Lucien shrugged one shoulder. “Conquest, expanding our rule. The question is why shouldn’t we overtake them?”
Severin rubbed one of his velvet ears. “As I am unfit to lead our armies in this cursed condition the question is moot point.”
“I agree, so when are you going to break the curse again?” Lucien asked, latching to the topic eagerly.
“Attempting the same activity multiple times and expecting a different result is not only pointless but insane.”
“No, it is not. All you need is an empty headed girl to fall in love with you and the curse is broken. Truthfully I think that’s the cheapest price I’ve ever heard of for ridding oneself of a curse,” Lucien said.
“She must fall in love with a beast, Lucien. You seem to forget that. If it were so easy to get a woman to love me I would have done it already for my servants’ sake—not that I haven’t tried.”
“But this time I think I have the perfect candidate. She’s the daughter of a minor noble—and she loves animals!”
Severin looked down at the table and speared a paper with the tip of his claw. “I have new orders for Rangers Twenty Five, Fifty Two, and Seventy Eight,” he said, speaking of Lucien’s elite troops. They were agents of intelligence trained for observations, combat, recon missions, and spying. Although the Rangers technically were Lucien’s, Severin was key in the creation of the organization, and he moved them around like his personal chess pieces—with Lucien’s permission of course.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” Lucien said.
Severin handed over papers describing the targets and desired information as well as timeframes.
“It looks agreeable to me, except this,” Lucien said, removing one of the three packets. “Ranger Seventy Eight can’t be spared right now.”
Severin frowned—which was more of a barring of fangs. “What is he doing?”
“A personal intelligence collection mission for me, although recently we’ve fallen out of contact.”
“Ranger Seventy Eight is one of our best intelligencers. Please do not tell me you are risking him with plans for your little war?”
“Tempting, but no. It’s a local case. Should I be afraid of betrayal? There’s been no word for a week or two,” Lucien frowned, fiddling with the frilled throat of his white undershirt.
“Track him down immediately. A missing Ranger as knowledgeable as Seventy Eight is no small matter,” Severin hissed.
Lucien smiled. It wasn’t his pretty one he used for portraits and ladies, but the smug smile he wore when he was about to get his way. “Yes,” he agreed. “Since you can’t use Seventy Eight, who would you like to send instead?”
The brothers planned for hours, pouring over maps, moving diagrams and arguing army locations before dusk closed in on the hunting lodge.
“What if we move the southern army to Duke Villette’s for the winter? His people are usually plagued by bandits. I imagine he would welcome the military strength,” Severin said.
Lucien scrubbed at his eyes. “Can’t we be done? We’ve talked strategy and military movements for hours. Don’t you have any supply requests from your housekeeper?”
Severin finally set aside his quill pen. “I do,” he said, handing over a packet of papers before he started straightening his materials and packing up.
Lucien sipped at a cup of lukewarm tea, frowning at its flat taste as he paged through his brother’s expenses.
For the most part Chanceux Chateau was self sustaining, but there were more exotic goods that had to be bought and imported—like spices, tea, and cloth.
“Did you ruin your wardrobe or something?” Lucien asked as he looked at the budget sheet for cloth and wool.
“No. Why?”
“Your housekeeper is requesting lace, silks, and satins by the yards,” Lucien said.
“Oh. That.”
“What is it?”
Severin massaged the back of his neck. “A few weeks ago a girl fell through the roof of the little hall.”
“What?”
“She’s a peasant from Belvenes. She broke her leg when she fell. She’s staying at the Chateau until she recovers enough to walk. Emele and Bernadine have taken a liking to her. I expect the extra cloth is for her.”
“Is she pretty?” Lucien asked, leaning eagerly across the table.
Severin rolled his eyes.
“Is she?” Lucien demanded.
Severin leaned back in his chair, trying to recall the few brief moments he saw the girl. While her eyes were passably pretty her lips were too full and her nose was too long for her to be considered a true beauty. Her bangs were jagged, and although her ink black hair seemed nice enough Severin was willing to bet his horse that Emele had her work cut out for her whenever she attacked the girl’s mane. “For the lower class, perhaps.”
“Oh,” Lucien said, starting to lose interest.
“Her name is Elle, I believe,” Severin added.
