Traitor's Masque (28 page)

“Are you all right, Miss Westover?” Donevan’s voice broke in on her thoughts.

“Just thinking,” she responded, without thinking, trying to avoid his eyes.

“About how much you wish this dance would be over?” her partner asked, lips twisted in self-mockery. “Or how much you would rather be dancing it with someone else?”

“Stop belittling yourself, Your Highness.” Trystan answered far more sharply than she’d meant to. “Not everyone in this room is under your brother’s spell.”

Prince Ramsey’s breath caught. Trystan cursed inwardly and damned her unruly tongue. She was not supposed to be trying to make him feel better. She was supposed to be ensuring that he would dismiss her as utterly forgettable.

On the other hand, he might be about to dismiss her as utterly impertinent.

“That was very near insolence, Miss Westover. I cannot allow Prince Rowan to be spoken of in such a way without reminding you that he is your prince and therefore demands your respect.”

She made the mistake of looking up at him, into his eyes. Donevan’s eyes. At least they no longer looked weary, flat and dull, but were kindled with something between interest and anger. When gray met amber, a spark flashed between them before she could look away.

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” Trystan said in a small voice, shocked into remembering that she was not addressing a friend, but the heir to the throne. “I will try to remember my courtly manners.” She could feel him watching her but kept her eyes down. Silence reigned between them for a time that seemed interminable.

“Please.” The prince finally broke the silence, sounding exasperated. “Stop trying to look penitent. I know perfectly well you’re not sorry and you ought to know that I’m not going to eat you for telling the truth.”

With those words he became Donevan again and Trystan barely caught herself before she gave in to the overwhelming temptation to smile at him.

She had thought her waltz with Rowan was like dancing on the edge of a cliff. This was far worse. Like dancing on the edge of a knife. She was tired, she was confused, and she needed to go home.

Too deep in thought, too far from the demands of the moment, Trystan put a foot—the foot that presently concealed the proof of her betrayal—wrong, and stumbled in the middle of the dance. Her ankle wrenched painfully and she would have fallen if Donevan had not caught her.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” His arm was around her waist, strong and sure, his voice in her ear, far too close. Her mind flew to everything that was wrong, and at that moment, it was a lot. Truth, lies, politics and her heart rose up to choke her, along with the painful and troubling matter of an aching foot in an overcrowded shoe.

He was standing there, holding her up, waiting for an answer and all she could think to say was: “My foot.” And then wished she hadn’t. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to look more closely at her shoe. But it was far too late to retract her traitorous words.

Prince Ramsey was already helping her make her slow and painful way off the floor. When they reached the edge of the dance, he lowered her into the first available seat, a cushioned bench under a potted palm. Dropping to a knee in front of her and looking desperately concerned, he held out a hand. “We should make certain you have not sprained it.”

Competing images rose up and stole Trystan’s ability to move or speak.

Prince Rowan, kneeling before her, holding out her silken dancing shoe with the gleam of confidence in his eyes.

Donevan, on one knee in the wet grass, holding her stained and filthy riding boot as he lifted her effortlessly into Theron’s saddle.

“No!” She spoke more forcefully than she intended. “Please, don’t concern yourself. I’m sure it will be fine with a few moments’ rest.”

Prince Ramsey looked skeptical. “Miss Westover, you can barely walk. Perhaps I should call for my father’s physician.”

“I assure you, that won’t be necessary.” It was not at all difficult to sound a bit embarrassed. “It would be rather humiliating to have to admit to tripping over my own feet, and I’m sure I’ll be all right shortly. If not, I can beg Lord and Lady Fellton to provide me an escort home.”

Ramsey still looked doubtful.

“Please, Your Highness, I have no wish to spoil your evening with my clumsiness. I would feel much better if you continued to enjoy your ball.”

Ramsey stood up slowly, looking unconvinced, but nodded in acquiescence. “If you insist, Miss Westover. Please accept my condolences and my personal wishes for a speedy recovery.” There was weary humor in his voice, and Trystan could not help but look up as she replied.

“Your Highness, I feel certain that your royal condolences will do a great deal to hasten my convalescence.” Her response drew a laugh, even as Ramsey bowed in farewell, kissed her hand, and disappeared into the crowd.

He was gone.

Trystan’s breath left her in a sigh of relief that was very nearly a sob, while her eyes blinked rapidly against the sting of tears that had nothing to do with her injury.

It took only a few moments for Lady Fellton to appear at Trystan’s side, having witnessed her accident from across the room. “Miss Westover, are you badly hurt?” Lady Fellton sounded more peeved than concerned. Any serious condition on the part of Elaine would, by necessity, cut her own enjoyment short.

“Not too badly, Lady Fellton, though it does ache a great deal.”

Lady Fellton frowned. “I suppose we shall have to take you home, though it does seem a shame to leave the ball so early.”

She was angling for an alternative and Trystan was only too happy to give her one. “Lady Fellton, I beg you not to trouble yourself. If I could only have the loan of your carriage, I am sure it could take me home and be back before the ball is over.”

Lady Fellton seemed pleased, but demurred. “You know Lady Westerby would never allow it, Miss Westover, and I promised her I would see that you were properly chaperoned at all times.”

Trystan smiled up at her as winsomely as possible. “It would only be for the ride home, not truly improper at all. And there really would be no reason for Lady Westerby to know, would there?”

Lady Fellton appeared to consider the proposal. As if there were really any doubt of her accepting it. “Well, I suppose… there wouldn’t be a great deal of harm in it. Our coachman could take you to your door and there would be no need for anyone to see that you were alone.” Her face was pathetically hopeful. “Are you sure, Elaine, dear? You know we would be happy to escort you if there was need.”

Trystan knew very well that Lady Fellton would not be happy, but merely protested that there was not the slightest need and that she would do very well alone. Lady Fellton bustled off to order her coach, and to order Larissa to help Miss Westover to the door. Larissa was exceedingly sorry to see her go, and to find her injured, and expressed it by engaging in a greatly detailed description of her own conquests of the evening. This recitation lasted all the way from Trystan’s bench until the carriage door closed behind her. With great effort, Trystan managed to feign both interest and regret until the coach jerked into motion.

Quickly, while the coach was still moving through the torch-lit bailey, she scrabbled under her skirts and ripped off the offending shoe, breathing a sigh of relief for her pinched toes even as she hastily retrieved the mysterious paper. It was small and rectangular, warm and rather rank from too much time spent in a very hot shoe.

After a swift glance out the door, Trystan felt her hands begin to shake as she unfolded the note. She knew Lady Isaura would be furious to find she had read it, and had probably never intended to leave her in a situation where she would have the opportunity. But Trystan needed to know what the message contained. Now that the paper was in her possession, Prince Rowan would know if she failed to make the delivery. The only choice left to her was whether or not to reveal its contents to someone who could stop the conspiracy.

The coach moved slowly through the gate and down the sloping road. The way was still lined with torches, but the light was thin and wavering, so Trystan moved closer to the window. Glanced at one side of the paper, then the other. She held it nearer the window and scrutinized it closely, from corner to corner. It had nothing to offer but further confusion.

There was no doubt, even in the poor light—the paper was blank.

 
Chapter 10
 

Her mind spinning, Trystan managed to refold the paper along the same lines and reinsert it in her shoe, wincing painfully as she once again crammed her foot into the torturous slipper. As the coach continued to rattle and jostle on its way across the cobblestones of Evenleigh, she pressed her foot firmly against the floor, trying to ensure that the paper would appear appropriately flattened for having spent an entire evening being waltzed upon. It seemed more important than ever that Lady Isaura never know she had read it.

Despite her fatigue, Trystan was now forced to consider an entirely new set of questions. Why had Lady Isaura sent her to the ball to intercept a fake message? Why had Prince Rowan put a blank paper in her shoe? It made no sense no matter how she looked at it. Unless… perhaps the message had been a decoy. But why? If no one knew she would be there and no one would be watching her, why bother with the deception?

Trystan’s mind grew more and more tangled with uncertainties and possibilities, but none of her conjectures seemed very likely. Perhaps Lady Westerby’s response once she arrived home would give her some clues.

For the moment, however, she should be enjoying the fact that it was over. No one had recognized her. She had completed her task. There would be plenty of time later to dwell on her regrets and misgivings, which now seemed likely to come to naught.

There was little she could do about a plot that seemed no more complicated than a blank piece of paper. Even if she wanted to tell someone, there was really nothing to tell.

“Oh, by the way, Prince Ramsey, your brother put a blank piece of paper in my shoe!”

It sounded ridiculous, even to her. She had no proof of malicious intent except her conversation with Lady Westerby, which no one could corroborate. If there was a serious conspiracy, she could neither confirm nor expose it.

Which left her with one small, nagging question: why would they propose to give her an independent fortune for performing a meaningless task?

Only a few lamps were still lit when the coach pulled up at the front door of Westhaven. Despite the lateness of the hour, it was too much to hope that she would escape Lady Isaura altogether. The lady of the house would have sent the servants to bed and be waiting up to snatch the offending paper.

Slipping out of the carriage door without waiting for the footman, Trystan limped hastily up the walk. Above all, she needed to avoid any scrutiny of the interior of the carriage. Lady Isaura must not know that she had arrived alone, with a chance to read the potentially incriminating note.

The door opened at her approach, even as the coach rolled away down the drive. The entry was lit by a single sconce, and, true to Trystan’s prediction, Lady Isaura stood in the open door to the drawing room, robed in her dressing gown, her hair curling across her shoulders. Her face and the set of her shoulders indicated a state of nervous impatience.

Trystan was impressed in spite of herself. Either the older woman’s acting was without peer or she truly did not know what awaited her in the bottom of that dank and sweaty slipper.

Beckoning quickly, Lady Isaura ushered her young protégée into the dimly lit drawing room, glancing both ways down the hall before she shut the door behind them.

“Report.” Her tone was clipped, anxious. Had she actually had a headache, Trystan wondered, or had Lady Isaura found another reason to be absent for the latter half of the evening?

Trystan removed her cloak, slowly and deliberately, folded it and laid it over the back of the settee. Moving around to the front, she spread her skirts and seated herself, reached for her shoe, and stopped. “Do you want the message or the report first?” she asked, striving to sound both anxious and innocent.