Traitor's Masque (32 page)

Your Loyal Subject,

Mrs. Hester Ulworth Arthur

Ramsey felt a fool. A blind, heartless fool.

There was blame aplenty to go around. Rowan for purposefully handling this in the most scandalous way possible. Mr. Ulworth for using his daughter for his own purposes. Kyril, for assessing her character without knowing her heart. And himself, Ramsey, for daring to presume that his own needs were the only ones that mattered.

Deep down, he had let himself believe that all he needed to do was choose. Not that his choice would love him, but that she would take him. Would he have asked, if they had met, what her choice would be? Or would he have gratefully accepted Kyril’s off-hand assurance that Hester would do whatever her father told her, as though she were something to be sold in his shop?

Ramsey mentally raised a glass in toast to the not-so-dull or dutiful Miss Hester Ulworth. A braver and better person than he by far. She had complicated his day beyond all measure, leaving a mess that would require weeks to sort out, but he wished her well. More than well. Whoever the lucky Mr. Arthur was, Ramsey hoped they would be deliriously happy.

He was hoping much more violent things for his brother. Being eaten by rats would be ideal. If it had not been for the pressing necessity of appearing nonchalant in front of his guests, Ramsey could have gone on fantasizing about large, hungry rodents for some time.

Instead, he used up several weeks worth of self-control and smiled at Rowan. What Rowan had accomplished may not have been villainous, but neither his methods nor his motives were much concerned with anyone’s agenda but his own. An agenda that could not help but appear suspicious, even if Ramsey had neither the time nor the opportunity to explore the issue.

“My thanks, brother. You may be sure I will see to it without delay.”

Ramsey was grimly delighted to find that Rowan’s own game could be used against the smug bastard, who had no choice but to step back graciously and be dismissed.

Now for the hard part. Well, hard
er
. The party would have to be dismissed and the news conveyed to Hester’s parents. They would likely wish to pursue her, as she could not have been gone over an hour, though Ramsey would be very much surprised if Rowan had not managed the business well enough to prevent pursuit.

Under every watching eye, Ramsey beckoned to Kyril and stepped aside with him for a moment, speaking as quietly as possible. “We’ve the devil’s own stew here and not much time. I need your help.” Kyril nodded. No questions, no doubts, just waited for his instructions. Ramsey wondered if he had ever appreciated such friendship as deeply as it deserved.

“I’m going to court a great deal of displeasure and announce that the party must be hastily dismissed, due to my father’s worsening health.” Kyril blanched. “No, it’s not, but I have to get them gone. I need you to delay the Ulworths. Ask them to step inside. Do what you must to avoid a scene.”

“Done.” Kyril probably had questions, but knew better than to ask them. “Anything else?”

Ramsey shook his head minutely. “Not now. But later I may ask you to find me some rats.”

In the end there were token protests, shocked gasps, discontented pouts, and calculating glances, but the remaining guests were eventually dispersed with disappointed certainty that Ramsey’s choice had been made. He had no desire to dispel their misconceptions. Gossip was light on its feet, and they would all learn the truth soon enough.

By the time his obligations as host were discharged and Ramsey finally managed to locate Kyril in one of the castle’s receiving rooms, Mr. Ulworth was midway between chafing and frothing and his face was anything but friendly. Ramsey took the precaution of stationing two guards at the door before he went into the room. Where Kyril had wisely stationed another guard.

“Mr. and Mrs. Ulworth, I thank you for waiting.”

Mr. Ulworth bristled. His patience was quite clearly gone. To be fair, Ramsey couldn’t blame him. His daughter was still missing, and Kyril hadn’t been able to answer any of his questions.

“Your Highness,”—it sounded as though Mr. Ulworth would rather have dispensed with the honorific—“I would be happy to know what has been done with my daughter.” The poor man’s dignity, and his manners, were hanging by a thread.

Ramsey bowed slightly. “I assure you, Mr. Ulworth, nothing has been ‘done’ with your daughter. It appears she had some, let us say, objections, to your hopes of a royal marriage and has made her own arrangements to avoid it.” He handed the note to her father before the man could protest Ramsey’s choice of words. They were mild compared to the ones he would have liked to use. Damned diplomacy.

Mr. Ulworth had not come this far by completely failing to control his temper. He took the note, his hand shaking visibly, and read it. His mouth began to fall open, slowly, by degrees, until at a predictable point in his daughter’s explanation it began to flap in an unmistakably fish-like manner. His eyes widened, and his cheeks grew pink. All the while, his wife watched, a curious expression on her face that was most notably
not
one of surprise.

“This is
his
fault!” Mr. Ulworth finally hissed when he finished and threw the note to the floor in disgust.

Well, thought Ramsey, he could at least place as much blame on his own child as on the poor Mr. Arthur. It sounded very much as though it had not been Mr. Arthur’s idea in the first place.

“That… That monster!” He rounded on Ramsey with a vengeance. “Your brother has stolen my daughter and he will answer for it!”

Now it was Ramsey’s turn to look a bit fish-like. He had fully expected the need to shield Rowan from a piece of the blame, but all of it? Seemed a bit excessive, though it felt decidedly odd to be defending his brother, even inside his own head. Perhaps if he thought of it as defending the crown from the consequences of his brother’s idiocy.
That
, he had been doing for years.

“Mr. Ulworth, may I suggest that you moderate your language?” Ramsey did his best to sound stern and in control of the situation. “I understand your concern, and will render what aid is necessary to recover your daughter, but I must insist that you speak with more respect for His Highness, Prince Rowan.” The search for a diplomatic turn of phrase necessitated a pause. “Your prince may not have acted with sufficient courtesy to your feelings as a parent, but he has acted to preserve your daughter’s happiness and to protect the dignity of the crown, should this prior attachment have remained hidden until it was too late.”

Perhaps it was time to impress upon Mr. Ulworth how impolitic his deception had been. “I asked for honesty, Mr. Ulworth. Your daughter was under no compulsion from me when she stated, in her own hand, that she wished to marry me. I find it difficult to believe, under the circumstances, that she did this of her own free will.”

Ramsey did not ask the question, merely dangled it in front of Hester’s father, hoping he would bite. The poor man probably would have. He was not much given to subtlety or discretion, which made Ramsey feel a bit of a beast for baiting him, as necessary as it was to shift the blame away from Rowan. To his relief, absolution was granted to all, from an unexpected source.

“Francis, stop.” Mrs. Ulworth had small, bright spots of color on her cheeks, but she did not look otherwise disturbed, only determined. Ramsey found himself thinking incongruously that he had never met a man who looked less like a Francis.

Mr. Ulworth rounded on his wife, opened his mouth once, but subsided at her expression. Interesting.

Mrs. Ulworth turned to Ramsey. “Your Highness,” she said firmly, “Hester has indeed been secretly engaged to Mr. Arthur for nearly a year.”

Francis, predictably, exploded, though thankfully not in Ramsey’s direction. “Secretly what?” he roared impressively. “That boy hasn’t the brains or the nerve to place an order in person! How could they be engaged?”

Mrs. Ulworth regarded him with weary complacency, seeming, if anything, a bit relieved to be having this tiff. Ramsey was relegated to the highly preferable role of observer.

“Hester is a woman, Francis, not a fool. She knew precisely what you would say to Hensley on the subject of their relationship and preferred to keep it a secret. If she never told you, you couldn’t forbid it.”

“Forbid it? Of course I forbid it!”

This was going to be a long argument. And Ramsey didn’t really have time to wait for them to finish. “Mrs. Ulworth?” he interrupted. “I wish to render assistance if it is necessary, but perhaps, in light of these revelations, I should inquire… Do you wish to pursue your daughter?”

Both parents were silent for a moment. Francis began to speak, but it was short lived. His wife, for the moment at least, had the upper hand, by virtue of being in possession of both herself and all the facts.

“No.” Her voice was soft and firm, and her face showed regretful certainty.

Ramsey recalled his earlier assessment of her as prim and disapproving. Perhaps he had been as wrong about the mother as he had been about the daughter. He held her gaze for a moment, wanting to be sure, but she never wavered, so Ramsey nodded in assent. “Accept my condolences, and those of my House,” he said formally, before Mr. Ulworth could recover and start bellowing again. “The steward will show you out and send for your carriage whenever you are ready.”

Mrs. Ulworth acknowledged him with a formal curtsey and a sad curve of a smile. “My thanks, Your Highness, and our regrets.”

Ramsey nodded and left. Whatever conversation came next, it would not be one that required an audience.

Ramsey spent the next hour or so going through the motions of attending to his duties. He dictated a note of apology to his disappointed guests, approved a crown gift of dowry to Mrs. Hensley Arthur (it seemed appropriate, considering that Rowan had, essentially, given away the bride), and met with one of the healers attending his father.

At least that report was somewhat encouraging. The king was improving, his color seemed better, and he had been able to swallow his gout medicine without choking.

Mostly, Ramsey was avoiding anyone who would ask for an explanation of what had occurred that afternoon. Or who might expect him to know what he intended to do next. He really had no idea what there was to be done.

He still needed to marry, that much was certain, but what were his options now? Anya Colbourne? He would rather throw himself into the nonexistent moat.

Perhaps he should pretend this was nothing more than a treaty negotiation. Ask his advisors to suggest the most suitable bride according to her family’s wealth and her father’s politics. Not even bother to meet her until they stood up together for the ceremony.

Feeling something alarmingly close to despair, Ramsey needed space to think. Or not to think. To put aside his anger at his brother, his fear for his father and his vexation with himself long enough to make a decision that had a chance of not being a huge mistake. For once he did not want to ask Lizbet, or Kyril, or anyone else. This was his, and his alone. Lingering wistfully on the idea of running away to his forest haunt, Ramsey’s steps turned instead to the tower.

It was the most pretentious bit of architecture in an otherwise quite practical castle. Used for very little, the tower’s sole purpose seemed to be adding consequence to the building’s profile. Ramsey had discovered as a small, easily embarrassed child that its seclusion, reached only by climbing far too many steps, offered a retreat from the often humiliating voices of his peers.

Fortunately, it was a warm enough day that the unadorned stone floor was more hospitable than usual. The sun slanted in cooperatively through tall glass windows as Ramsey sat, closed his eyes against the afternoon light, and leaned back against the wall.

A crackling issued from the front of his jacket as he did so, and he remembered suddenly that he had tucked Miss Westover's note there for later perusal. So much for peaceful reflection. Remembering Lizbet’s odd expression when she handed it to him, Ramsey reached into his jacket, pulled out the offending paper and unfolded it. The contents were unlikely to prove more distressing than those of the previous note he had received.