Traitor's Masque (44 page)

Grabbing the white coverlet off the bed as he left, Kyril ran down the stairs two at a time, spreading the blanket over the body as he passed. Someone else could deal with the dead. Lady Westerby was long past either censure or absolution.

By the time he made it back to Evenburg, it was nearly lunchtime, but Ramsey was nowhere to be found. Kyril delivered the hopefully incriminating vial to the physicians attending the king’s sickroom, handed Lady Westerby’s final words to Lord Caspar, and went off in search of his friend. When even the tower proved empty, Kyril turned his weary steps toward the garden, another favorite haunt in times of distress. He was not forced to endure the shrubberies for long. A familiar voice hailed him from the balcony off the Great Hall—Ramsey, beckoning for him to come up.

Kyril did not bound up the stairs quite so energetically as usual. A night without sleep was beginning to wear on him. As he walked up the steps, considering what he would choose to tell, he tripped.

The moment of uncharacteristic clumsiness brought him to his knees halfway up the stairs, and left him only a hair from catching himself with his face. Ramsey made his way across the balcony and peered down at his friend.

“Kyril, are you drunk?” he asked curiously.

Kyril paused to consider without bothering to get up. “Possibly,” he answered thoughtfully. “Though mostly with lack of sleep. I promise I bought more than I drank last night.”

Ramsey raised an eyebrow. “You’re making me doubt your honesty and your sanity, brother.” Ramsey’s tone was doleful. “Get up before I’m forced to call for a physician.”

Kyril grinned and started to push himself up. Then stopped. Picked up something that rested at the end of one of the stairs. Something small, that glittered like gold in the sunlight. “That’s odd.” He eyed the object as he got to his feet and continued up the stairs. “Pretty though.”

“What is it?” Ramsey had already walked to a bench and sat down.

Kyril followed him and held out his hand. “I’m not sure,” he answered, frowning, “but I’m guessing someone is missing it. Looks like a personal keepsake of some kind.” He opened his hand and placed his find in Ramsey’s palm. And had the unsettling experience of watching his friend’s face drain of expression as he stared at the thing—a tiny, sparkling, golden stone horse.

A look of panic came into Ramsey’s gray eyes as he lifted them to Kyril’s face. “Where did you find this?” The prince’s voice was nothing but an anguished whisper, his face pale and set.

“On the stairs, just now.” Kyril stared at him. “Ramsey, what is it? Do you recognize it?”

The prince nodded, his expression reflecting something that looked far too much like despair. “It was hers.” Ramsey’s shoulders, his hands, went limp with shock. The tiny golden horse tumbled to the ground, still giving off sparks from the sun. Mute but indisputable evidence to the truth.

“Kyril.” He repeated that anguished, heartbroken cry. “It was hers!”

Still confused, Kyril dropped to a knee next to Ramsey and gripped his shoulder. “Whose, Ramsey?”

His prince looked up at him, utterly shattered. “Embrie.” He whispered the name hoarsely. “And Elaine. Kyril… I’ve been a blind fool. They were the same person.”

 
Chapter 16
 

Prince Ramsey Donevan Tremontaine sat by a window, feeling lost, rudderless and empty. Despite his resolution to live up to his office, he had never wished so badly to escape his life. Before all this, he would not have hesitated to spend half a day riding in the Kingswood, sorting out the chaos in his head. But even if his current situation had allowed such a thing, it would have brought him no peace. Not anymore.

He would have to remember her. Be puzzled by her. Feel betrayed by her. Want to see her and ask why. Find out what had driven her to do such terrible things.

It was so hard for him to superimpose the two women in his mind. Embrie’s honest vulnerability and impetuous temper, with Elaine's incisive questions and penetrating wit. How could they have been the same?

In some ways, he had seen it. Recognized something in Elaine that resonated with him in the same way Embrie had. And perhaps the problem was that he had idealized the latter in his head. Made her into something she could never have been, except in his own imagination.

The question was really whether he would choose to do anything about it. He could order a search. Ask questions at every house within riding distance of the Kingswood. It was sure to turn up something.

But did he really want to know? Was he prepared to face her and ask those questions? He wasn’t sure he could. It would be so much simpler to forget she had ever existed, let his heart and his hopes die quietly from the crushing blow she had dealt him.

But did he owe it to his father to know more? To find out anything she could tell him about the conspiracy that so nearly destroyed everything he loved?

In a way, it already had. Destroyed his admittedly too-innocent belief that the evils of power and politics had left his kingdom untouched. Destroyed his faith in the kernel of good he had always believed Rowan still possessed. Perhaps even destroyed his father. He wasn’t sure he had the courage to look Embrie in the eye and do what he must. Not with any dignity. Perhaps he was not as ready to be king as he had hoped.

There was a knock on the door. Quiet but frantic.

“What is it?” he answered wearily. He had hoped for a few more undisturbed moments.

“Mortimer, Your Highness. May I speak with you?”

Ramsey groaned silently. Mortimer was incredibly efficient, but sometimes fussed overmuch on matters that did not seem very important to Ramsey. Like the color of linen for the formal napkins. Or the available supply of lettuce. He hoped this time it was actually something important. Perhaps a problem with Ramsey’s instructions from yesterday.

“Come in, Mortimer.”

The stern-looking older man entered soundlessly and shut the door behind him, greeting his prince with a rather too formal bow. He looked… excited? How odd.

“How can I help?”

Mortimer actually stammered. “Y…y…Your Highness, I must ask your permission to make a change… in staffing.”

Ramsey lifted an eyebrow. Since when did it require his permission? Ah. Since his orders that no one be in the castle if they were not known to be trustworthy. It made sense. But…

“Mortimer, under the present situation, it seems this person must be very important for you to take such a risk.” Ramsey knew the steward would take his meaning.

“Your Highness,” Mortimer explained carefully, “I have tried—many times—to secure this woman’s services for His Majesty. She is a cook without peer, Your Highness. Nothing I offered seemed to move her and I had given up hope… I thought it might be a special surprise, for His Majesty, when he recovers…”

Ramsey almost frowned, but sighed instead. Mortimer had been devoted to his father for years, but he was also devoted to the renown of the House of Tremontaine. Which meant having the best of everything. If this woman was the best, Mortimer would not rest until her reputation enhanced that of His Majesty’s table.

“And are you satisfied that she is not a spy? Someone who might wish to do my father harm?” Ramsey asked.

Mortimer twisted his hands together momentarily. “That’s the thing, Your Highness,” the steward answered, with some worry. “She says she will accept the job, today, but only if she can speak to you. Alone.”

Ramsey stared at Mortimer in consternation.

“I thought perhaps you would… er… see what she wants? Decide for yourself…”

Ramsey finally understood. The steward wanted badly to hire her, but he did not want the responsibility if she proved to be untrustworthy. So he had brought the problem to his prince. Trying not to be annoyed, Ramsey glared, just a little, at Mortimer, for having put him in such a position. And on such a day.

“Very well, Mortimer. I will see her. But not without guards outside the door at least.”

The steward smiled happily. And with a great deal of relief. “I have already taken the liberty of procuring the guards, and the woman is waiting downstairs. Shall I show her up?”

Ramsey put his face in his hands. He should have known. Mortimer sometimes took competence to hitherto unheard of and highly annoying levels. “Yes, Mortimer, you shall. But please, warn her to be brief. This is very much
not
the day for lengthy complications.”

Mortimer nodded briskly and left, with what Ramsey imagined was probably a cackle of glee as he closed the door. Ramsey had never observed the austere old man cackling, but he had learned long ago not to place much confidence in the outward demeanor of servants. As a rule, they hid far more than they showed. Considering the depth of Ramsey’s failures in judgment of late, it would not surprise him to learn that Mortimer was hiding a wife and seven children in the castle larders.

It took only a few minutes for the steward to return, but when he did, Ramsey had already seated himself behind his desk and assumed his most practiced air of majestic irritability. It usually encouraged petitioners to make themselves as brief as possible.

The woman who entered behind Mortimer, however, did not look inclined to be hurried. If there existed a more inflexible- and implacable-looking person, Ramsey hoped never to meet them. She was short and widely built, perhaps a bit younger than Mortimer, with gray hair and an uncompromising expression. No smile lines. Ramsey began to suspect she lacked a sense of humor altogether. Perhaps food was not all that amusing.

“Your Highness”—Mortimer had his blank face on again—“may I present Mistress Vianne?”

Ramsey nodded gravely after the woman dropped a curtsey that was as correct as it was perfunctory. A stickler for the letter of propriety, he imagined. As if she knew her duty and refused to give even a tiny bit more of herself than was necessary. He gestured for her to sit down, and excused Mortimer.

When the door had closed he returned his gaze to his guest and found her watching him with at least as great a measure of assessment as his own. Her eyes were intense and somehow disapproving. Ramsey actually caught himself wondering whether he had done something wrong.

“Mistress Vianne, you must know how irregular it is for me to conduct interviews with potential members of the staff.” It would not do for him to be questioning his own conduct when he meant for this woman to be questioning hers. Ramsey tried his best to look stern. “I agreed to see you as a favor to Mortimer, who has faithfully served my family for most of his life. Please, if you can, make this brief. As you may have guessed, I really have very little time and far too many demands on it.”

The woman seemed neither dismayed nor hurried by his slightly irritated tone. She merely withdrew a stack of papers from her reticule and placed them on his desk, in front of her. Clearly not within his reach. Her expression did not change. “Your Highness.” Her voice sounded as inflexible as she looked. “I need to tell you a story.”

Ramsey kept his jaw from dropping only with great effort. “I beg your pardon? Madam, need I repeat—”

He may have dispensed with courtesy but she seemed quite willing to follow his lead. She actually interrupted him.