Camille’s tone held no accusation or suspicion, only curiosity, but he didn’t want to speak of family history with a near stranger.

Dell shrugged. “Stepmother.”

Edmund seemed to sense his discomfort. “Dell, I need to speak with you.”

“I have work to do. Not all of us can befriend a king, get sent as an ambassador who never seems to have to do anything, and then sit on his ass.” He turned to grab the shovel again.

Edmund waited a moment as Dell got back to work. “Noon. Come to the back gate of my home. One of my men will let you in. We will be waiting.”

When they were gone, Dell threw the shovel. It crashed against the wall of the stall with a crack. What was he supposed to do?

Someone would remove the Rhodipus’ from power. Wasn’t that what was best for Madra? Probably.

He ran a hand through his grimy hair. Which side was Edmund on?

And did it matter?

Dell had never considered himself a political person. Since coming to the city, he’d kept his head down, taken everything his supposed family had done to him, and worked hard. When he was frustrated, he tended to slam his fists into people’s faces as if he was a commoner rather than scheme and connive like the rest of the merchant class. Who was he kidding? He was a bastard. He couldn’t be part of that class and that suited him fine.

And Edmund had seen something in that?

He pushed out a breath, unsure if he wanted to go to the meeting or not.

But really, what did he have to lose?

He had nothing.

He patted horse-Ian’s nose and shuffled past him out of the barn. Edmund and Camille’s carriage had created ruts near the gate that he’d no doubt have to fill.

If he was going to make it to Edmund’s manor house, he had to leave before his stepmother returned from the dressmakers.

He walked to the side of the barn where a stable hand always left the barrels of water he’d filled from the well. They replenished water buckets inside each of the animal stalls.

Dell gripped the sides of the tallest barrel and bent to plunge his head underneath the cool water. He raised it and flung dripping hair out of his face as the water soaked into the shoulders of his thin shirt. He scrubbed a hand over his face to remove the remaining dirt from a morning of work in the stables.

Now or never.

Time to decide.

He glanced at the large black iron gate behind him. Ominous spikes lined the top of the structure. They meant it as a warning to all others.

Don’t try to beat the Tenyson’s in business or in anything else. You won’t win.