A Shameless Con

"…How very interesting. Did you employ this same honey trap on the pirates as well?"

A dark gleam flickered through Cassian's eyes at the brazen question. Tracing an elegant curve at the corner of his lips, he replied at his leisure.

"Well. If I had to choose, I generally found it far quicker to kill them before they could identify my face."

The choice of words was excessively blunt, offering a lady no consideration whatsoever — yet instead of screaming, Wilhelmina burst into a sharp laugh.

The waltz was racing toward its close. Matching the sinking melody, the two of them stepped slowly, tracing a half-circle around each other.

Their gazes met. Cassian spoke.

"Well then. Will you permit me to sign your invoice?"

"You change your mind rather easily, Your Highness."

"Changed is not quite the right word. As you yourself said, I merely needed a little… certainty as to how well you could play your part."

"Then let us call you 'someone who reverses his decisions rather easily.' But…"

Closing the last of the distance between them, slowly, Wilhelmina asked him in a whisper.

"…Think carefully. Was the invoice I presented a few days ago the cheap sort of thing Your Highness could give a trial kick, then pick back up off the floor whenever you pleased?"

For an instant — very faintly — Cassian's movement stilled. Wilhelmina wore the smile her brothers loathed and even called demonic.

"I'll have you know…"

Cassian opened his mouth slowly.

"I am not a man who admits defeat easily, Miss Priestley."

"Of course you aren't."

Wilhelmina agreed at once.

"Even if you did admit defeat to me five minutes ago — that's hardly the sort of thing that happens readily, is it?"

"Undoubtedly so."

"But not everything rare is a gem."

Wilhelmina intoned it in a clear, ringing voice.

"Consider this as well. How much would Your Highness's declaration of surrender actually be worth to me?"

"Aha…"

With Cassian's slow exclamation, the music began to fade. The other dancers were already finishing their last movements, bowing politely to their partners.

"And I'll have you know as well."

Wilhelmina whispered quickly. Her cheeks had flushed a little, unavoidably, from juggling conversation and dancing at once — but the smile caught at the corners of her lips looked more spirited than anyone's in the room.

"Of every man who has ever knelt before me, not a single one has gotten what he wanted."

The moment the words ended, the music stopped completely.

Those who had already finished dancing began stealing glances at the pair, but neither of them paid it the slightest mind.

"Then what is it that you want?"

With the question, Cassian tightened his grip — a subtle pressure, like a predator's instinctive move to cut off its prey's escape.

Wilhelmina was not frightened. Rather, she leaned toward him as if she might collapse into his arms, and whispered:

"We'll have to take our time discovering that from here on, won't we?"

The scent of orange blossom drew near, then receded again. Wilhelmina wore that familiar smile.

"I can promise you it'll be a rather enjoyable time. You're quite welcome to look forward to it."

Cassian's silver-gray eyes sank deep as he looked down at that bold declaration.

That face, scattering fragments of light in every direction like the transparent facets of a jewel glittering in a thousand colors…

Like a box of chocolates.

All manner of soft, sweet things nestled in a little divided box. The dangerous kind — the ones that, if you bite down deceived by a particularly cloying sweetness, invariably flood your mouth with harsh liquor.

If he told her he enjoyed that fleeting instant of rolling such things across his tongue, would this woman understand? That it was a warning?

There was no way of knowing. Cassian smiled and said nothing. He was by no means of a kindly disposition, and therefore would not even give her the warning.

The next morning, the drawing room of Priestley Manor.

The atmosphere of this household could not, even as a courtesy, typically be described as refined or peaceful — but this morning possessed a ruckus of a particularly unusual order.

At the center of the commotion was a copy of a gossip rag that had been scattered across all of Winster as of dawn that day.

A headline that was sensational and shocking, truly faithful to the calling of a gossip paper.

Thanks to it, the prestigious Duke Priestley, Benjamin, had abandoned every last shred of a great noble's dignity and a family head's face, and was stretched full-length upon the sofa, making the noises of a dying man.

Angeline carefully settled a cool ice pack, received from the butler, upon his forehead — but Benjamin could only manage a pitiful nngh and could not form a single intelligent sentence.

In the midst of that thoroughly distressing situation, Francesca, an unlit empty pipe stuck at a slant in her mouth, asked:

"So. Whose head am I supposed to blow off, exactly? The boatman's, or that damned Admiral's?"

"Neither head!"

Benjamin, who until a moment ago had been at death's door, roughly flung the ice pack from his brow and sat bolt upright.

"Francesca! Mention that hunting rifle in my presence one more time and I'll permanently ban you from the family hunting grounds this season, you mark my words!"

At the fierce roar, Francesca merely chewed her pipe and muttered gloomily.

"Ah. So it was Duke Priestley's head, then."

"Everyone, please calm down."

The one who stepped in to soothe them all was the culprit of the affair herself, Wilhelmina Priestley.

She appeared in a perfectly appointed morning dress, her face as utterly unperturbed as ever. As if this ridiculous uproar had nothing whatsoever to do with her, she said:

"The way you're all carrying on, anyone would think I'd done something truly momentous."

"Wilhelmina Priestley!"

Benjamin now looked like a man on the verge of foaming at the mouth.

"How can this not be momentous? Tell me this instant — honestly — what you were plotting last night at that ball, and what you've been scheming wherever my eyes couldn't reach!"

"Plotting?"

Wilhelmina answered with a lift of her eyebrows.

"I merely helped someone who looked to be in a tight spot."

"Ha!"

As if he could not believe his ears, Benjamin let out a large, scathing snort. He even jabbed a finger at his shameless little sister as he demanded:

"Since when have you ever bestowed such mercy and generosity upon others? If you'd possessed even a scrap of that splendid virtue, you might have bestowed some of it on your poor brother when he was suffering as a bachelor!"

A sharp rebuke, befitting an older brother who knew better than anyone his sister's viciously practical nature. But Wilhelmina did not so much as blink, pretending not to have heard.

"In any case, there's no need to worry about this matter. I'll handle it all myself."

"Oh, good heavens. Lord above."

Like a man facing the most terrifying disaster yet, Benjamin sighed with deep despair.

"Don't take it so hard, darling."

Stroking the shoulders of her husband, who was as prickly as a hedgehog, Angeline offered tender comfort.

"I'm sure Miss Wilhelmina has her own ideas."

"That's precisely the problem, Angie."

Benjamin appealed tragically.

"Mina would be better off without those 'ideas' of hers. If she didn't have them, the messes I'd have to clean up as head of this family would be cut exactly in half."

"Since she says she'll handle it herself, let me ask just one thing."

Francesca, who had been leaning against the sofa observing the situation, slowly opened her mouth.

"Let's hear what sort of solution you have in mind."

"Every bit as splendid and straightforward as a shotgun."

Hazel eyes gleaming, Wilhelmina grinned.

"I've arranged to meet him in person this afternoon and settle the matter."

"Fine. I understand."

Benjamin spoke in a voice of complete resignation.

"Fran, would you mind shooting me in the head with that gun of yours? I rather think that would be the fastest solution."