Persuasion in the Pantry [Maid for More #1]

Chapter 32 Part 1: A Queen's Command

[If you did not arrive to this part of the Bexley Manor by way of a Hidden Chapter, then just hit that 'follow' button and refresh, because there is an interesting little insight into the Duchess just one chamber before this one! If you still can't find it then here is the link: https://www.wattpad.com/284950067-persuasion-in-the-pantry-maid-for-more-1-secret ]

Cain strode through the gallery, ignoring the curious stare of an upstairs maid. It had been several days since he had seen Verushka and he was determined to uncover her without further ado. He had already searched through several chambers, the ballroom and even his mother's private apartments without so much as a lock of her unruly golden hair to be seen. Given that she was a newly appointed upstairs maid, one would expect her to be somewhere upstairs, but the little slip of a girl was proving more elusive than the Pimpernel. It was almost as if his mother was keeping her hidden, although he could not fathom why, since she had previously contrived to throw them together. He had thought to simply ask the Duchess's ladies maids but, it almost seemed like conceding defeat in his own quest.

Cain was however, acutely aware that he could not spare the time to chase after his own maid when a few days prior his Queen had charged him with a task of national importance. He had known that the visit would be more than what it seemed, but after so many years abroad he had forgotten the layers of subtle and devious court politics that wrapped the Crown in a shroud of mystery. Cain had pondered his excursion many times in the hours since and once again he let his mind wander over the details searching for new meaning in the nuances of his memories...

The Receiving Hall was as stunning as he remembered. Cherubs gazed down from on high with golden flutes, carved into the majestic pillars towering over the throng of awaiting guests. Cain swilled champagne in his crystalline glass and listened keenly to the titters of others, all eager to be faced with Her Majesty. Gowns, gossip, gaiety... their conversations were not difficult to discern, but in between the banal assessment of the Season there were points of interest. He caught a sneer declaring that Judge Rinehart and his wife were out of sorts and reportedly considering a divorce in homage to King Henry VIII. Another woman laughed at the rumour that Prince Albert had taken a mistress, but not a single courtier speculated at the pregnancy that he knew the Queen to be concealing.

Cain straightened his cuff and resisted the urge to cringe at his ensemble. The superbly tailored black pants that disappeared into gleaming polished leather boots were its only salvation. While the garish green of his coat was interwoven with gold expertly crafted by a tailor who should have had his eyes examined. He had once again chosen a cut that was fashionable for a Dandy who led the field in the daring attire that pleased so many ladies but so few discerning men. The clothes provided the desired effect and, as usual, no man in the room considered him to be a threat, allowing Cain to move around the milling ton with the ease of a well concealed spy.

His mother was still nowhere to be seen after discreetly bowing out to powder her nose as soon as she entered Buckingham Palace. Her nose had looked perfectly fine to Cain, but he had never understood the obsession with the powder room that so many ladies had. It was as if it was the female version of a Cigar Room, since he doubted it could equate to a dozen men loitering around a urinal.

A bell chimed in the room beyond announcing the arrival of Her Majesty and the doors swung open to allow the small crowd access to the lustrous Throne Room. Servants stood at the ready with refreshed platters of champagne flutes and hor d'oeuvres while official ushers guided them forward along the plush Persian runner. As Cain followed the herd, idly listening to a courtier on his arm chat about her own importance, he spotted his mother sitting in a stone alcove deep in conversation with a matron so withered that a stiff breeze could have blown her away.