Reborn From Ashes: The King's Ruthless Queen

The next morning, the devil came to knock.

She was upstairs, hovering at the top of the landing. She had sent the maids to the kitchen. The house was quiet enough that voices carried from the study below.

Sterling had arrived at ten o'clock sharp.

She pressed her ear against the banister.

"Mr. Lloyd," Sterling's voice was smooth, professional. "The King has been reviewing the staffing for the Cabinet."

"Yes?" Kenney's voice cracked. She could imagine him leaning forward, greedy and desperate.

"He is impressed with your... dedication. The position of Undersecretary is yours. Pending a probationary period, of course."

"Oh, thank God," Kenney breathed. "Thank you. Please convey my eternal gratitude to His Majesty."

"There is one small matter," Sterling continued. "His Majesty is hosting a literary retreat at the Royal Lodge. A small, private affair. He was quite taken with the... aesthetic of the masquerade. He wishes to invite Mrs. Lloyd to attend."

Silence.

The silence stretched so long she thought the floorboards might snap. Kenney wasn't stupid. He knew exactly what "literary retreat" meant. He knew what the Royal Lodge was. It was where the King kept his mistresses.

"Imogene?" Kenney said, his voice wavering. "She... she is of delicate health. And propriety..."

"The Undersecretary position requires a man who puts the Crown above all else," Sterling said. His tone dropped the temperature in the room by ten degrees. "It is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Mr. Lloyd. For both of you."

She heard the scrape of a chair. Kenney was pacing.

"She will be honored," Kenney said finally. The words came out fast, like he wanted to get them over with. "It is an honor for the family."

She closed her eyes. Even knowing it was coming, hearing him sell her for a desk and a title felt like a physical blow to the stomach.

She stood up and walked back to her room. She sat on the sofa and picked up her embroidery hoop. Her hands were steady. Cold, but steady.

Ten minutes later, Kenney came in.

He looked flushed. Excited. But as soon as he saw her, his face crumpled into a mask of tragic despair. He deserved an award for this performance.

"Imogene," he sighed, collapsing onto the ottoman at her feet. "We are undone."

She didn't look up from her needlework. "What is it, Kenney?"

"I have made a terrible mistake at the office. A clerical error. The King... he is furious. He threatens to ruin us. To throw us into the street."

He grabbed her hands. His palms were sweaty.

"There is only one way to save us," he said, tears welling in his eyes. "He has summoned you. To the Lodge. To plead our case."

"Me?" She widened her eyes, feigning shock. "But why me?"

"Because you are charming. You are innocent. If you go, if you read to him, if you entertain him... he might forgive me. For Emily's sake, Imogene. I cannot let our daughter starve."

He was using Emily. Again.

She pulled her hands away, covering her face to hide her expression. He thought she was sobbing. She was trying not to vomit.

"Must I?" she whispered.

"Please," he begged. "I promise, if you do this, I will buy you the real sapphires. I will give you anything."

She lowered her hands. She let him see her red-rimmed eyes.

"Fine," she said. "I will go. For Emily."

Kenney exhaled, a massive rush of relief. He hugged her. She sat rigid in his arms, staring over his shoulder at the wall.

"You are a good wife," he murmured. "The best."

That night, she packed.

Sophie fluttered around the room, nervous. "Madam, the Lodge... people say things. About the King."

"Let them talk, Sophie," she said.

She wasn't packing her modest woolens. She was packing silk. She was packing the dresses that showed skin.

She reached into the false bottom of her sewing box and pulled out a book. It was a biography of Adella Lynn, unauthorized and scandalous. She had sent Sophie to a back-alley bookshop for it just last week, a piece of armor she knew she would need.

She opened it to the illustrations. Adella had a way of tilting her head. A way of holding her hands.

She stood in front of the mirror. She tilted her head. She lowered her eyelids.

She looked like a tragic heroine. She looked like a woman who needed saving.

"From today on," she whispered to the glass, "Imogene Lloyd is dead. Long live the King's nightmare."