Traitor's Masque (18 page)

Trystan decided to take it. It was only one evening. One message. A few words from one person to another. Even if this mysterious message proved upsetting to the succession, as Lady Isaura seemed to hope, Trystan was unwilling to believe that her contribution would make so great a difference. Prevailing opinion seemed so heavily in favor of the paragon Prince Rowan, that it surely was only a matter of time before the irksome and unwelcome Prince Ramsey abdicated out of sheer embarrassment anyway. Her services would be merely an afterthought in an expensive dress.

Content with her reasoning, Trystan took considerable time penning a message to Lady Westerby, ostensibly thanking her for the invitation to tea, but also conveying her acceptance of the kindly tendered offer. It was worded so as to escape either detection or censure should Malisse be rude enough to read the letter before sending it, which Trystan had no doubt she would.

The remainder of the afternoon was spent in agreeable reflection on the many things she would do when she was mistress of her own fate. She was aware that such reflections were perhaps a bit premature, but was enjoying herself far too much to rein in her imagination. There would be time later for considering irksome details, such as complications and consequences. To name only a few.

 
Chapter 6
 

Prince Ramsey was knee-deep in both complications and consequences, mostly not of his own making. After several long nights with his father, numerous advisors, countless councilors and a few well-meaning relatives, he had resentfully agreed to satisfy the growing demands of the court that he marry. There had been ominous hints of increased unrest should he fail to provide the stability of an heir, little better than threats if one read them cynically.

Ramsey had always known he would have to marry someone. And that his position most likely meant he would be lucky to find a woman he could love. Until lately, however, he had managed to hang on to a tiny bit of hope, even if that hope had become a vague desire to marry someone who liked him better than they liked his brother.

Now he just wanted to get it over with.

Prince Ramsey was fairly certain he had met all of the eligible daughters the kingdom had to throw at him. Not a one of them had impressed him, though to be fair, the balls and parties arranged for the purpose of bringing eligible young people together rarely gave opportunity for honest conversation. It was possible that an intelligent, sympathetic and slightly blind young lady who would not swoon at the sight of Prince Rowan was still out there somewhere. Which was why Ramsey had convinced his father to hold the masque before the elder prince’s period of exile had expired.

It was not a perfect plan, but at least Ramsey would be spared the aggravation of looking over his shoulder the whole night. And if he had the chance to impress a girl with his wit, intelligence, and humor before she could be overwhelmed by his brother’s angelic good looks, smoothly flattering manners, graceful dancing and… Oh, who was he kidding? The only motivation a girl could have for marrying Ramsey was his crown. Not, historically, a boon to lasting marital affections. Of course, it would also help to meet a girl who could see through his brother’s charming facade to the self-absorbed manipulator underneath, but Ramsey had yet to find one.

Except for his Aunt Lizbet.

The second part of his plan to find marital bliss (or perhaps simply to avoid marital catastrophe) had been Aunt Lizbet’s idea. She was his mother’s sister, nearly twin in appearance, and married to one of his father’s councilors. Usually a quiet and reserved person who was fiercely protective of her family, Lizbet was also one of the few who had always thought Rowan would look better wearing chains and a prison uniform. After the incident with Parry, she had apparently threatened him with bodily harm should he ever approach one of her children again. Ramsey had seen her with a sword once and would have recommended that his brother find himself a new continent rather than face her.

When Lizbet had first proposed her idea for the masque Ramsey had been a bit disgusted, but once she had explained, it made at least as much sense as picking a wife because she was an excellent dancer and looked good in a dress.

“It makes me sound like an insufferably conceited clerk!” he had complained.

“In case you haven’t noticed,” his aunt retorted dryly, “that’s what most of them already believe you to be.”

Which was, regrettably, true. While his older brother had been busy charming the masses, Ramsey had been working, learning to run a kingdom and cleaning up after Rowan’s many indiscretions. On the occasions when Ramsey had been forced to mingle with people his own age, it was typically in company with his brother, who had always made Ramsey feel clumsy, tongue-tied and inadequate. Rather than compete, Ramsey had chosen to stay in the shadows, publicly cast by Rowan in the role of disapproving chaperone. It was little wonder girls considered him a “stodgy prig,” as he had once overheard at a crowded party. He was beginning to agree with their assessment himself.

And so, the invitations had gone out to every family in the nobility that could reasonably be supposed to have daughters. Those missives had cryptically stated that he would be accepting applications for his hand in marriage, but had carefully
not
detailed what those applications would entail. Lizbet had laughed a bit evilly as she painted for him a vivid picture of the turmoil those invitations would create in the minds of scheming mothers and mercenary daughters across the kingdom.

“But what’s the point?” he asked, sitting in his aunt’s rooms one rainy afternoon. “What do I gain with this embarrassing charade?”

“Hopefully,” she answered, “a little honesty. Perhaps even a girl who can learn to love you, as I know you deserve to be loved.” She smiled and ruffled his hair as she said it, much the way his mother would have. “Although,” she continued, her gray eyes thoughtfully piercing his own, “I would have said recently that perhaps you had already found such a one, if the idea were not so absurd.”

Ramsey dropped his eyes and fell to fiddling with one of his cousin Prisca’s toys, a carved wooden horse that suddenly made him think of another horse and so he was forced to set it down before he threw it across the room in frustration.

“Or perhaps not so absurd?” his aunt added gently.

Ramsey glanced across the room to where Parry and Prisca were bent over books and slates, the day’s lessons nearly completed, not wanting them to hear what his aunt suggested.

“Aunt Lizbet,” he began, but stopped, feeling unequal to an explanation, to even thinking about what he wished he could explain. “Whatever you think, whatever you know, promise me you’ll forget?” he begged, hoping she would hear what he could not say. “I assure you there’s nothing in it but pain, for everyone. Even if you were right”—and at these words her eyes darkened in understanding—“it’s impossible, and no one…
no one
will be better off by pretending it could be otherwise.”

The compassion in her eyes was almost too much for him. Lizbet was only ten years his senior, but she had been the closest thing he had to a mother since his own died when he was five. And she had always known, somehow, when something was hurting him. Always been able to draw him out, even when he was no longer a little boy hiding in his brother’s shadow. Now she obviously sensed his pain and echoed it back to him quietly with her sigh.

“I am very sorry, Donnie.” She squeezed his hand in sympathy. “I wish that your life had permitted you to sit in a different chair.”

It was one of their morbid family jokes, but today it was even darker than usual to Ramsey. If his brother were not what he was, Ramsey would be free, and this travesty of a marriage would be unnecessary. He could marry when and where he chose, even if he happened to choose a strange young woman who wore men’s clothes and rode alone through the Kingswood and didn’t bother with diplomacy when she spoke. Which was a foolish and pointless thought, as she might not have him even if he were free and there was that nameless good-for-nothing who had given her the horse to consider, and after all he didn’t even know where she lived or worse yet, what she was hiding from and who had hurt her, though if he ever found out he would go looking for the torture chamber that proper castles were supposed to have so that he could break every bone in that unfortunate person’s body one by one by one… Ramsey realized suddenly that his face was scowling without his permission and tried to retrieve the situation by smiling at his aunt, who was not remotely fooled.

“I wish you could tell me about her,” she said wistfully as her nephew rose to leave.

He looked back and surprised himself by answering. “So do I.” Then he dropped a kiss on Prisca’s hair and left, before he was tempted to unburden himself and tell his aunt everything.

Two days after the fateful tea at Westhaven, Lady Westerby herself appeared once again in the Colbourne sitting room with the most marvelous suggestion. As Malisse was no doubt worn down by the distressing number of details involved in preparing her daughters for the upcoming masque, perhaps it would be a relief to her sensibilities if she knew her eldest, and most emotionally fragile, was distracted by the diversions of a pleasant stay at Westhaven.

It would be, Lady Westerby assured Malisse, a great favor. Lady Isaura’s distant cousin by marriage, a provincial young woman from the north of Andar, had sent a letter indicating her intention to visit Evenleigh as a distraction from personal disappointments. Lady Isaura had little experience with entertaining young persons, especially the socially unpolished sort she expected her cousin to be, and would be vastly comforted by the knowledge that the girl would have someone of her own age to contribute to her entertainment. Trystan would then have no opportunity to become distraught by her own inability to bear the pressures of attending the masque herself, and Lady Westerby would be able to enjoy the benefits of female company in her large, lonely household.

It was a masterfully worded invitation, and it caught Malisse in a trap of her own making. After cutting Trystan out of the social world with precisely such nonsense about her emotional state, Malisse could hardly gainsay her own lies. There was no benefit to be gained from suggesting Anya or Darya as a more appropriate companion for some backwards, countrified young debutante, and Malisse could hardly claim that Lady Isaura’s cousin might prove to be a negative influence on a child she already portrayed as a social disaster.

Trystan could go, though not without Malisse warning Lady Westerby of what dangers she could expect, for herself and her no doubt impressionable young relative, should Trystan become emotionally overset. The poor child was clearly still not well and needed a firm hand if she was ever to be able to rejoin polite society.

Lady Westerby made the appropriate noises of sympathy until she and Trystan and Trystan’s bags were inextricably ensconced in the Westerby carriage, at which point she favored her young protégée with her own personal estimation of Malisse’s many deficiencies. Trystan did not feel it would be quite proper for her to publicly agree, but as Lady Westerby did not seem to expect a reply, she was able to listen in comfort to the diatribe until they pulled up at the door to Westhaven.