He bit the inside of his bottom lip. “After our mother and father died, we were alone. I tried to take care of her . . . of my little sister.” He shook his head.
“What happened to your sister?” Her voice was warm and soft.
“A horse trampled her in the street. I ran out to get her, but I was too late. It was a long time ago.”
“That must have been horrible.” She placed a hand on his shoulder.
A heavy weight settled in his chest as the sights, the smells, the pain in his heart came back to him. “I was in the street, holding her in my arms.” His forehead creased, his jaw flexing. “I can still see the people’s faces as they stared at me. The women were looking at me with disgust, and the men were yelling at me to get out of the way.”
“How old were you?”
Her voice cracked and he glanced up at her. Tears pooled in her eyes.
“I must have been eight or nine.” He shook his head, trying to dispel the memory. “I have made you sad. I should not have told you.”
“I can see you don’t like to talk about it, but I am glad you trusted me enough to tell me.” Her hand was warm on his shoulder, but she abruptly took it away.
“It was not long after that that the gamekeeper found me and adopted me. I have lived a good life. God has blessed me . . . more than some.”
“I understand.” She nodded.
“You have your own painful memories, no doubt.”
“Ja.” She gave him a sad half smile. “But I was very blessed by my uncle coming and taking me to live with him. He has been better to me than most fathers would have been.”
Was she thinking about the fact that Rutger had allowed her to remain unmarried?
“We are agreed, then,” she said. “We have both been very blessed.” Her happy smile returned. “Thank you again for the hares for the children. I will have the pleasure of knowing they are eating well tonight—thanks to you.”
“And the margrave,” he reminded her.
“And the margrave.”
As Jorgen made his way up the hill to Thornbeck Castle, he thought about the second batch of hares he had brought the day before for the poor children. Odette had looked as beautiful as ever, but he should not have told her about how his little sister died. He did not wish her to pity him. He wanted her to see him as strong and competent.
He had known all along that she lived beyond his social status. Dreaming of her was like hoping to one day become the margrave’s chancellor. He had always believed himself capable of the duties of the position. But Ulrich had always been destined for it, since his father was the chancellor for the previous margraves.
How would the margrave even know Jorgen was skilled at organization and diplomacy?
“You have to look for an opportunity to show him,” his mother had said.
One way he could get the margrave’s attention was by figuring out who was running the poaching ring and black market. There must be more than one person involved to produce as much meat as he had seen at The Red House. One person could perhaps shoot that many deer, but he would need others to dress it for the market and carry it out of the forest. And those selling it probably had no hand in shooting and preparing it, but they must have been employed by someone. So who was behind it all?
When Jorgen was shown into the library, the margrave and Ulrich were huddled over some papers on his desk.
Lord Thornbeck motioned for him to come forward, while the chancellor eyed him coldly.
“Lord Thornbeck, you wished to see me?”
He looked Jorgen in the eye. “The steward has been trying to find out who at The Red House is giving permission to these black-market dealers to sell their illegal goods to the people of Thornbeck, and also who these black-market sellers are. We are having a more difficult time discovering this information than you might think. It seems my steward is known to be an officer of this castle, and therefore none of the women at The Red House trust him.” The margrave frowned absently. “I need someone to go to this brothel and try to gain this information in a stealthy way. I was wondering if you might be willing to . . . make the sacrifice?”
Heat rose into Jorgen’s cheeks. “My lord, it is not the sort of place I would ever go.”
“I understand, Jorgen. You do not have to do this, but—”
“I will do it, my lord,” Jorgen said quickly. “The people there will be unlikely to know me or that I work for you. I can bribe one of the brothel . . . inhabitants to give me the information we need.”