Traitor's Masque (42 page)

Dawn was approaching when Kyril officially gave up and sought his horse. No one was talking, about Rowan or anything else of import. He needed a new source, and it did not take long for his brain to suggest one. He knew Ramsey planned to set someone to watch the homes of each of the suspected conspirators. Wait for them to move. See who their friends were. But he needed to find Rowan sooner than that. Though he had not dared admit it to Ramsey, Kyril still clung to hope. The king seemed too tenacious to die, and if they could find out what poison had been used, perhaps there was a chance that Hollin could yet recover.

Kyril did not return to the castle to ask for permission, nor did he pause to consider whether Ramsey would approve. Instead he turned his horse towards the outskirts of town and, within minutes, left it far behind. The sun would be rising soon to light the road and Lady Westerby’s estate was less than ten miles distant. With luck, he would be back before anyone thought to wonder where he had gone.

Vianne awakened early that morning feeling uncomfortably queasy. She did not for a moment suppose she was ill. In all her years at Colbourne, she had never taken a day off for sickness. Nor for any other reason. And that had been nearly forty years.

She’d had opportunities elsewhere, but had chosen to stay, not for the pay or the prestige, but the location, close to her family. Over the years, she’d had many opportunities to regret that choice. And many reasons to rejoice in it.

One of those reasons was Trystan—the wild, impossible child who had last night appeared out of the dark and demanded the truth. Truth that Vianne had promised she would never share with a living soul. And yet, the man to whom she had made that promise was dead, and he had taken his threats with him.

Trystan was very much alive and had been made to suffer, horribly, for the sake of one man’s pride. For the sake of the child she loved, Vianne knew she would have to break her promises, and possibly even lose her job. The story she had heard, so breathlessly related in front of her own fire, demanded nothing less.

Trystan had never lied to her. And the girl was far too intelligent to invent a lie so utterly preposterous as that tale she had told last night. No, Vianne believed her, and that belief was going to bring her a bushel’s worth of trouble. Once she managed to get out of bed and quell the sensation of dread that had tied her stomach in knots.

Grumbling under her breath, Vianne eased her aching joints out from under the blankets and dressed in her usual uniform. It was early yet, and today was her half-day, so there would be enough time to rouse Trystan and have their conversation before she would need to return to the manor.

Entering the main room of her house, however, Vianne’s gaze was instantly drawn to the paper left on the tiny table. It was one of her recipes, turned over and scribbled on with a bit of charcoal that rolled off onto the floor when she picked up the note.

Vianne,

(it read, in a nearly indecipherable scrawl)

Please forgive me, but I did not want to wake you. I have lost something important and realized that it must be at Westhaven. Have gone back for it. Whether I find it or not, I should be back before dawn. Hoping all my previous experience in sneaking will finally be of use.

Trystan

Dread indeed. Vianne’s gaze caught on the fallen piece of charcoal where it had rolled into a puddle of early morning sunlight. It was long past dawn, and there was no sign of the child.

Old she might be, but her thoughts could still move swiftly. A few snippets of Trystan’s tale chased each other through her head, followed closely by both determination and a plan. It was not much as plans went. A few ingredients without any clear directions. But Vianne had been improvising recipes for years, and people, to her mind, were not that much different than food. Both were highly predictable if you paid attention.

First, Vianne returned to her bedroom and removed a small, flat, cloth bag from beneath her mattress. Then she tied a clean apron over her dress and left the house, locking the door behind her and taking the same road she always took, if a bit more briskly than was normal. She entered the kitchen at Colbourne Manor with her usual brusque appraisal and went straight into the storeroom that served as her office.

“Grita,” she coolly addressed the young kitchen maid who brought her morning tea, “I wish to speak with all of you. It appears we have a situation with which I require your assistance.”

The girl’s expression very carefully remained unchanged as she bobbed a curtsey and left. A few moments later, she returned, followed by the other four kitchen maids, the two girls from the scullery, and Umbersley, who kept the kitchen garden. To Vianne’s surprise, both footmen crowded in after them, as well as the parlor maids, the girls from upstairs, and Malisse’s personal dresser. It was a tight squeeze.

No one spoke as she regarded the crowd rather skeptically. “I am forced to suppose that none of you know why you are here.”

A murmur worked its way around the group, but it was Grita who answered. “Ma’am, you said you wants help. You never ask help with nothing, so we know you mean to do something. About the Mistress. And we all wants to be in on it when you do.”

Vianne looked around her with what she had to admit was surprise. She had not expected… but perhaps she should have. Everyone knew what had happened to Hoskins, Millson, Farley, and Beatrice. Sanderl was not popular, and Vianne suspected that even without her influence this group might have been brought to mutiny by his introduction to the household alone.

Very well. Her plans might prove simpler than she had anticipated.

“I have no intentions of harming anyone, or gaining revenge, so if those are your thoughts I suggest you leave now,” she began. “I also suggest that you become aware of the possibility that we could all leave here today without a position.” As one, the group began to look exceedingly mulish and unlikely to budge. “That said, it seems I have a need of assistance.”

Vianne hesitated. She could scarcely believe she was about to say this. “I need to retrieve something from Her Ladyship’s office.”

There was silence for a long, pregnant moment. It was broken by one of the parlor maids. “From her desk or from the safe?”

Vianne looked up in surprise. “Do you mean to say you know where she keeps her valuables? Her papers?”

The little maid grinned shyly. “It’s my job to dust, Mistress Vianne, so I see pretty near everything. Her Ladyship keeps her papers in a locked box behind the portrait of Lord Percival. I found it because it was the only thing in the room that was never dusty.”

Vianne’s mouth dropped open in spite of her. “I don’t suppose you know how to get into it?”

She was answered by the tall, sour-faced woman who had come in last and least expected: Malisse’s personal dresser. “She carries the keys around her neck. Most nights she sleeps with them.”

Vianne frowned in disappointment. She didn’t want anyone to lose their job over this. How could they get those keys and put them back without the wretched woman noticing? Deep in thought, she almost didn’t notice the thin-lipped smile on the dresser’s face.

“Of course, there is one time she takes them off,” the woman offered helpfully.

“Yes?” Vianne asked, trying not to hope for too much. The maids started giggling before the dresser had a chance to answer, but the sinister smile on her face was all Vianne really needed.

This might not be so very difficult after all.

Lady Colbourne was having a very trying day. Her dresser had gone missing at precisely the wrong moment, Darya had woken up with spots on her face, and no one had been able to find out anything about a royal wedding. It was as though the palace had ceased to exist. No gossip had come out of there since reports of the by-now infamous flight of Hester Ulworth.

Malisse was being forced to commit a great deal of effort to remaining hopeful on behalf of her beloved Anya. Her only consolation was that if she had received no news, neither had anyone else. At worst, Prince Ramsey had decided to put off marrying for a while longer. Not ideal, but better than having lost him altogether.

She was still musing on a possible course of action when there came a gentle knock at the door of her study. Malisse was not expecting anyone, so she frowned. Not too deeply. That sort of thing put lines in one’s forehead. “Who is it?” she queried sharply. It never hurt to let the servants know you were displeased. They tended to put more effort into ensuring that your displeasure was not directed at
them
.

“Deirdre, Your Ladyship.”

Ah. One of the parlor maids. Whatever could she want? The room was clean and it was too warm for a fire. Her Ladyship’s frown grew more ominous, and less concerned with appearances. “I did not call for you,” she said loudly and firmly. “Go and find Sanderl if there is a problem.” Silence answered her. Nodding briefly to herself, Malisse had only just turned her thoughts back to her personal difficulties when the quiet knock was repeated.

“What now?” This time she was perhaps more strident than sharp. A lady could only tolerate so many interruptions.

“Deirdre, Your Ladyship.”

Malisse’s bosom swelled in aggravation. What ailed the girl? She should know better than to bring her petty problems to the mistress. And if she didn’t, she was about to learn.

“Enter.”

The little maid opened the door as silently as only a servant could and stood, head bowed, just inside the room, her shaking hands clasped in front of her as if in supplication.

Malisse rose from her chair with awful dignity. “Deirdre?”

The girl nodded without glancing up. “Yes, Mistress… I mean, Your Ladyship.”

One sculpted eyebrow shot up, and the coral-painted lips thinned a trifle.

Well. Malisse could see this child needed taking in hand. Where the devil was that butler? It was part of his task to see to it that the staff adhered to her wishes in matters of decorum.

“I believe I instructed you to leave. I therefore fail to understand what could have possessed you to intrude upon my solitude a second time.”

The girl raised one shaking hand in appeal. “But, Mistress… oh please, I’m sorry, Your Ladyship…”

“Silence!” Strident gave way to what could only be termed a bellow. “When I want you to speak I will command you and as I have no desire to hear your mewling complaints you will have no occasion to do so, is that clear?” Malisse had thus far had no reason to complain of Sanderl’s competence. He had proven quite exacting in matters of propriety and precedence, and provided swift punishment without any need for prompting. But the fact that this upstart parlor maid felt it appropriate to approach her mistress without proper attention to the priority of rank spoke poorly of his superintendence. What could the wretched man possibly be doing?

“Now, Deirdre, you will tell me at once why you have failed to attend my orders and given me ample reason to consider your immediate dismissal.” The girl wrung her hands pitifully and bit her lower lip. “Well?”

“It’s Sir, Your Ladyship.”

Malisse was beginning to feel rather put upon. Why should she be expected to listen to the incomprehensible babbling of this undereducated and dull-witted child? If she wanted to oversee the staff herself, she would hardly be wasting her money employing a butler. “Must you behave like a simpleton? Who is Sir and why can you not manage to answer my questions?”

The maid’s voice dropped to a whisper and she glanced over her shoulder nervously. “Sanderl…” She glanced beseechingly at Her Ladyship. “He says we must call him ‘Sir.’”

Malisse nodded in understanding. Of course. It was very proper in him to expect such deference. Though she found it rather unsettling that the chit seemed more afraid of her butler than her mistress. No one ought to command more respect than she did.

Preoccupied with these thoughts, it took her a moment to notice that the girl had fallen silent again. No wonder her butler seemed so perpetually peevish, with lackwits like this child to work with.

“Oh, for pity’s sake, what ails you? Where is Sanderl?”

“Begging your pardon, Your Ladyship, but that’s the thing. We can’t find him.”