Traitor's Masque (2 page)

Somewhere in the darkness between too late and too early, Trystan jerked and opened her eyes. For a long moment she blinked into the dark, then sat up in her wide, curtained bed, frustrated by the unshakeable notion that she had forgotten something important.

It was not likely to be true. There was little in her life that seemed worth forgetting, let alone remembering. Aside from embroidery and lessons in etiquette, the only activity her stepmother seemed to think appropriate for young ladies was dancing, an improbable thing to have forgotten in the middle of the night.

Trystan flopped back onto her pillow and groaned. It was just her rotten luck that boredom was considered genteel, while profitable labor was not. Of late, Trystan’s days had grown so tedious, she had begun to daydream of aiding the household staff in their chores. The thought was lovely, but laughable, as there was little chance of her being permitted to engage in something so vulgar as work. Ladies, according to Malisse, were intended to be decorous, not useful. She no doubt feared that if Trystan were to be discovered performing servant’s work, someone might get the wrong idea about the Colbourne estate and assume the family had fallen into penury. Anya and Darya’s marriage prospects would suffer and the poor lambs would go into a decline. Had it been an option, Trystan would have performed a great many chores for the privilege of observing such a spectacle.

By that time, Trystan was far too disgruntled for sleep. Grumbling under her breath, she threw off her blankets and shivered her way across the room to light a candle. Malisse had only yesterday complained about Trystan’s excessive consumption of candles, but Trystan had chosen not to admit the cause. The lack of purpose in her days had left her unable to sleep at night, and she was not fond of the dark.

Thankfully, even though the room was cold, there were still enough coals in the banked fire to light a taper. Trystan coaxed her nub of a candle to sputtering life and set it on her dressing table, where the thin, wavering light could be reflected across the room. Then she glared at the mirror and wondered for the thousandth time what she should have done differently.

In her dreams, she had a family. A father who was still alive. A mother of any sort who cared whether she existed. Extended family who visited and were loud and annoyed everyone excessively until they left and were sorely missed. But somehow, all of these ordinary things had eluded Trystan’s grasp.

Her father had been slipping away from her even before he died. She had no extended family that she knew of, and her stepmother and stepsisters would prefer she not exist. Many of the servants Trystan had known since childhood had been dismissed after her father’s death, and since that day a stiff formality had fallen over the household. The remaining servants were kind, of course, but they were, after all, paid to be kind so it was difficult to place much confidence in their affection.

Trystan was likewise lacking in friendship, a fact she had neither noticed nor cared about until after her father was gone. By then, however, her stepmother had forbidden her to go out in society, so Trystan had little chance to discover whether it was even possible for her to make friends. And because she met no one besides her family, such as it was, there were no marriage prospects either, which, to be fair, probably owed as much to her lack of dowry as her lack of social opportunities.

So much for general evils. In her present mood, Trystan expanded her list of life’s trials to include more particular misfortunes. Her last pair of clean stockings had a hole in them and would have to be darned. There was unfinished embroidery lurking downstairs, next to the current dreary collection of moralizing tales her stepmother would expect her to read after luncheon. Which meal, unless Trystan had mistaken the smell of the delivery wagon last night, would consist of some variation on the theme of fish, just in case she had become too comfortable in the midst of her other tribulations.

And then, of course, she remembered. Remembered the nameless something that had awakened her well before dawn.

Today was her birthday. She was eighteen years old.

Suddenly the fish seemed a grave injustice.

Trystan sat back down on the edge of her bed, near tears and aching with the knowledge that no one else was likely to remember. It would simply be another ordinary day.

It ought to have been the happiest of her life. She should indeed have been awakened long before dawn, but by the laughter and excitement of friends. There should have been a grand party. Presents. Perhaps even a selection of suitors, who would, of course, have been found entirely unsuitable by her fondly indulgent father.

If he hadn’t been dead. Her father had not, Trystan recalled rather acidly, bothered to think of these things before deciding it was necessary to oversee a shipment of goods in person. On a boat. Across the ocean. In the middle of winter.

The resulting ague that claimed his life a few weeks after his return seemed also to have altered his mind, and his will. Everything he owned had been left to Malisse, who would rather shave her eyebrows than spend a penny on Trystan.

Trystan imagined it would have been immensely comforting to reflect that she didn’t need money. That because of her innate goodness and staggering beauty, someone was bound to fall in love with her. But she was reasonably intelligent and mostly realistic. And she had a mirror.

Hers was not, she reflected, the sort of face that inspired legions of admiring swains. Pretty enough to complement a fortune, but not sufficient to disguise the lack of it. Her hair was an unfashionable shade, somewhere on the red side of brown. Her eyes were a plain light brown. Height? Average. Figure? Average. Worse than average if she made the mistake of standing next to her stepsisters.

No, it wasn’t likely that anyone would be willing to ignore her penniless state. And it would be even harder to ignore the rumors that Trystan had ceased to mingle with society because she was shockingly unhinged by grief. Thanks to her stepmother’s malicious gossip, Trystan was generally considered to be a spoiled brat who lost her mind when her father died.

Spoiled? Well, perhaps she had been. A little. Lost her mind? Not quite yet. Though it seemed a daily possibility. Trystan’s days were filled with so much nothing it was probably a miracle she had not yet lent truth to her stepmother’s stories. She was permitted to engage only in appropriately feminine activities, and sometimes reading, provided her stepmother approved of the material. Strenuous exercise (anything more taxing than a decorous stroll) was prohibited, and Trystan was rarely allowed to leave the house.

Heaving a sigh that sounded rather affected, even to her own ears, Trystan decided she might as well dress for the morning. Her plans for the day did not include moping about her bedroom in a nightgown.

As she pulled on trousers and a long woolen shirt, Trystan berated herself sternly. There was no use being maudlin. She didn’t truly need friends. And she was an adult now. A woman. She had never bothered much with other people before, and it seemed silly to start now. She should be quite self-sufficient.

But on this day, a day that should have been filled with laughter, with hope for the future, with the congratulations of loved ones, Trystan could not reason away a stinging sense of regret. It would have been nice to share the day with someone. Anyone. But even if, by some miracle, her family remembered, none of them were likely to care.

After buttoning the over-large shirt, Trystan completed her unconventional ensemble with a broad leather belt and not-quite-clean overcoat, then surveyed herself thoughtfully in the mirror. She appeared entirely disreputable, exactly as she intended. No respectable lady wore trousers, or left the house unescorted before breakfast. The combination would no doubt inspire swooning fits should her family happen to catch sight of her. Which was, unfortunately, not her intention, as attractive as she found the idea of Malisse in a dead faint.

As if on cue, the distant rattling and crunching of carriage wheels came faintly to Trystan’s ears. Despite her rather grim mood, a grin twitched at the corner of her mouth. With growing impatience, Trystan waited, until she heard the unmistakable sound of the front door opening, followed by the echo of disaffected argument.

Her family had returned to Colbourne Manor.

“… what you thought you were doing. I’m sure I never taught you such indelicate methods of securing a man’s attention.” A sweetly girlish voice cut in, over the sounds of the indeterminate squabbling that so frequently characterized Anya and Darya’s conversational exchanges.

Malisse. After an entire night of social revelry, she still managed to sound as fresh and innocent as a child escaped from the nursery. Trystan found it terribly annoying.

“Well if Darya hadn’t been behaving so scandalously, I’d have had no need, Mother,” Anya returned cuttingly. “I swear if she had a heavier fan, Lord Ervin would have a broken arm by now.”

“It’s not my fault, and anyway I wasn’t the one pretending to be ill just so Tavender would catch me, and besides, it’s none of your business what I was doing with Lord Ervin.” Darya’s whining always seemed to get worse when she was tired. And it was nearly unbearable to begin with.

“Mother, she has no right to spy on me and you said we shouldn’t encourage Lord Tavender because he’s not even the oldest, even if it was just to make the Earl jealous.”

Trystan leaned against her door and closed her eyes to enjoy the scene.

“Girls!” Malisse’s iron control slipped just a hair. “Must I remind you? Second sons are not even to be trifled with. Unless you have conceived a fondness for being considered coquettes, you will restrict your attentions to those gentlemen I have pointed out as appropriate choices. And really, need I comment on the remainder of your actions this evening?” A pause. She would be glaring down her nose, despite the fact that both her daughters towered over her. “Apparently I have failed in my duty to impress upon you both the value of subtlety in social exchanges.”

Darya’s shrill protest was likely matched by an offended look from her sister. Trystan could picture it clearly, the hand on her hip, the roll of the eye, the affronted pout. Her ear still pressed to the door, Trystan savored the sound of their disgrace with a smile on her lips.

As the bickering began by degrees to ascend the stairs, Malisse could be heard giving instructions to whoever had stayed up to admit them. Probably Hoskins, the butler. No breakfast, no noise, and luncheon in their rooms. It was perfect.

While she waited for everyone to stumble into their beds, Trystan bent down to rummage carefully under her own. Eventually, after a few muttered curses, she located her leather gloves, a crumpled and rather shapeless hat, and her riding boots, amidst a rather impressive collection of dirt, hay and other unmentionable substances which combined to produce a lingering pungency of horse. It was hardly what one would expect to find under a well-brought-up young lady’s bed, but it was really the only place Trystan had been able to think of to hide such contraband articles. The chambermaid never bothered to clean under the furniture, or Malisse might have discovered Trystan’s secret months ago.

A quick glance out the window confirmed that it was very nearly dawn. Trystan sat on her bed and watched the light grow steadily stronger as the last sounds of her family making their way to bed died into silence. Only after the silence had reigned unmolested for nearly a quarter of an hour did Trystan determine it was safe for her own day to begin.

Holding her boots in one hand, Trystan eased her door open cautiously. There was still a small chance of discovery. One of the maids might be up and about her chores early. Anya or Darya might discover a need for warm milk to put them to sleep. But in Trystan’s experience, neither of these was probable. After a long night of dissipation, it was difficult to imagine her family rousing before midday for any reason, excepting perhaps a fire. Or rodents. Or a rich, handsome suitor come to carry one of them off. None of which were likely. Unfortunately.

The house remained silent as Trystan left her room and padded down the hall, past her sisters’ bedroom doors to the stairs, keeping a wary eye out for the servants. Though most of them were unlikely to blab to their mistress about her stepdaughter’s unconventional habits, Trystan had no intention of staking her freedom on such a supposition. These stolen mornings were far too necessary to her sanity to risk them on the uncertain loyalty of anyone hired by Malisse.

The older servants were another matter, but there were so few left now. Though Trystan had rarely taken the time to notice them before her father’s death, they had since begun to seem like the only familiar objects in an unfamiliar world, the last remaining links to a happier time. It was absurd, no doubt, to find consolation in such a thing, but Trystan did not have much to choose from.

Distracted by her musings, Trystan paid too little attention to her descent and missed the last stair. Desperate to avoid a fall, she grabbed hastily for the post at the end of the bannister, but missed, and struck the ornamental knob atop the post instead. To her horror, the carved ball of mahogany was only resting there, unsecured by anything stronger than gravity and inclination. It flew off under her hand and bounced twice on the polished marble floor before caroming off the legs of a delicate enameled table. In the silent, high-ceilinged hall, the sound seemed deafening.

Someone had to have heard. Trystan covered her mouth and felt nearly sick with disappointment as she listened for any hint of approaching footsteps. If she was discovered, her chance for escape would be ruined. But before she could even begin to feel hopeful that the echoes of her disastrous misstep had been missed, a new disaster threatened: the flower-filled vase atop the abused table was teetering noticeably.

Her heart pounding in her ears, Trystan dropped her boots and leaped for the fragile piece of porcelain, struggling to swallow an undignified squeak of terror. Miraculously, she moved fast enough to catch the vase before it smashed into several million pieces, but not before it relieved itself of most of the water inside.