Sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the drawing room, falling across polished silver teapots and fine porcelain cups. Prince Benedict sat with three ministers; Lord Hensley, Sir Mallard, and Baron Elsworth each dressed in dark, formal coats and seated with an air of cautious formality. The tea had grown lukewarm as their polite, measured replies filled the heavy silence between them.
Prince Benedict had spent the last hour making his intentions plain that he was gathering support, that the crown was all but within his grasp. And yet, they nodded politely, offered vague remarks about loyalty and tradition, then circled around true commitment like dancers wary of stepping too close to the flame.
"My lord," began Sir Mallard with a thin smile as he set his cup down, "you are most gracious. Of course, in these uncertain times, one must wait for all the pieces to align before taking decisive action."
"Yes," agreed Lord Hensley, bowing his head. "We admire your leadership, Your Highness. Patience will reward you."
Prince Benedict's lips thinned, dark eyes flicking across each face. "I have made my intentions clear," he said with a measured tone, "and I have proven my strength more than once. Does that not inspire loyalty?"
Sir Mallard gave a careful nod. "Your Royal Highness's ambitions are commendable. But it would be premature to declare support until we are certain of a stable outcome."
Baron Elsworth lowered his gaze to his cup. "Your Highness must forgive us. These are uncertain times. No one wishes to misplace their loyalty."
Prince Benedict's jaw tensed. It was not resistance they were voicing, but it wasn't loyalty either. They were waiting to see where the tide would turn.
He rose, signaling the end of the meeting. "I appreciate your candor," he replied smoothly, though there was an undertone of ice. The ministers took the cue and shuffled to their feet, bowing low before making polite farewells.
Once alone in the foyer, prince Benedict's face hardened. His hands were clasped behind his back, brow darkened.
Percival was there to meet him, reading his master's expression.
"They are timid men," Percival offered in a low voice as they descended the marble staircase. "They fear that supporting you too openly may cost them if tides shift."
Prince Benedict's jaw clenched as they walked toward his carriage. "And if they wait too long," he murmured bitterly, "those tides may never turn in my favor."
Percival paused before venturing, "Your Highness must also understand that some hesitate for personal reasons."
The prince halted, brow furrowing. "What reasons?"
Percival hesitated before speaking. "Your Highness," he began cautiously, "You lack a male heir. That is their true worry. They hesitate to support a man with only one daughter and no prospect of a son to secure the future. Many still believe succession must pass through a male heir.
Prince Benedict stiffened at those words, his hands balling into fists at his sides. That sore spot, the absence of sons had plagued him for years.
"They dare judge my capability by the contents of my nursery," he said coldly.
Percival kept his voice even. "Your Highness, they see a prince who might one day leave a vulnerable throne. Many would support you readily if they saw a male heir at your side."
Benedict stared ahead, gaze dark.
Percival inclined his head. "Your Highness, if I may… perhaps it's time to reconsider your household. A divorce from Lady Calista would not be impossible. Another marriage, one with a young and fertile wife, would assure you the heir they so desperately wish to see."
Prince Benedict's gaze snapped toward him, dark and sharp.
"Never," he replied, his tone like iron.
Percival's lips pressed together. "My prince, with all due respect, Lady Calista cannot give you a son. The council will never feel secure until they see a male heir..."
"Calista gave me a daughter," Benedict cut in fiercely, his eyes flashing. "And that is more than enough. I will not discard her simply to please timid men."
A silence settled over them, weighted and tense.
Benedict stared past Percival for a long moment, the muscle in his jaw ticking. "If they lack faith," he finally said, voice like a blade wrapped in silk, "then they will bow in time with or without my son."
Percival inclined his head, accepting the dismissal as he fell into step behind the prince, but there was a troubled glint in his eye as they moved onward.
And as they crossed into the dimmer halls of the salon, Prince Benedict's hands tightened into fists at his sides. The ministers' hesitation had left a bitter taste in his mouth, but what burned most was Percival's words and the reminder of a son he did not have.
When they reached outside, Percival inclined his head, respectful but cautious. "Take care, Your Highness"
"You too". Prince Benedict replied.
Without another word, he climbed into his carriage, his face carved from stone as they rattled away into the busy streets of London, his thoughts darker than the clouds overhead.
As Percival turned to leave the carriage drive, his hands clasped behind his back in thought, a familiar figure appeared at the grand doors. Julian Hartmoor was stepping up the marble steps, a slight bow of his head in greeting as their paths crossed.
"My lord Percival," Julian greeted in a smooth, measured tone.
Percival paused and regarded him thoughtfully. A polite smile curved his lips as he inclined his head in return. "Mr. Hartmoor," Percival replied, voice warm but eyes sharp with interest. "Your timing is most fortuitous."
Julian's brow lifted subtly. "Is it?"
Percival glanced over his shoulder toward the now-quiet salon where tea had been served. "Prince Benedict was just here," he said, his voice lowering a fraction. "And there are matters best discussed privately before word spreads further."
Julian sensed the undercurrent in Percival's tone. "Of course," he answered, his manner composed.
With a graceful gesture, Percival indicated the salon. "Shall we?"
Julian fell into step beside him as they passed back into the house, the door closing behind them with a heavy, decisive click.