an excellent employee, but suddenly I find myself wondering if she is done up with such precision after she retires for the evening or on her day off. Is what I see every day merely a facade, or is it her true self? No nonsense whatsoever. I approve, and yet it bothers me to realize I don’t know the sound of her laughter.

“You will need to find a way to make them cheaply. Those who would benefit from this contraption will have few coins to spare for what most will no doubt view as a luxury item.” She settles her spectacles into place.

“I quite agree, I was thinking along those same lines.” I place my elbow on the arm of my chair and my chin in my palm. Slowly, I rub my finger along my bottom lip. “I have seen something similar in the western lands, but it can be set only to blare noisily at a particular hour, on the dot.”

“Whereas Mr. Lancaster’s invention allows the alarm to go off at a precise moment of a particular hour, so someone who doesn’t need to awaken until half six could sleep for half an hour more.”

“When have you ever not arisen at the top of the hour, Pettifur? When have you ever slept late?”

Her mouth curls up slightly. “I always have a lie-in on Christmas morning, a gift to myself.”

My stomach knots up so tightly as to be almost painful. I didn’t know that. Christ, am I so desperate for any hidden nugget of information concerning her that my body reacts as though she has stood up and stripped bare before me? Or is it because I’m immediately hit with the image of her in bed, snuggled beneath the covers . . . waking, stretching, remembering it’s a holiday, rolling onto her side, and drifting back off, a contented smile on her face? Or is it that her gift to herself is something so simple, something she could experience any day of the year, but denies herself because, like me, she’s driven to accomplish great things, no matter the personal sacrifice? That thought leads me to wondering what the devil drives her.

“You’re too stingy with yourself, Pettifur. You should purchase something

extravagant for Christmas.”

“The best gifts usually cost nothing at all.” Her smile is winsome, as though she’s lost in memories, and I’m tempted to ask her what the best gift she’s ever received was. Devil take me, but I want to know who gave it to her.

Through my mind parades all the gifts with which I have graced her, items one gives a secretary so she can better see to her duties or at least enjoy them more: a gold-nibbed pen, a crystal letter weight, the small leather notebook she used earlier, and so much more. But nothing of a personal nature. I have no idea what she likes for herself, what would make her smile in the same warm manner she smiled at Lancaster. Suddenly, it seems imperative to give her something that will be met with more than a “Thank you, My Alpha. I shall put it to good use.”

I want to present her with something that isn’t useful in the least.

Her mouth abruptly returns to business as she stands. The manners drilled into me since I was placed in a cradle forces me to rise, even though I wouldn’t have done so if she were a man employed to assist me with my business.

“I’ll write up the notes and present them to you this afternoon. Shall I send word to your usual sleuths and get them on the scent of Mr. Lancaster?” She held up the man’s card. Numerous reasons existed for his having Lancaster hand over his card. Some of the men he employed would be able to tell him exactly where the inventor had it printed.

“Most certainly.”

“Did you want to move ahead and obtain quotes from factories to compare against the cost of building your own?”

“You know me so well, Pettifur.”

She almost smiled at that. I see her lips twitch.

“Is there anything else, My Alpha?”

“Yes. We will be dining tonight at the club with the hand.”

“We, sir?”

“I will need you there. Ace has some scheme or other to present, and I want you to take notes.”

“But it is a club for men only.”

“l have secured a private dining room with a private entrance. Have the car brought round at half seven.”

She gives a curt nod. “Yes, sir.”

She turns to go.

“Pettifur?”

Before she stops to face me, I have already begun moving toward her. It takes me only six strides to reach her. She doesn't have the length in her legs that I do. She isn't so much as a quarter of an inch over five feet. Gingerly, I gather up the few silken blond strands that have been caressing her cheek and tuck them behind her ear. “We will all be dressed rather formally. If you have something less . . . staid, feel free to wear it.”

She blinks, swallows, nods. “But it is business.”

“Of course, without question.”

She pats her hair, then smiles. Warm and bright. “I’m quite looking forward to seeing the inside of a gentlemen’s club.”

As she leaves, I'm hit with the unexpected realization that I would willingly pay a fortune to keep that tantalizing smile on her face.