My smother’s expression of concern was as flawless as the black curls spilling over her shoulders. “Selah, we need to discuss our official response to your rejection.”

Sympathy pierced the weary fog in Daddy’s gaze. “Alessandra, I think this is something our family should handle in private.”

“I beg your pardon, Seneschal, but this isn’t a private problem,” Secretary Moreau said smoothly. Moreau wasn’t the blockheaded yes-man that Marshall was. He was slick, manipulative, with a pointy face and shifty eyes like a weasel’s. “The choice of Selah’s eventual spouse is a matter of state. The man she marries will guide her and our country. This is not a job for any woman to take alone, let alone Selah.”

I stared at the table, drowning in humiliation.

When I was sure no one was looking at me anymore, I let myself peek up at the three strangers for the first time.

The first, seated beside Secretary Gidcumb, was gray-haired but carved like stone, biceps swelling under his shirtsleeves. His olive-skinned face was scruffy and unshaven, his gaze a stern gray. I thought he might be Mediterranean, maybe from Hellás, or Anadolu.

I didn’t know what strangers—foreign strangers, no less—would be doing in a Potomac state meeting. But something about this man calmed me.

He didn’t look particularly nice. But the austerity in his face amid all the flattery in the room was a relief. I trusted him instantly.

If sides were taken tonight, I wished he’d take mine.

“Your rejection was public,” said Judge Roth. “What will this do to your image as our future leader?”

“Nothing!” My voice was a squeak. “It—won’t do anything. Potomac knows who I am.”

So did Peter, whispered my treacherous heart, and he said no anyway.

Captain Marshall steepled his fingers. “You tend to gardens and fields with the women and to the stock with the men. That makes you one of the people. That does not make you their leader.”

“What will it say to the people that one of your dearest friends declined to become your consort?” Allen added, looking blond and impressive and dubious.

The second stranger spoke up. “Unless you wanted to lean on the Janesleys—that was the name, yes?—just a bit.”

This man looked around thirty. He was pale and pink-cheeked and dark-eyed, and I felt an unholy desire to squeeze his hands and feel if they were softer than mine. He looked distinctly pampered beside his weathered companion. But he seemed to inhabit his expensive clothes uncertainly, to cling possessively to his crystal tumbler, as though he thought someone might take it away from him. New money, I thought.

Alessandra gave him the slightest approving nod of her head.

“Now, there’s an idea,” Judge Roth said, eyeing the stranger appreciatively.