Traitor's Masque (27 page)

“Oh, no, little mouse. We have a dance to finish. You seem curiously concerned with my reputation, so I will give you the opportunity to enhance my mystique.” He smiled again, good humor seemingly restored in an instant. “And by the end of this dance, if you are very lucky, no one will know what to make of you either.”

“Am I expected to be grateful?” Some asperity leaked into her voice, however hard she tried to hide it.

The song and the dance ended as she spoke, and her companion swept her a graceful bow. Carrying her hand to his lips for a kiss, he whispered for her ears alone. “Go now, little mouse, and you will find
me
grateful.”

Releasing her, he swept away into the crowd, leaving Trystan feeling curiously bereft and deflated. But relieved. Being near Prince Rowan, she decided, was like dancing on the edge of a cliff. Exhilarating and frightening.

She had no idea what, if anything, he meant for her to gain from their conversation. One minute threatening, the next cajoling. Changeable and beguiling. Trystan could see both the confusion and the appeal. What she still could not see was what this had to do with the throne.

How had such a creature convinced anyone to hand him a crown?

And what in all the hells had he put in her shoe?

Loathe as she was to admit it, he had been right about one thing. She needed to leave, and soon. But how could she? Until Lord and Lady Fellton were prepared to leave, she would be forced to remain. With a piece of paper burning a hole in an already very uncomfortable shoe.

It was not hard to find Larissa and her parents. They were engaged in yet another animated discussion about Larissa’s surprising dance with Prince Ramsey. The look of delighted awe on Larissa’s face suggested that she had not, in fact, stepped on his toes and would therefore have no need to turn pirate. Trystan congratulated her as warmly as possible and tentatively broached the subject of departure.

“Why, my dear, whatever are you thinking?” Lady Fellton seemed sincerely shocked. “The ball will be continuing for several hours yet. Perhaps if you had some punch, and a rest, even some fresh air… I’m sure you cannot wish to leave so soon.”

Cringing inside at the thought of remaining for hours, Trystan was forced to agree and go off with Larissa in search of Lady Fellton’s prescription of punch, rest, and air. One thing was certain: as long as she was in Larissa’s company, there was no need to go looking for air.

“He was actually very polite,” that damsel was saying, as they took their punch and retreated to a corner table. “And he didn’t treat me at all like other boys do, like I’m just some silly thing they flirt with until the pretty girls show up. He asked about my family and how I was enjoying the ball and whether I would like living in the city and what I liked best about where I live now. And he seemed very surprised when I told him I liked the ocean and my father’s ships and all the stories about the strange places they visit, which my father doesn’t like me to talk about, but I’m sure Prince Ramsey knows about them already. Although, he didn’t seem to know very much about Caelan, which is strange, I mean because they are our closest neighbor, but he kept asking me what stories I knew about it and whether I knew anyone who had gone there.”

As inane as they sounded, Trystan could sense there was significance in those questions. It seemed she was not the only one who had realized the usefulness of poor Larissa’s inability to stop talking.

If only she could find somewhere quiet to think about all that had happened. There had to be an answer somewhere in the muddle of her thoughts, something that could help her decide what to do next.
 

At this point she would have little choice but to deliver the message hidden in her shoe. But after that? Leave things to take their course? Or choose to reveal the truth, thereby involving herself in a scandal that could send an entire kingdom into turmoil?

She did not feel substantially better prepared to make that decision than she had a few hours before, and could think of no one she could ask for help. Vianne, perhaps, would be willing to listen, but she seemed so far away, and Trystan was not sure when she would be returning to Colbourne Manor.

Again, she found herself wanting to talk to Donevan. Again she felt the sting of regret when she remembered that she could not. That she had to do everything in her power to avoid him. Which should, in retrospect, have warned her that he would be standing right behind her, waiting to ask her to dance.

She froze at the sound of his voice. For a moment she could not even force herself to turn around. But she did, eventually, and lifted her eyes to his with a composure she did not feel.

Donevan—no, Prince Ramsey—looked weary and dispirited, and Trystan had to catch herself before she reached out to him in reaction.

“Miss Westover?” he repeated, and Trystan realized he was waiting for her response.

“Ah… of course.” To her chagrin she stuttered over her answer. When he looked askance at her, Trystan cringed inwardly, pleading with providence that he would be too tired and distracted to recognize her voice. She had remembered to use her adopted Northern accent, and hoped it would be enough to hide any similarities.

Trystan followed Prince Ramsey through the crowd and into the dance like a sleepwalker, trying not to feel the warmth of his arm through her glove, trying not to tremble with the dread of being identified. Perhaps if she could redirect his attention somehow. Ensure that he was focusing on something other than face and voice. She did not have to look very far for a distracting topic.

“Are you as good a dancer as your brother, Your Highness?”

As Ramsey watched his latest partner gather her train for the redowa, he was trying desperately to focus on the moment. With his future happiness at stake, he should probably make a point of not permitting his mind to wander. Especially in the company of this particular girl.

He had begun the latter part of the evening with an uneasiness that had blossomed into full-blown suspicion of Miss Elaine Westover. Arrived under the wing of Lady Isaura Westerby. Befriended by Larissa Fellton. Made an object of peculiar gallantry by Rowan.

Only the glowing report of an impressed and equally amused Kyril had kept Ramsey from rejecting Miss Westover as a possibility. His friend had reported that Miss Westover possessed both intelligence and wit, and a disconcertingly straightforward mode of conversation. It had piqued Ramsey’s interest enough that he brought himself to seek her out, despite being exhausted and utterly infuriated by his brother’s deliberate sabotage.

The evening was fairly well ruined. Though perhaps he should be thankful. Watching three of his potential brides making eyes at Rowan had pretty well soured him on the notion of proposing. It seemed that if he expected anything like fidelity from his future wife, he was down to two: a Miss Hester Ulworth, and Miss Westover.

Kyril’s description of Miss Ulworth had been uninspiring, if not frightening. She would, at least, probably not embarrass him. Miss Westover, on the other hand, was nothing if not a bit of a conundrum. And a sharp-tongued one at that.

“You tell me.” Ramsey let irritation color his answer to her rather impertinent question, not really wanting to think about, talk about, or even look at his brother at that moment.

Miss Westover was silent as the dance began. Her silence lasted through one complete turn about the room until she broke it quite suddenly.

“Yes,” she said.

Ramsey was startled. “What’s that?”

“Yes, you are as good a dancer as your brother,” she answered patiently. “Your style is certainly different, but I find it infinitely more restful.”

Ramsey felt his mouth open in surprise. Kyril had said she was straightforward, but even so… “Should I be flattered?” he ventured curiously. “Or insulted? Or perhaps waiting to catch you in case you suddenly fall asleep in the middle of the floor?”

His partner smiled slightly, despite his caustic tone. It was an oddly familiar smile. Very strange in a girl he had never met before.

“Well, it
is
past my bedtime, but I believe I can promise that I will not fall asleep in your ballroom,” Miss Westover answered with gracious condescension.

Ramsey’s eyebrow twitched. What young woman of fashion admitted to having a bedtime? “Beware, Miss Westover,” he cautioned her with mock seriousness. “You betray your origins with such words. The true aristocrat never admits to fatigue at a party.”

His partner nodded, matching his pretense of gravity. “You are right, of course. I do apologize. It would be much more fashionable to adopt a languid air and complain of unbearable ennui. I hope you have not been made to regret your invitation of such a shocking provincial.”

Ramsey looked at his partner more sharply. For a moment there she had even sounded familiar. But that was impossible. Miss Westover had never been to Evenleigh before, according to his aunt’s usually accurate sources of gossip. It was probably her rather alarming candor, which reminded him very much of Kyril, and of… but he had promised himself he wouldn’t think about Embrie. That was probably who Elaine reminded him of. She was about the same height and build, same light brown eyes. Aside from the hair and the odd northern accent, they could have been sisters.

“Do you have any sisters, Miss Westover?” Ramsey cursed his tiredness and his tongue the moment that comment slipped out. He hadn’t meant it to. It made him sound peevish and rude and terribly un-princely. Not that he felt much like prince of anything at that moment.

“Regrettably, no,” Elaine answered, with no apparent petulance at his slip. “Though if I had, I would be happy to allow you to compare our dancing in retaliation.”

Ramsey couldn’t help smiling. “I assure you, I meant no such thing. It’s only that you…” He stumbled over what could not help but be an awkward explanation. “I suppose you reminded me of someone I met recently and I was overtaken by a sudden idea that you could be related. It was foolish and rather absent-minded, and I’m afraid I will have to beg your forgiveness.”

There. Hopefully the sharp-tongued Miss Westover would accept his apology. He felt her stiffen in his arms, followed by silence. It did not seem likely that he had avoided giving some kind of insult. Which was just his luck. He was down to two possibilities and he’d managed to offend one of them. Perhaps it was a blessing. He would be saved from having to make a choice by his own abominable manners.

Trystan was not offended, she simply found herself incapable of uttering a word.

Up until that point her mouth had been functioning independently of her brain, managing to sound clever and unintimidated and far too much like Trystan Embrie Colbourne for her peace of mind.

It was Donevan, she realized. Being that close to him, speaking to him as an equal, seeing him for who he truly was… it had somehow overset her common sense.

The worst part was, she wanted to be there. Wanted to whirl the evening away in his arms, talking and laughing endlessly about the whole world and everything in it, whether it was their shared opinion of embroidery or their penchant for running away from their own lives. Or the potential horrors of having siblings.

She was trapped between two desires—the yearning for him to know her and the dread of him finding her out. She wanted to stay and she wanted to run. And she wondered how she had ever thought Rowan was beautiful.

No, that was not quite it. Rowan
was
beautiful. But Ramsey Donevan Tremontaine made her want to smile when she looked at him. He made her fingers itch to smooth his ordinary brown hair. He made her wish she could provoke his tired gray eyes to warmth with shared laughter.

And most of all he made her regret that she had ever made a promise to Lady Isaura, ever agreed to come to the ball, or ever heard the name of Elaine Westover. At that moment, Trystan knew she would rather go home, back to Malisse, back to being invisible, because nothing could be more painful than waltzing across the floor in his arms with the knowledge that she might be about to betray him.

It was little wonder she could barely think, with all that seething beneath her skin and a piece of paper burning a hole in her foot. And Donevan believing he recognized her…