Traitor's Masque (34 page)

She had never met the king, and could feel no sorrow at his illness, but she guessed that his son would be grieving. That grief had somehow reached out and included her, for no better reason than friendship.

The thought stunned her. She had not known until that moment what it was to feel another’s pain. She had not realized that she could.

“… Never seen her like this. Trystan? I say, Trystan, are you ill?” Malisse’s strident tones finally broke through the fog of Trystan’s misery.

She looked up dully, no longer very interested in what Malisse had come to say. “No, Stepmother. Not ill. That is, I feel a bit odd, but I’m sure if I lie down for a little longer it will pass.”

Malisse harrumphed as loudly as decorum would permit. “Well. I trust I will have no reason to be concerned for her health.” This to Lady Isaura as that lady gently ushered her visitor out, though not without a searching look at Trystan. “I had believed these fits of hers were well and done, but perhaps I was mistaken. If you wish I could call for…” The voices trailed off down the hall as the door closed behind the two women.

Trystan sank back onto the bed and was immediately forced to turn her head into the pillow to hide the tears she could no longer stop. She rarely cried, but somehow it seemed to ease the ache. If she was wise, she would not permit herself the luxury for long. Lady Isaura would be back, and Trystan could offer no explanation for a wet pillow and swollen eyes. At least, nothing that would satisfy that woman’s sharp looks and pointed questions.

Scrubbing her face with an already rumpled handkerchief, Trystan sat up, turned over her pillow and tried to compose herself. Tried to think about Anya’s face, when she first learned she had been rejected in favor of a shopkeeper’s daughter. Tried not to think about Anya’s face when she learned that the shopkeeper’s daughter had eloped with someone else.

And then, because she could not help herself, she wondered what Donevan… Prince Ramsey, was doing. Was he truly grieving? Did he love his father so much that he couldn’t bear the thought of life without him? Or did he hate his life so much that he questioned the love of the father who had forced him to live it?

As Trystan had begun to question her own. In that moment, she was finally able to admit to herself that she didn’t believe her father had loved her.

If he had loved her, wouldn’t he have married someone who would share that love? And wouldn’t he have tried to make them a family, instead of driving them farther apart by his indifference?

But he hadn’t. He had known his wife despised his daughter, and had done nothing to protect her.

Because he hadn’t loved her enough, or because he hadn’t loved her at all?

And if he hadn’t, if what they had shared was not love, had she, Trystan, ever truly loved anyone?

Trystan was standing at the window, still lost in miserable contemplation, when she saw the Colbourne carriage rattling back down the drive and heard the knock on the door.

“Yes.” She wasn’t really ready to see Lady Isaura, but couldn’t exactly tell her to go away. The door opened and closed quietly. Trystan did not turn around.

“I think that perhaps,” Lady Isaura began carefully, “you have not told me the whole truth, Trystan.”

Trystan turned to face her hostess as nonchalantly as possible. “I’m not sure what you mean, Lady Isaura. Did my stepmother tell you I’m likely to have fits, because it’s not true. I haven’t had a fit in ages.”

Lady Isaura frowned. “Not about that, Trystan, about the ball.”

Trystan’s eyes widened fractionally in response, but she said nothing.

“I think you were not entirely honest about your feelings towards someone. I saw your face when Malisse mentioned the king.” Trystan tried not to hold her breath as Lady Isaura stared at her. “Is it possible that you have conceived an… an attachment?” Her voice lowered to almost a whisper. “For Prince Ramsey?”

Trystan’s usual glibness failed her utterly. “I… I don’t see how,” she protested. “We danced. Once. That was all.” It sounded like a lie, even to her.

Lady Isaura’s face brightened with the discovery. “It’s true!” she breathed, as if in awe. “You love him!”

Trystan shook her head vehemently in denial. “No, no I don’t! Perhaps I found him attractive. Maybe even interesting. But I don’t love him!”

The other woman did not seem to hear her. “Then that explains it!” Lady Isaura glared fiercely, but seemed exhilarated rather than upset. “Wait here.” She left the room in a great hurry, leaving Trystan staring after her in consternation.

Damn her feelings anyway. How could she have failed so badly at hiding them? When Lady Isaura returned a moment later she held a note in her hand.

“This came, this morning, and I had not bothered to read it as I thought I knew what it contained, but now I suspect…” She handed the note to Trystan, who knew as soon as it entered her hand both who it was from and that Lady Isaura had lied. She had most certainly read it and knew exactly what it contained.

Trystan opened it, trying not to let her hands shake. Hoping it wasn’t what she thought it was.

To Miss Elaine Westover, Greetings,

I suspect that you will, by now, have become privy to the details of the events of yesterday. While rumors do not express the whole truth of the matter, suffice it to say that I am still rather embarrassingly in need of a bride. Due to other recent developments, it has become clear that, much as I deplore it, haste is now more important than ever. Miss Westover, I wish to be honest with you. My situation is such that I do not have the luxury of marrying for mutual affection. All I can look for now is to find someone who might, someday, learn to care for me and I for them. A kindred mind, if you will. I hope you will not find me forward, but I felt, inasmuch as such things are possible after a meeting of only a few moments, that yours might be such a one. I have even dared to believe that perhaps, given a chance, you might not find me entirely repugnant. If I am in error, then I apologize, and beg that you honor me only with your reply. If, however, you feel that there exists even the smallest possibility for mutual respect between us, please honor me instead with your presence, at a private meeting tomorrow. By your acceptance, you would be implying nothing more than your willingness to discuss the matter. I will await your reply.

Respectfully,

Ramsey Donevan Tremontaine

It was not what she thought. It was worse. Donevan had seen through her, somehow. He wanted to meet her, without the masque, all of her secrets laid bare. To find out if he could love her. It was at once profoundly satisfying and deeply horrifying. He had seen through her disguise. Even without seeing her face, he had known her. And all she had to offer him was pain.

How could she tell him what she had done? She didn’t even know what she had done, except that it had been wrong, utterly wrong.

Too late, she noticed a motion from Lady Isaura, who snatched the note from her hands and pretended to read it. There was a light in the older woman’s eyes, something disturbing, but Trystan could not name it, she could only think frantically of what excuse she might offer this time.

Lady Isaura took the decision out of her hands. “My dear Trystan, this is wonderful! You must be so happy! He cares for you! Not for that Ulworth girl after all!” She took Trystan’s face in her hands and beamed. “I’m sure you are much too excited to reply so I will do it for you… no, don’t trouble yourself, I will see to everything! And don’t worry about your stepmother, dear child. I’m certain I can invent an explanation that will satisfy her. And besides, once you are engaged to Prince Ramsey, even Malisse won’t dare interfere.”

And then she was gone, hastening away before Trystan could protest or call after her. Trystan knew there would be nothing she could have said. Lady Isaura was convinced of Trystan’s feelings and no protest would have swayed her from her intentions.

The question was now no longer whether she would tell Prince Ramsey. It was a matter of
what
she would tell him. And how.

Trystan was numb with misery all that long afternoon, as Lady Isaura hummed and chatted and primped and planned. She had accepted the invitation on Trystan’s behalf, and after an exchange of missives via royal courier, the meeting was set for the following day, at dusk.

Trystan briefly contemplated running away. If she disappeared, it was unlikely any concerted effort would be made to find her. Lady Isaura would simply say that her cousin had returned to the north, and Malisse was more likely to offer up prayers of thanks than send anyone after her.

It was, perhaps, only her newfound sense of empathy that made her stay. She simply could not do such a thing to Donevan. One girl had already fled rather than marry him. It would crush him if she did the same. Though she did not know whether the truth she had to tell him would be much easier to bear.

And which truth would it be? She could tell him she was Embrie and that she had lied in order to go to the ball. Pour out the sordid story of her family and hope he was sympathetic. She could even claim that she pretended to be Lady Isaura’s cousin because Malisse would not allow her to leave the house. And then what? Wait for Rowan to denounce her? Wait for the mysterious conspiracy to reveal itself?

What if she chose to tell Prince Ramsey everything? She still had nothing better to offer him than the information that his brother was plotting against him. If she told him the whole truth would he even believe her? Or would he order her imprisoned for impertinence?

Her misery seemed to increase in direct proportion to Lady Isaura’s excitement. Shortly after supper, in exasperation with what she chose to term Trystan’s “nerves,” Lady Isaura ordered her to go back to her room and clear her head. Trystan went, paced, cried, stomped, pulled her hair, then summoned a servant to tell Lady Isaura that she was going to bed. In case someone chose to check on her, Trystan arranged a few pillows and a nightgown until she was satisfied that it would be convincing. Then she dug into her closet and donned her boots, thanking providence she had thought to bring them. The window presented little difficulty, though it squeaked as if it had not often been opened. Before she could think better of it, she was out, down the trellis, and walking away across the lawn into the gathering dark.

Part of her longed to go home, to find Vianne, pour out her story and hope the cook’s wisdom could get her out of this mess, as she had done so many times before. The wiser Trystan knew she would never make it so far on a slightly sore ankle in the dark. She simply needed to walk and think. And hope that silence and solitude and the cool night air would aid her in finding an answer.

She walked for a very long time. Then she sat, then walked again. Trystan had no idea how late it was when she at last returned to the house, weary, and still without answers. She approached her window at first, then noticed that most of the lights were out. Lady Isaura could be in her room, which was very near Trystan’s. The last thing she needed was for the squeaky window to alert her hostess to her nighttime wanderings. Disgruntled, Trystan went in search of another window. Fortunately, she found one of the front sitting room windows that a maid had forgotten to close. It was low enough that she was easily able to climb through and break her fall on a nice soft settee. Very convenient. Almost as if someone knew she was out and about. Trystan grinned at her luck, in spite of everything, and crept out of the room, glancing down the hall. The lamps were extinguished, and everything seemed quiet. Apparently everyone had gone to bed. How long had she been gone?

Stealing silently down the darkened hall towards the stair, Trystan caught a glimpse of light, coming from under the not-quite-closed door to Lady Isaura’s study. A few steps closer and she could hear voices. Someone was still up! It was late enough that all the servants would be in bed, and Trystan could not imagine who else Lady Isaura could be talking to at this hour. The oddity of it piqued Trystan’s curiosity enough that she inched forward until she drew even with the door. Trying not to breathe, she leaned in and placed her eye to the crack.