Traitor's Masque (21 page)

A few short moments later, Elaine Westover took her place at the side of Lady Isaura Westerby as they moved through the grand doorway and handed their invitation to the Master of Ceremonies. Elaine's artfully dressed brown ringlets bobbed in excitement as she chatted blithely with her companion, the always dignified widow Westerby. Elaine was young, pretty, and rich, and enormously pleased to be standing in the heart of Evenburg Castle awaiting her debut on this propitious evening. No one needed to know that Trystan Embrie Colbourne was hovering worriedly inside her head, wishing the night were already over.

The Grand Ballroom was indeed looking grand for the occasion. Lamps and chandeliers were ablaze, and dark green velvet draperies artfully concealed the cold stone walls, while a profusion of flowers and potted trees offered the illusion of an indoor garden. A chamber orchestra played peaceful accompaniment from a cunningly concealed loft, soft music that enhanced conversation rather than obscuring it. Elaine gazed around her with unfeigned admiration. The space had been quite adeptly arranged, with plenty of room for dancing, tables and chairs tucked neatly around the edges, all warmly lit and easily accessible. The high stone ceilings had been made to feel shorter and cozier, permitting a more festive atmosphere, despite the presence of numerous green-coated guardsmen standing about as unobtrusively as possible. The effect was very attractive, and Trystan offered mental applause to whoever had been responsible. They had done their work well, judging by the unconstrained conversation already rising around her in a persistent buzz.

There was a dais on one end of the room, directly under the musicians’ loft, but for the moment it was empty. Apparently the prince had not yet seen fit to arrive at his own ball. Well, Trystan could hardly blame him. Under the circumstances, she could easily have forgiven him for running away entirely.

Through a doorway on the other end of the ballroom appeared to be a porch, or balcony, an absolute necessity when there was to be a great deal of dancing in a crowded room. For fresh air, of course, not for clandestine meetings or romantic assignations, though Trystan had read enough novels to be amused by the sight.

Before she was quite finished getting her first, admiring look at the inside of the castle, Lady Isaura found one of her “dearest” acquaintances, and introduced Elaine to Lord and Lady Fellton, a jolly-looking round-cheeked couple with a jolly-looking round-cheeked daughter wearing puce satin and a feathered masque. Elaine was delighted to meet them and eager to discuss the forthcoming entertainment. Trystan couldn’t help wondering if the rotund pair were amongst the mysterious “they” who were sponsoring her presence at the masque.

She was doomed not to find out. Lady Isaura’s chief aim in the introduction had been to pair her with the garrulous, puce-gowned Larissa Fellton, who apparently boasted an acquaintance as large as her store of harmless prattle, which had not stopped since their introduction. The giggling debutante needed very little encouragement to put her arm through Elaine's and bear her off in the direction of refreshment and friends.

They were halted on the way by a knot of lazy-looking young men wearing half-masks, all of whom seemed vaguely amused by Larissa and not at all amused by Elaine. Several of them straightened up and tugged their cravats when she was introduced, and one of them was so forward as to kiss her hand and wink. Larissa teased them good-naturedly, but did not seem even slightly put out by their obvious admiration of her companion.

Trystan realized belatedly that Elaine was one of the very few people in the room who would not be well aware of everyone’s identity, despite their masques. What could be the point in pretending to hide when none of your fellows were fooled?

“Why, Larissa,” one of the young men simpered, which Trystan had not realized young men could do, “wherever did you find such a”—the fellow looked her up and down in a suggestive and insulting manner—“delightful new friend? I thought I was
familiar
with all the pretty girls in town.”

To Trystan’s horror, Elaine giggled flirtatiously and lowered her lashes. “But I’ve just arrived, Lord Tavender, and don’t really know anyone at all,” Elaine reminded him coyly. “Miss Fellton has promised to introduce me to everyone who matters.”

Two of the young men swelled visibly, but Lord Tavender only smirked in self-satisfaction. “Then I believe she must be finished with the introductions for the evening, aren’t you, Larissa?”

That damsel only giggled and patted his arm, still smiling, but obviously a bit confused.

At this point, Trystan decided she was done with the pretense, and regained control of her own mouth. “Actually,” she responded brightly, “we were on our way to acquire some refreshments, while we’re waiting.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I’ve been reliably informed that most of the
best
families aren’t even arrived yet.” Taking Larissa’s arm before any more words could escape, Trystan steered the other girl inexorably towards the food, leaving Lord Tavender to the disbelieving laughter of his companions.

So she had made her first enemy. Larissa was still not speaking, only staring at her in something like awe. Curiously, both circumstances made Trystan feel much better.

“Miss Westover, I don’t think anyone has ever talked to Wilfurd like that.” Larissa’s eyebrows were scrunched into a worried expression. “He won’t like it at all. Girls always flirt with him, on account of his being quite a catch, except for the ones who are too rich to even look at someone who hasn’t an estate of his own. His parents have a lot of money, even though he’s only the second son, and he knows he’s nice to look at.”

Was she concerned for Elaine or for herself? Trystan was considering an apology when Larissa giggled, her worry apparently short-lived.

“But I don’t really like him, even if I do flirt with him,” she confided. “I don’t know anyone who does. Like him, I mean.” Larissa leaned in and spoke in a loud whisper. “His friends will probably cut you something awful, you know. Partly because they do what he tells them and partly because they’re not very happy about any of this. The masque, you know.” Another giggle.

Trystan wasn’t sure how many more she could stand.

“Now you never heard this from me,” Larissa told her, trying to look conspiratorial, “but I’ve heard of at least three betrothals that have been called off since the invitations went out.”

Trystan turned to look at her companion in surprise. It seemed a foolish presumption, to throw away a certain attachment to pursue something as uncertain as royal caprice.

“I know it looks awful,” Larissa hastened to reassure her, “but we all have to do our best, you know, for our families, and Prince Ramsey is really our only chance at a crown.”

It was uttered entirely without rancor and with every evidence of conviction. Trystan was quietly appalled.

“Although,” Larissa added, as though parroting something she’d heard too many times to disbelieve, “it really is a shame. Everyone knows Prince Rowan would be a better king.”

Trystan focused on that last comment, spoken without bothering to glance around to see who might be listening. Obviously it was no secret amongst the nobility that Ramsey was not everyone’s first choice for the throne. If giggling, oblivious Larissa knew it, why bother with all the intrigue? Surely the king was aware that his nobles preferred his eldest son.

The two girls finally managed to acquire small plates of insipid edibles and small cups with what Trystan very much hoped was more than punch. They seated themselves with a few of Larissa’s other friends, three young debutantes who did not seem very interested in a country girl making her debut. Trystan was just beginning to feel comfortable being ignored when she caught sight of one of the many things she had hoped very much
not
to see during the course of the evening: her family. As if she could have avoided it—they were impossible to miss. Anya and Darya somehow managed to look smug even while wearing masques. Malisse, of course, looked stunning, in red satin with a tiny black masque that only accentuated her fair coloring. Trystan’s stepsisters wore blue dresses that matched their eyes, Anya in a gold-and-topaz masque and Darya in white, studded with tiny diamonds. Perfectly coiffed and smiling. Trystan tried not to grind her teeth.

Whatever their faults, she was honest enough to admit that the girls were beautiful. And with their impressive dowries, both enhanced by funds that should have been Trystan’s, either one of them would make a fabulous prize. Even for a prince. As much as Trystan hated to acknowledge it, Malisse was very well placed to get what she wanted out of the evening. If Trystan’s stepsisters would cooperate.

The contre dances began shortly after Malisse’s perfectly timed arrival. As neither Elaine nor Larissa was in demand as a partner, Trystan spent the first few dances passing around the margins of the room, moving from group to group in the wake of her perpetually giggling new confidante.

At first Trystan had questioned Lady Isaura’s wisdom in selecting the Fellton heiress as her companion for the evening. As time wore on, however, Trystan began to feel rather in awe of Lady Westerby’s foresight. Larissa was friends with everyone and taken seriously by no one, and her light-hearted progress through the gathered guests encompassed nearly all the families Lady Isaura had insisted were important.

Trystan chatted inanely with their daughters and flirted dutifully with their sons, all while asking wide-eyed questions about court and the royal family that escaped comment only because of her status as a slightly rustic outsider. Those she interrogated may have dismissed her as a hopeless provincial, but Trystan did not particularly care about their opinion. She would not, after all, have reason to see them again, and there was a part of her that was not quite satisfied by Lady Westerby’s explanation of the political situation.

While Trystan was really only concerned with winning her freedom, she was curious enough to wonder whether things were really as simple as her benefactress had made them out to be. Long before their circuit of the grand ballroom was complete, she was finding odd contradictions between Lady Isaura’s impassioned speeches and the common gossip.

While Lady Isaura, and indeed many others, seemed convinced that Rowan would figure as Andar's salvation, his general reputation was much harder to pin down. Of the scandal that had precipitated his fall from grace, Trystan learned nothing. When that was spoken of at all, it was obliquely, with shrugs and significant sidelong glances. Older women seemed disapproving, but resigned. Younger women seemed scandalized but fascinated. Among the men, only a few let fall any information of value, but Trystan formed the general impression that Rowan was little more than a charming and charismatic wastrel, oblivious to the attention of his father’s discontented nobles, preferring to involve himself in personal scandals rather than politics.

If that was true, it explained the disapproval of the matrons and the infatuation of girls like her sisters, but it only complicated the political question. According to both Anya and Larissa, “everyone” knew Rowan would make a better king. What, exactly, did “everyone” know that made it so obvious? Trystan had heard Prince Ramsey accused of little worse than being boring and backwards. Was dullness more to be feared in a king than dissipation?

The question continued to nag at her throughout the early hours of the evening, even as she and Larissa finally reached what seemed the end of their tour through most of the upper echelons of Andari society. Trystan’s brain was staggering beneath the weight of remembering not only her own identity, but the names and titles of everyone she had been introduced to.

She was not without her own admirers within their number, which was gratifying, despite Larissa’s warning that she would not be asked to dance until everyone had a chance to gossip thoroughly about her family and fortune. Trystan had obligingly chatted at great length about her fabricated history to anyone who would listen. By the time she rejoined Lady Isaura just before supper, Trystan had succeeded, even to that exacting woman’s standards, in establishing Elaine as a pleasant, if provincial, young woman with a small fortune, in search of entertainment after a romantic disappointment. Though pleased by her progress, Lady Isaura was still filled with instructions.

“The royal family and their intimates most likely won’t appear until after supper,” she explained, low-voiced and insistent. “That is when you will need to be more forward in conversation. Be sure you do your best to gain an introduction to the prince, or those close to him.”

Trystan avoided rolling her eyes only by calling on long practice, and by reminding herself that she would not be forced to endure instructions during dinner. Lady Isaura had insisted it would be unwise for them to be seen much together, given her known political associations. It seemed silly to Trystan, but she had learned the futility of objection, and so applied herself to remembering her table manners.

She ate little at supper, unsure of the wisdom of filling herself with rich foods before a potentially strenuous evening. If she were to be asked to dance at all, it would be better not to mix food with nerves. Practicing with Lady Isaura’s dancing master was a far different experience than navigating a crowded ballroom while wearing tight shoes and a corset. Trystan was aware that avoiding collision was typically the task of the man, but having observed the vast quantities of wine being nearly inhaled by many of her potential partners, it seemed politic to be ready for anything.