Page 62 of The Taste of Light
He leaned back in the chair, a crooked smile on his lips. "I thought the British took better care of their ladies' education."
No doubt he believed her beneath him in station and breeding, a commoner and worse, a foreign hussy. Heat climbed on her cheeks, and she pushed the plate away. "We learn all that matters, Your Excellency." She drawled the honorific and cringed at her voice's bitterness.
"Ana, about last night—"
Why did he have to voice her name like that? She rose, her legs quivering like a foal's. "I've lost my appetite. Please excuse me."
"No." He stood, his height shadowing the table. "I didn't intend to ruin your meal. Have a good day."
Bowing stiffly, he turned to leave. It was better this way. He had made it clear that a future between them was impossible. Still, her chest ached at seeing him go, his neck strained, shoulders hunched.
"Wait."
Slowly, he faced her, eyes alert.
"I'm sorry. If we can't... if we can't be…" She hugged herself, the tips of her ears flaming. "We could be friends."
"Define what you mean by friends."
How like Pedro to have relationships agreed upon. Did he honestly believe she meant him harm? Anne sighed. "Friends converse and share confidences. Sometimes they pursue common interests. But above all, I think, friends care for each other in times of need."
"Talk, interests, care." He considered the matter, looking at his knee-length boots. "It is acceptable."
She forced a smile. "We are friends, then."
Pedro nodded twice and returned to the table.
Anne sank into her chair. Friendship with the Count of Almoster? The Portuguese sun had finally cooked her brains.
Cris rushed inside, his chest heaving. "I have it." He straddled a chair, comparing some brownish cards with Braganza's message.
Anne reached for the forgotten notebook. Sending a prayer for the poor man's soul, she scanned Braganza's handwriting. Sonnets, odes, and free verses occupied the lines. A few were copied from Luis Gama, a former Brazilian slave. Others were signed by the deceased man himself. Those had a recurring theme—freedom and the absence of it.
Cris shoved his papers away and grimaced. "The code is unbreakable. With the bodyguard killed, how will we ever prove your innocence? We are back at the beginning, aren't we? I expected answers. Jesus, Pedro, I... I can't stay locked up here."
Anne's shoulders sagged, and she closed her eyes. She, too, would not survive Pedro's presence forever.
"Fique calmo." Pedro clasped his brother's shoulder. "We'll sail to Lisbon. Since our lead proved fruitless, we will find others in the capital. I will access my contacts there."
Pedro sounded confident, but a crease marred his forehead, and a tick pulsed on his jaw. She couldn't help but wonder if his reassurance was warranted or meant to calm Cris.
"Braganza was your only true friend. Your political pawns can't be trusted. They will sell you to the highest bidder." Cris pushed his cup away, splashing tea over the table, and gripped his own hair.
Cris's desperation sank into her chest. Lives were at risk—hers, Pedro's, and the royal family’s. The frail paper with the scrabble of letters was their only hope. She had never seen a coded message, but she was skilled in games and riddles. "May I have a look?"
Cris raised his palms. "Dear, you'll burden yourself—"
"Yes," Pedro cut in, passing her the telegraph.
Anne leaned back in the chair, staring at the rectangular strip of paper. Instead of words, there were duos of numbers. At the bottom, the title Braganza. A tiny marking at the top caught her attention, not in the black typo of the telegraph but in pencil.
"What does this mean?" she asked.
Pedro pulled his chair near, his breathing ruffling her hair. "Where?"
"Here. Could it be IdC?"
He came closer, his cedar scent challenging her concentration. "It's faint. I missed it."
