Chapter 27: Quite The Looker
"How much for your girls?" the man asked.
Nicholas hadn’t seen this gentleman before; likely a visiting noble drawn to London by the day’s celebrations. "Depends. Which one?"
"What does it matter?" the man chuckled.
"Different packages, different costs," he replied smoothly, wiping his hands on a cloth.
"Alright, then. That one." He lifted a hand and pointed toward the landing of the staircase.
Nicholas followed the direction of his finger. There was Livia. She leaned gently against the banister, her gaze fixed on the dancing girls as she observed their movements—the subtle sway of hips, the teasing laughter, the art of holding a man’s attention with nothing more than a glance. She was learning, absorbing every detail.
The candlelight framed her in a soft golden glow, enhancing her natural beauty. Nicholas’s eyes gleamed with pride. "That one is off the market for now," he said, turning back to the gentleman.
"Shame," the man replied, clicking his tongue softly. "I’d offer a few pounds for that one."
"Quite the looker, isn’t she?" he said, unable to conceal the satisfaction in his voice. Livia had quickly become his most valuable asset, and the attention she attracted only reinforced his belief in her worth.
"Yes," the stranger agreed, his gaze lingering on her with undisguised interest. "So why is she off the market?"
"She got booked for the month," Nicholas answered, leaning slightly closer. He had been given specific orders to keep Livia away from every other men by Livia’s mysterious patron.
"Well, no one has to know, my good man,"
"Ah... The client is a respectable man. I don’t like to lose such customers. But if you are still in town when the month is over, check again," Nicholas said, spreading his hands in a gesture of polite regret.
The stranger tilted his head thoughtfully, his gaze drifting once more toward the staircase where Livia stood. "Hmmm... Oh well..."
"I have other beautiful girls," Nicholas added quickly. "Each with her own charms. I assure you, you will not be disappointed."
"Naah, I want that one," the man insisted.
Nicholas’s smile remained fixed. "Check again next month," he repeated.
"We’ll see," the man replied, a faint smirk playing on his lips before he turned away. He returned to his table, where two other men sat waiting. Their attire suggested minor nobility or wealthy gentry. They leaned in as he spoke to them in hushed tones, occasionally casting glances toward Livia.
Nicholas followed their gaze before looking back up at the landing. There she stood, unaware of the negotiation that had just taken place, her attention still fixed on the dancers below. "Yup," Nicholas muttered to himself with undisguised satisfaction. "A proper cash cow, this one."
He rubbed his hands together, already calculating the profits her association with a mysterious and wealthy patron would bring. The steady influx of coin from the royal festivities only reinforced his belief that fortune had finally smiled upon him.
*****
Queen Mother Theodora stood before Princess Madeleine, who had now removed her veil upon entering the privacy of the royal apartments. Madeleine’s attendant lingered discreetly near the doorway. Theodora moved slowly around the princess, her sharp eyes missing nothing. She assessed Madeleine’s bearing and physical presence. She noted the straightness of her posture, the elegance of her movements, and the confidence with which she held herself.
Her gaze lingered briefly on the princess’s hips—an attribute historically associated with childbearing—before shifting to the gentle curve of her figure and the refinement of her features.
Madeleine remained composed throughout the inspection. At last, Theodora came to stand directly before her.
"You should change into something more... simple," Queen Mother Theodora said.
"Why?" Madeleine asked, lifting her chin slightly. Her voice remained polite, there was an undercurrent of pride that spoke of her royal upbringing.
"You are having tea with the king this evening," Theodora replied. "First impressions within these walls must be... carefully curated."
Madeleine glanced down at her attire, smoothing a hand over the luxurious fabric. "I am sure this is good enough for tea."
"My son has a mind of his own," she said. "If you wish to cement this agreement with France, you must do more than simply be delivered to him like a diplomatic parcel. You must endeavor to keep his interest."
A flicker of irritation crossed Madeleine’s features. "Your Grace, I am a French princess. People should fall at my feet, including the King of England."
The Queen Mother’s expression hardened. "You may be a princess in France," she said coolly, "but you are not a princess here. Until such time as you are formally betrothed or wed, your title holds no water within the English hierarchy. Courtesy will be extended to you, certainly, but influence must be earned."
Madeleine met Theodora’s gaze directly, her spine straight and her demeanor unwavering.
Theodora took another step forward, lowering her voice so that it carried an intimate yet unmistakable warning. "You will learn to submit to me," she continued, "or you and I are going to be at odds—and we would not want that, would we?"
Theodora’s authority was political, forged through years of maneuvering within the treacherous landscape of court intrigue. She had not secured her son’s throne by chance, and she had no intention of allowing an inexperienced foreign princess to disrupt the delicate balance she had established.
"I understand, Your Grace," Madeleine replied, offering a tight, controlled smile.
"Go and get ready for tea," she said, dismissing her with a subtle wave of her hand.
Madeleine executed a flawless curtsy before turning to leave the chamber. Her maid quickly fell into step behind her as they passed through the grand corridors of Whitehall Palace.
Once they were a safe distance from Theodora’s apartments, Madeleine’s carefully maintained composure fractured. She stopped abruptly beneath a tall window overlooking the palace gardens.
"My title holds no water?" she fumed. She reached up to remove her gloves with agitated movements, twisting the delicate fabric in her hands.
"I’m sure she doesn’t mean that, Your Highness," her maid assured her gently.