Traitor's Masque (16 page)

No sooner had Sanderl, the excessively pompous new butler, closed the front door behind Lady Westerby, than Malisse pinched Trystan’s ear and forced her back into a seat, expression wavering between fury and speculation.

“What”—her tone could have frozen a teakettle—“is the meaning of this outrageous display of… of misplaced distinction?”

True, the invitation excluded Anya and Darya, but Trystan knew Malisse had no legitimate excuse for her ire. Society dictated that if anyone was to be singled out for attention, the eldest was given precedence. And Trystan’s acquaintance with Lady Westerby had existed far longer even than Malisse’s. Still, there was no sense in ruffling Malisse’s feathers any further than necessary.

“I’m sure I have no idea, Stepmother.” Trystan shrugged, her tone as bland as she could make it. “I have not spoken to Lady Westerby since the funeral.” The word still burned her a little. “She was friends with Father, but she has never shown much interest in me personally.” Let her stepmother believe it was really about Lord Percival. “I’m sure it’s as she said, that she wishes to speak of the past.”

Malisse harrumphed loudly, an unladylike sound of disbelief. “
You
may be sure, but I will want a full report of what is discussed.” She hissed in frustration. “And if you set so much as a toe out of line, or dare to mention the slightest hint of our private affairs…” She had no need to elaborate.

Trystan rose, bobbed another respectful curtsey, and began to leave.

“Wait.” Malisse looked as though she had eaten something sour. “Much as it pains me to waste my resources on a thankless dowd…” Her sigh was as theatrical as she could make it, conveying worlds of heart-rending regret. “You cannot go to Lady Westerby’s in that”—she shuddered in horror—“dress, I suppose you call it.”

Trystan glanced down at her green crepe. They were both well aware of who had refused to have any new dresses made for the last two years. She raised her amber eyes to Malisse’s blue ones and met them coolly. “Then I suppose you will have to arrange for it, Stepmother. It would be rather difficult for me to procure a new wardrobe from the confines of my room.”

Malisse’s eyes narrowed, but for the moment, at least, her nails were clipped and she knew it. “The modiste will be in to see you this afternoon. Perhaps we can make over something to fit you.” That, however, was the end of her grudgingly bestowed largesse. “Until then,” Malisse continued sweetly, with a predatory smile, “you will return to your penance.”

Trystan did not deign to respond, only left the hall and retreated to her chamber to consider the possibilities.

Trystan was agreeably surprised by the gown that appeared that afternoon in the hands of a highly affronted modiste. It was one of Anya’s, only slightly outmoded, in a shade of blue that was not entirely unflattering. Apparently, Malisse was not willing to risk critique for any perceived failure in matters of fashion. The modiste, conscious of what she considered a slight to her dignity, muttered under her breath for the entire hour that it took to adjust and pin the dress appropriately. While Anya and Trystan were of a similar height, Trystan’s stepsister’s build was decidedly more curvaceous than her own willowy figure.

The rest of her day she filled up by embroidering and practicing dance steps with a ghostly partner who she very carefully did not imagine with Donevan’s face. At least, not more than once or twice. She slept soundly, for a change, and woke pathetically eager for tea time to arrive. Even dangerous and unknown intrigue would be an improvement on imprisonment and ennui.

Shortly after Trystan finished an uninspiring luncheon of cold meats and leftover pudding, Malisse appeared with the altered gown and a frustrated temper to give her final instructions. There were to be no vulgar outbursts. No discussion of private family business. And absolutely no disclosure of the details of Trystan’s “penance.”

“You are not to breath a word about it. No matter how shameless you may be, I will not be exposed to censure because of the measures I must take to control your disgraceful behavior!”

Trystan waited patiently as Malisse finished. Emboldened a trifle by the imminent adventure, she employed her sweetest voice in retaliation. “No, Stepmother, of course not. I would never want anyone to discover the truth of your inability to govern one poor, fatherless girl.”

Malisse stiffened. Her face, to Trystan’s surprise and satisfaction, turned an alarming shade of red, right before Malisse slapped her with startling violence. “Hold your tongue, you wicked, selfish girl.” Malisse’s voice was hard and wintery cold, overflowing with long-suppressed bitterness. “You have
no
idea what I put up with while your father was alive. From the very moment I entered this house I was forced to take second place to a spoiled, self-centered child. Percy permitted you an unseemly degree of latitude, even over-ruling my express wishes in favor of your petulant demands. I became mistress of this house for the first time when your father died, and I will never,” she said, hissing the word with virulent force, “
never
permit you to rule me again.”

Stunned into immobility by the depth of her stepmother’s long-held grudge, Trystan could only sit silently while Malisse recovered her equilibrium.

“Be ready in half an hour,” was her last curt command as she unclenched her hands, smoothed her dress and stalked out of the room.

Trystan wasn’t entirely sure she would be able to move by then. She felt a bit ashamed that she had never truly considered the source of her stepmother’s hatred. It did nothing to change her feelings toward the woman, but it did, loathe though she was to admit it, cause her to question her memories of her father. She was aware that Lord Colbourne had been over-indulgent, and perhaps less than strict in her upbringing. Until very lately, she had always assumed it was because he loved her.

The terms of his will had made her question the depth of his love to a point. Knowing that his second wife despised his daughter, he had still failed to leave Trystan with any means of independence. She knew he had not expected to die so young, but it was still an enormous oversight for a man whose business dealings were usually both punctual and precise. Over time, she had forgiven him, excusing his thoughtlessness so she could go on believing him a paragon.

But these new revelations, even if Malisse meant them only to corrupt Trystan’s image of Percival Colbourne as a faultless parent, had all the bitterness of truth, blended with the sting of reproach. Love, Trystan thought with a pang, was not the same as latitude, especially not when it proved the means of fracturing what might otherwise have become a family.

Trystan’s thoughts were still thus unpleasantly engaged when she was summoned downstairs to make her brief journey to Westhaven. Her mind was blessedly re-directed almost at once by the sight of the unfamiliar, rather florid man who drove the coach. Loyalty to her friends may have colored her assessment of him as a lazy-looking villain who had not bothered to brush the team properly before putting them in harness, but as a driver he seemed competent enough. He pulled up smartly before the front door of Westhaven at a fashionable five minutes till tea time.

Trystan was shown into an elegantly appointed sitting room by a uniformed footman who wore more polish than expression. The atmosphere felt… carefully selected. Trystan wondered whether she, too, had been carefully selected and for what.

Lady Isaura rose from her seat and greeted Trystan warmly, with a rather too-familiar peck on each cheek. As usual, the dignified, dark-haired, dark-eyed widow showed little sign of either age or care, remaining much the same at fifty as she had at thirty. At least to Trystan’s eye. Perhaps it was some age-defying secret she shared with Malisse, worth a small kingdom or two if it could be reproduced.

“Trystan, dear, so delighted you could come!” This was followed by further inanities, to which Trystan replied with growing impatience. The tea was of the finest quality, and the cakes unparalleled, but Trystan had not paced her room for hours over a matter of victuals. Fortunately, Lady Isaura came to the point of her invitation before her guest came to the point of desperation.

“Trystan, it has come to my attention, through channels that need not concern you, that your situation”—Lady Isaura invested the word with a great deal of weight—“at home, is not, perhaps, all that could be desired for a girl of your station and upbringing.”

Trystan translated mentally, wanting very much to know about those “channels” she was not to be concerned with. In her experience, when someone said not to be concerned, it usually meant you should be. And she was not nearly certain enough of Lady Isaura’s intentions to pay her the compliment of answering honestly.

“I am not certain what you mean, Lady Westerby.” She widened her eyes innocently and put her head to one side. She had seen Darya do it often enough to know that it made one look like an imbecile.

“Trystan,” Lady Isaura sighed as though in reproof, “do an old lady the favor of dispensing with pretense. I know very well that your father would not have approved of your treatment these past few years.”

Trystan’s first thought was a bitter reflection that her father must have approved or he would have taken steps to prevent it. Her second was to wonder why Lady Isaura would care, but she was careful to voice neither of these. “Lady Westerby, I confess I do not quite understand the reason for your disclosure. You must know that I am hardly at liberty to discuss these matters with you, or anyone else.”

“In my home,” Lady Isaura said firmly, “anything you say will be held sacred. You have my word that no hint of our conversation will be repeated to interested parties.”

In light of Lady Isaura’s earlier reference to “channels,” Trystan felt very comfortable
not
accepting this assurance of secrecy. “Even if what you say is true, I’m afraid I still cannot see the purpose of your interest in my circumstances,” Trystan responded warily. “My situation is unlikely to be affected by considerations of public disapproval. Any accusations will simply be denied, with no evidence to the contrary.” It was a tacit admission of the truth of Lady Isaura’s statements, but that could not be helped.

“You are, of course, quite right.” Lady Isaura looked pleased at Trystan’s response, as though her guest was a favorite dog who had learned to fetch. “Which is why I would never attempt such a thing.” The older woman fell silent. Pretended to consider.

“Trystan,” she began again, “you are, I am sure, aware that I have taken over the management of these estates since my dear Osric’s death.” Trystan nodded, not quite sure where this was going. “You are also aware that I was a close friend and confidant of your father’s, and that he shared with Lord Westerby and myself his hopes for your future.” Trystan was aware of no such thing, but held her tongue. “Hopes that cannot ever be realized now that Lord Colbourne has passed on.” Well, that was true enough. “What I doubt you have realized under your present constraints is the dire situation in which our kingdom finds itself.”

Aha! Perhaps
now
she meant to make her point.

“I am not a political creature, Trystan, I am only a woman of business, but even I can see that our kingdom will suffer without a certain number of necessary steps towards securing our future. Steps that will assure us our rightful place in the world, assure the welfare of future generations. Generations that I, sadly,”—she looked away in what appeared to be genuine regret—“will never contribute to. But that does not,” she continued firmly, “mean that I would be justified in turning my back on my kingdom’s concerns. We are living in truly exciting times.” Her eyes brightened as she warmed to her subject. “There are opportunities at hand, should we have the courage to grasp them. But…” She sobered abruptly. “There exists yet a lack of determined leadership in charting the best course through the upheavals we are now experiencing. Uncertainty is a terrible thing for a kingdom, especially in those persons”—the barest pause—“who, it must be acknowledged, may have for too long occupied unassailable positions of authority.”

Silence. Trystan was hard-pressed to control her eyebrows, which were trying to climb into her hairline. She would have liked to assert that she was no fool, but sadly that would be a lie. She had been many kinds of fool in her life, and was daily discovering more. But not fool enough, she realized, to fail to recognize the import of what Lady Isaura seemed to be approaching in a bewilderingly indirect fashion. This, Trystan decided, was about Politics.

“Lady Westerby,” she said, stalling for time, “I apologize for being obtuse, but I’m afraid I don’t understand. I have never been very fond of politics, nor they of me, and I cannot imagine what this might have to do with my situation.”

Lady Isaura smiled indulgently, and enlightened her. “I have come, dear, to a realization. Our kingdom is in need of aid, which I cannot give it. My situation as a widow, and a woman of advanced years, renders me unable to do what is necessary. I, and indeed a number of other concerned members of the nobility, have agreed that we require the services of someone rather younger than ourselves. Someone,” she said, with a pointed look at Trystan, “unconnected with the ongoing political conversation.”