Traitor's Masque (20 page)

“We wanted that for you. Both of you. Everything in life—even the terrible, painful things—becomes easier when you stand next to someone who truly knows you and cares for you anyway.” His lips trembled with long-suppressed emotion. “Son, I want you to choose someone you can love. I know your advisors will tell you many things, about dowry, property, even
fertility
… may the gods spare you from that discussion! But I hope you will put those things aside. Outside of your heart, only the law matters. As long as you choose a woman of good reputation, who is a legitimate daughter of landed parents, the law, your councilors, even your critics must be content.”

Ramsey was surprised and nearly moved to tears of his own. His father had been the most aggravating proponent of his marriage for the past five years. He would never have thought to look there for support in his search for a kindred mind and heart.

Acting solely on impulse, Ramsey did what he had not dared since he was a very small boy: crossed the room and wrapped his arms around his father’s shoulders. The hand that was not grasping a cane came to rest on Ramsey’s arm, and when he finally broke the embrace, Ramsey felt oddly comforted knowing that the king would be his ally when he made his choice. They could force him to get married, but perhaps he could still find it in him to hope that no one could force him into a life of misery.

A few hours later, as the sun was setting, a nervous and grim-looking Prince Ramsey emerged from his rooms to oversee the final preparations for the evening’s entertainment.

He did not doubt the ability of the palace staff to follow their instructions. Lizbet had been his proxy for most of the arrangements and she was almost dazzlingly competent, especially when it came to the details that most people would overlook. But sitting in his rooms fiddling with his clothes was beginning to make him contemplate throwing himself off a balcony, so he left in search of someone to order around. Of course, he ran directly into Kyril, who was loitering in the hall waiting for him.

“Just shut up,” Ramsey growled warningly at the impeccably decked out younger man, whose insouciant grin promised at the very least a lengthy assessment of Ramsey’s personal style. “One word out of your mouth and I’ll go find an oubliette just so I can lock you up in it.”

Kyril threw a companionable arm around his friend’s shoulders. “I’m crushed,” he intoned mournfully. “I’ve sacrificed my entire evening just to support my dearest friend in his quest for matrimonial bliss and all he can do is threaten me with torture. I wasn’t even going to tell him that his black formal coat looks entirely too grim for the occasion. Or that he forgot to comb his hair.”

Ramsey put him in a headlock.

“All right, all right,” Kyril yelped in indignation. “I promise not to flirt any more than usual. And to say nice things about you at every opportunity!”

Ramsey snorted and let him go. “I’ve never asked you to lie for me, Kyril.”

“I’ve never offered,” his friend retorted. “Seriously, brother,” Kyril said in a far more sober tone, “you know I’m here for you. Whatever you need, say the word. I’ll even offer to distract interfering potential mothers-in-law so you can whisk their starry-eyed daughters into quiet corners for romantic kisses.”

Ramsey rolled his eyes, but with more relief than rancor. He could always count on Kyril to lighten the mood. It was probably why they were such good friends. One of them was too serious, the other never serious enough.

“Your job is simple, my friend,” said Ramsey with a heartfelt sigh. “If you see a smart one, don’t let her get away.”

Kyril favored him with a mock-salute. “Anything else, Your Highness?”

“If you see Rowan, stuff him in the moat,” Ramsey suggested.

Kyril grinned. “You don’t have a moat.”

“Dig one then.”

Kyril bowed deferentially. “Of course, Your Gracefulness. I’ll go get my shovel, shall I?”

Even Ramsey could spare a smile for the appealing thought of Rowan soaked and spluttering. Even if one of the main points of the evening was that the elder prince not be there at all.

“You know, Kyril,” Ramsey suggested, in a deceptively off-handed tone, “I see no reason why you shouldn’t keep your own eyes open, just as long as marriage is in the air.”

Kyril’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Every eligible woman in the kingdom is going to be parading through the palace tonight,” Ramsey continued, “and you might as well take advantage of the opportunity to find one for yourself.”

“Hah.” Kyril barked a sharp laugh. “I’m no such fool. My father is too busy to push me into matrimony. And besides”—he glanced sideways at Ramsey—“we wouldn’t want any confusion. If both of us eminently eligible young fellows fell for the same girl, she would probably go into a decline for fear of making the wrong choice.”

Ramsey raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see the problem.”

“Your crown or my dashing good looks and winning personality,” Kyril supplied helpfully. “Do you really want to put some poor girl through that sort of dilemma?”

“The only dilemma I see,” Ramsey grumbled, “is whether you deserve thumbscrews or the rack.”

Kyril showed no indication that he took the threat seriously. “You wouldn’t put me on the rack,” he asserted cheerfully, “it would spoil my perfectly pleasing physical proportions.”

“Precisely,” Ramsey shot back, his heart noticeably lightened. As he knew Kyril had intended. “Thank you, brother,” he added, more seriously, as they neared the bustling corridors around the hall where the masque was to take place. “You know I—”

Kyril cuffed him lightly on the back of the head.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I know.”

Not so very far away, Trystan stood silent and still in front of the mirror that graced the front hall of Westhaven. In the reflection, her dress and hair perfect, her masque in place, the slender dark-haired girl appeared fully prepared for her court debut.

The mirror lied.

Trystan barely recognized herself. It wasn’t just the silk dress or the expensive jewelry, or even the unfamiliar sight of dark brown hair. Even less familiar were the knots of tension that snarled in her stomach, ached between her eyes and made her hands shake in their constricting elbow-length gloves. She was used to being angry, sad, or even just plain afraid. There had never been much opportunity to experience nerves.

Lady Isaura had grown increasingly petulant and difficult to please as their preparations had drawn to a close. She was never quite happy with Trystan’s progress, and certainly seemed displeased whenever Trystan expressed an interest or opinion about the more political aspects of her undertaking. Any questions about the message she was to retrieve were met with stony silence, until Trystan felt as trapped in her assumed role as she did in her incredibly tight dress.

Endless instructions chased each other around her head. Her memory was beginning to fail her on key persons and associations. She needed air and a drink, but she suspected that any attempt to breathe or imbibe would cause her stays to explode.

And the hour of doom had arrived in spite of her. A uniformed footman approached, bearing a long, hooded cloak which he placed carefully about her shoulders. As Trystan adjusted the fit, Lady Isaura descended the stairs, looking regal, impeccable and implacable in a deep purple gown and black masque to indicate her widowhood. Trystan managed to hold her breath while she was examined from head to toe.

“You look well, but I hope you intend to stop shaking,” Lady Isaura noted disapprovingly. “Confidence is absolutely essential.”

“Yes, Lady Westerby,” was all the reply Trystan could trust herself to make. Any more and she might have to breathe. Far too soon, the coach was at the door. They were assisted into it by a pair of footmen and the door closed behind them with a very final-sounding thud.

Trystan tried not to think about the consequences of what she was about to do. She was beautifully dressed, on her way to a royal ball to dance with a prince. It could be enormously entertaining. If only she hadn’t begun to wonder whether it might also be betrayal.

 
Chapter 7
 

Lady Isaura had not wanted to be early. It wouldn’t do to seem eager, she said. So they arrived at the castle just after full dark, in the midst of a vast press of coaches, sedan chairs and horse-drawn vehicles of every description. Lady Isaura’s footman handed them down with punctilious formality into a sea of silks and satins that reflected the wavering light from what seemed to Trystan to be thousands of torches. The final stretch of road to the castle had been lined with them, the gate and the bailey were apparently ringed with flames, and the great hall where they entered seemed to flicker with shadows. Fire shot through the gems on dresses and masques, and made each pair of eyes seem somehow threatening.

Trystan walked a little behind Lady Isaura as they passed under the arch and inside the castle, hoping not to be crushed by the press of others arriving at the same time. Trystan was not, by nature, a retiring person, but she had learned caution, and had no desire to put herself forward until she had an opportunity to observe the behavior of others. It would not do to assume that everyone else in the room would be as foolish as her stepsisters. A bit of observation would help her find her feet… but a fierce pinch under her arm interrupted these sober plans.

“You are supposed to be a provincial heiress looking for excitement, not a country miss cowering behind her chaperone’s skirts,” hissed Lady Isaura in her ear. “If you cannot strive for presence, we might as well go home!”

Trystan swallowed an ill-judged retort and concentrated on breathing instead.

“Once we get inside the Grand Ballroom I will be introducing you to some of my friends. I trust you plan to appear more as though you’re looking forward to the evening and less as if you expect to be murdered.” Lady Isaura paused for a moment. “And remember, your contact will find you. Your task is to behave naturally and ensure that the message is not discovered.”

Trystan nodded, trying to focus on her true purpose and, to a point, failing.

She was a bit disappointed in herself. Even Malisse had never made her feel this way—pressed, crushed, and utterly bewildered by the sounds and sensations of being surrounded by people. She needed courage. A friendly face would have been her first choice, but she was all too aware there would be none of those this evening. As her second choice, she slipped her hand into the pocket beneath her voluminous skirt and closed her fingers around the tiny horse. It was warm, and as she clutched it, she could almost believe it was truly a talisman. Almost believe there was something to Donevan’s tale of magic. The shape of it beneath her fingers reminded her fiercely of Andrei and Alexei, of Hoskins and Beatrice and Farley. Of all the people she could help and protect if she was successful tonight. This was no longer just about her, but about the people she claimed as her own. Her friends.