Traitor's Masque (33 page)

This one was written on plain, white paper, in the same neat script he remembered from the application. Though he noted that the mysterious Miss Westover was marginally more verbose on this occasion.

“To His Highness, Prince Ramsey Tremontaine,

Please be so kind as to accept my regrets in the matter of your very flattering invitation to the festivities this afternoon. I fear that my own embarrassment at my ineptitude during the dancing last evening led to an undoubtedly foolish rejection of aid that has rendered me unable to walk without difficulty this morning. Though, in an effort to salvage what I may of my own pride, I have decided to place a great deal of the blame on my shoes. I suspect a dungeon somewhere is missing two of their finest devices of torture. Please likewise accept my humblest wishes that my own failures will not in any way disrupt your plans. I was most grateful for the honor of an invitation to Evenburg last evening and feel that it greatly aided my social education. To thank you for the honor of your notice, I am entirely without resource. Though I must say, if I had known that impudence and ineptitude are acceptable methods of securing a man’s attention, I might have attempted it sooner. I remain,

Your Obedient Subject,

Miss Elaine Westover

It was impossible to read without laughing. Even tired, confused, afraid, and out of options, Ramsey sat on the stone floor in the sun and permitted himself an uninterrupted moment to appreciate Miss Westover's rather audacious humor. So different from what he had come to expect from young women courting a man’s favor.

Coming from anyone else, he might have suspected they were
trying
to offend him. From the strange young woman of last night, he really couldn’t be sure. But sitting there, alone, pressed on every side, Ramsey was suddenly very sure of one thing. He wanted to see her again.

His party had been a disaster and his plans were in shambles. If he still had to marry, and he did, he wanted one more chance to find out what sort of girl Miss Westover was. No secrets, no masques. There had been enough of those, and this last secret had nearly proven disastrous.

Brawley had suggested that her ties were suspicious. Well, he would ask her. Show her that she was not the only one capable of straightforward conversation.

Ramsey was not fool enough to suppose that she would not lie to him, but still… He could feel his mood lightening noticeably with the realization that he had not quite reached a dead end. If he did not at least make this attempt, he knew he would always wonder whether Miss Westover might not have been a better choice. Better, at least, than whomever his advisors could come up with. Not best.

For some reason he could not explain, even to himself, best would always be a girl he had only met three times and could never hope to marry. If he was honest, he would even admit that the only reason he wanted to meet Elaine again was that she reminded him of Embrie.

 
Chapter 12
 

Trystan lay in bed the next morning, trying not to feel. Sore, lonely, bored, worried, relieved, confused—if she pretended not to feel any of it, perhaps she could pretend that the ordeal was truly over. If she was very lucky, she might even fool herself into believing that everything was going to be fine, that all of her problems were solved, and that being wealthy, independent and alone was the pinnacle of her dreams.

She wasn’t nearly so lucky. In fact, she didn’t even feel very triumphant. It was rather difficult to believe she’d accomplished anything when she was celebrating her victory by hiding in her room with a sore ankle.

To be fair, it was larger than her bedroom at home, with an unlocked window, a convenient ivy trellis, and all the comforts she could ask for, but it did seem a bit ironic that after gaining her impossible prize, she was in much the same position as when Lady Isaura found her in the first place. And felt even more fully a prisoner.

Trystan wondered when there would be news from the palace of an impending engagement. She thought about who it might be. Lady Isaura had not said who else had been invited to the garden party the previous day, though Trystan had no doubt she knew. Probably a lot of girls that Trystan had never met, and wouldn’t care to meet.

She wondered when the wedding would be, and who would be invited, and whether her stepmother would be there, trying to trip the bride. Unless the bride was Anya. Trystan very carefully stomped on that thought, ground it to teeny tiny bits and brushed it to the back of her mind. Where it would probably itch until she found a way to learn whom Donevan… no, Prince Ramsey, had chosen.

Lady Isaura had spent much of the previous day in meetings. She had gone out for several hours, returned, and passed the evening closeted in her study. Trystan would rather have gotten the business of her payment for services rendered out of the way as soon as possible. Not that she suspected Lady Isaura meant to rescind her offer. As long as the older woman was still pretending that the note was meaningful, it made perfect sense for her to reward her protégée for completing a dangerous and difficult task.

But time could be running out. Malisse had to be wondering why her recalcitrant stepdaughter had not yet been sent home, and Lady Isaura could hardly tell her that Trystan had sprained her ankle dancing at a ball. Despite the fact that the ankle seemed almost entirely recovered, Lady Isaura had insisted that Trystan maintain the fiction of her injury for a while longer, as it kept her away from any possible scrutiny. The last thing they wanted was for the curious to come to the house in search of “Elaine,” and find only the neighborhood madwoman. In a day or two, Lady Isaura would put about that her cousin had departed suddenly for home, and then Trystan would be free.

Trystan was just beginning to feel restless enough to countermand her orders when she heard voices in the hall. Polite voices, though with an edge. Lady Isaura had a visitor, and she was bringing them to see Trystan. That could really only mean one thing: her dear stepmother had come to make sure she was suffering sufficiently.

At least, Trystan thought with a grimace, she had remembered to wash the dye out of her hair the day before. She might have had a difficult time explaining its sudden change of color.

Unsure what Lady Isaura had already told Malisse, Trystan sat up in bed, smoothed her hair as if to reassure herself, and tried to look… What would Malisse hope she would be feeling? Chastised? Bored? Jealous? She settled for bored. With a hint of dyspeptic.

Lady Isaura knocked gently.

“Come in.” Trystan turned towards the visitors, assuming an expression of alarmed surprise when she saw her stepmother.

“Trystan,” Lady Isaura prompted in her kind, elderly lady voice, “your mother is here to see how you do. I sent her a note about your accident, on the stairs, and she was worried enough to enquire after your recovery.”

Ah. So now clumsy was to be added to Trystan’s list of faults.

“Though I must say I am not surprised,” Malisse interrupted, sternly. “I hope you have not been troubling my dear friend with any of your distempers, Trystan. It was too good of her to take you off my hands and I would very much dislike hearing that she has had any cause to be disappointed in your behavior.”

Lady Isaura saved Trystan the trouble of responding, probably hoping to avoid any real confrontation. “Of course not,” she replied soothingly, patting Trystan’s head with brightly smiling condescension. Trystan managed, barely, not to glare. “She has been a great consolation to me these past days. It is often so quiet and lonely that I have found myself quite diverted by her conversation.” As though Trystan were some sort of amusing pet.

“And then, of course,” Lady Isaura added, “she has been quite helpful in the matter of entertaining my cousin, whose visit has been such a delightful surprise.”

Malisse was obviously unconvinced, but seemed anxious to turn the conversation to other matters. “My dear Lady Westerby, as she is still recovering, and the two… no, three of you seem to be getting on so well together, I wonder if I might beg a favor.”

“But of course, Lady Colbourne, you need only ask.” The sugared insincerity was so thick, Trystan wished she had a spoon. She could have eaten it with cream and called it dessert.

“I was hoping it might be possible for you to keep her here for a few more days. Perhaps she could continue to be company for your guest?” Malisse looked insufferably smug about something, and was obviously begging for someone to ask her what it was. Lady Isaura sacrificed herself, probably aware that Trystan would rather have cut out her own tongue.

“Why, Malisse, is anything the matter?”

Trystan’s stepmother smiled coyly, tilted her head, and waved a languid hand. “Oh no, I assure you, nothing the matter. It is only the news, you see, from the palace…” she paused for effect.

“News? Malisse, what have you heard?” Trystan had not realized that Lady Isaura could gush. And so effectively too.

“Why, Lady Westerby, you mean to say you didn’t know? About the party yesterday? I take it your cousin was not invited?”

Lady Isaura dismissed the idea in no uncertain terms. “Malisse, my cousin is an unrefined, and frankly rather ungoverned, child. She could hardly have been of interest to a man of Prince Ramsey’s stature. And anyway, she is shortly to return to the north. I believe she misses her home.”

Malisse smiled beatifically, obviously sensing no threat from a girl so retiring that she had no visitors and failed to greet guests. Lady Isaura had known her neighbor long enough to guess aright that she would trouble herself no further over the matter of the unknown cousin.

“Well,” Malisse confided, “you wouldn’t know then that only nine girls were invited yesterday for an exclusive meeting with His Highness… Anya, was, of course, among them.” She said this as though it were impossible for it to have been otherwise, but was patently hoping for congratulations, which Lady Isaura was wise enough to offer.

“How wonderful for you, Malisse. I know it is what you have always hoped for.”

Malisse nodded, all grace and benevolence. “Yes, though we had for a time despaired.” Her voice lowered conspiratorially. “It seemed all but certain that the prince had chosen, though I, for one, cannot imagine it was ever so. Hester Ulworth? Such an embarrassing family! Very common, if I may say so.”

Lady Isaura made all the necessary noises of agreement.

“But now, this morning?” Malisse went on, too taken by her own story to notice interruptions. “The truth has come out and the chit’s parents must be beside themselves. They say Hester fled, rather than marry Prince Ramsey! That she has eloped with a tailor’s son and no one knows where they have gone!”

Malisse spoke with vicious glee, and Trystan could see why. It would have been an intolerable insult had poor Hester been chosen over the rich, beautiful Anya Colbourne. This turn of events ensured not only that Anya was still in the running, but that Hester’s presumptuous family would suffer all the mortification that Malisse believed they deserved for daring to consider themselves the equals of their more gently born rivals.

Of course, Malisse also wished to flaunt Anya’s success in front of Trystan, as revenge for her injudicious commentary at dinner some weeks previously.

“Well!” Lady Isaura’s look of shocked affront appeared quite genuine. “I hope His Highness has not been too embarrassed. What an insult to the crown!”

Malisse shook her head, obviously not finished with her tale. “He seemed only too glad to let her go, and who would not be? The truth is, he’s distracted. Have you not heard? The king is taken suddenly ill! Some say he lies near death. It could be that Prince Ramsey will not be a prince much longer.”

Trystan felt these last words knife their way coldly into her heart. She did not hear her stepmother’s next words at all, and the rest of the world seemed dim and colorless. The king? Donevan’s father? Her friend’s life was already beset by difficulties and sadness. How could he lose his father? After being so cruelly disappointed by the woman he had chosen to marry!

Her distress and dismay felt like a physical wound. Distantly she noticed both Malisse and Lady Isaura looking at her oddly, but could not escape from this pain that had nothing to do with her.