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“Neutral,” she repeated dubiously.
“You are considered one of the most desirable matches in all of Europe, and out from under the prime minister’s watchful eye, you might be enticed to no good by gentlemen such as Mawbley.”
“Mawbley!”
The conversation was beginning to make him uncomfortable. It was none of his concern who she might wed one day. And he didn’t want to be the one to tell her how wretched the male sex could be when it came to the possibility of wealth and power. “Have you no’ guessed what Mawbley is about?”
She looked away from him, which suggested that she had indeed guessed.
“I think Robuchard thought it might be useful to you to have someone about who is acquainted with those who will come calling.”
“Useful?”She lifted her gaze. “I’m surrounded at every moment of the day. Do you and Robuchard think I don’t have enough advice on what I should say or think or do at any moment? Do you and Robuchard think I haven’t any sense at all?”
William had wondered the same thing. “Perhaps because you have only Weslorian advice?” he posed. “Perhaps Weslorians will no’ always tell you the truth, aye? But me?” He spread his arms wide. “I’ve nothing to gain. I’ve got all the time in the world to watch you be courted.”
“I don’t want to be courted. I’m completelyagainstany sort of courting.”
He shrugged. “It hardly matters to me what you do—I’ve nothing to prove to you. But I have given my word to a friend.”
She looked at him sharply. “Robuchard is your friend?”
That was a misstep. “A better term is a powerful acquaintance.”
Princess Justine leaned back in her seat, her gaze intent. Curious and studious. Her eyes, he thought, were enchanting. They were so amber in color that from a distance, they looked a little like spun gold. Princess eyes.
She suddenly leaned forward. “What were your terms?”
“Myterms?”
She inched forward on her seat and leaned closer, her eyes glistening. “What did you agree to do for him? What information does Robuchard want from you?”
“To be your friend—”
She waved her hand, dismissing the notion before he could prevaricate. “I may be young...but you will at least agree I am not new to the appetite of men for political maneuvering.”
“True.”
“How often are you to escort me about like a child?”
“You’re no’ a child, quite obviously—”
“How often?”
“That...that would be determined by, ah...” How in hell should he know how often? That was Beck’s fault, too—one could not think through a delicate situation like this when one was captured and forced to drink whisky the night before.
She clucked her tongue at his ignorance and failure to have thought this entirely through. “Let’s start simply. What precisely has he asked you to do?”
“From time to time, he would like to have word on your happiness...or lack thereof, depending.”
She snorted. “You may report immediately that my happiness is waning with his tricks. If you are to escort me about to makefriends, then we must have an understanding.”
Now they were getting somewhere. He imagined they would agree to certain hours, a frequency of events. “All right.”
“To begin, you will recognize that I am to be queen soon and you are not at liberty to tell me what to do, under any circumstance.”
His eyes widened with surprise. “Now, there’s a winning scheme if ever I heard one—befriend others by beaning them on the head with your scepter.”
She ignored him and carried on. “You are not to have or offer an opinion on any would-be suitors.”
