Traitor's Masque (26 page)

Lord Seagrave saw him and froze, every muscle tense, his teasing good humor replaced by disbelief, anger, and palpable dislike. He also made an almost imperceptible move to push Trystan behind him. She was peering over his shoulder at the crowd when he looked back at her with a question in his eyes.

“You called, Miss Westover?” He raised an eloquent brow. “A malevolent spirit indeed.”

Trystan could only return his look, numb with surprise. “Perhaps what you meant to say,” she answered, when she finally found her voice, “is ‘be careful what you wish for.’”

Lord Seagrave only grimaced in agreement. Trystan found it interesting, if not surprising, to discover such hostility between the heir’s friend and his brother. She found it much more than interesting that Kyril’s first instinct had been to put himself between her and Rowan. As if to shield her from something. Something he didn’t wish her to see, or something he didn’t wish to see her?

Everyone in the room was conscious of the exact moment the royal brothers became aware of each other. Prince Ramsey stopped dancing to look at the prodigal with an unreadable expression, while his partner hung on his arm with obvious dismay, looking from one face to the other. Rowan, on the other hand, advanced into the room like the tide, smiling and holding out his arms to his much shorter brother, who now looked nothing if not drab by comparison.

“Ramsey, what is this?” Rowan appeared genuinely surprised. “Seems a bit too lively for one of your parties!” He turned to gaze admiringly about the room. “Most of Evenleigh is here! There’s even music, and dancing! Have you finally learned to enjoy life, while I’ve been away? I’ve come to expect your entertainments to feature more books than beautiful women!” He paused a moment to laugh at his own wit, prompting a few sickly sounding chuckles from the otherwise silent onlookers. “It seems that my invitation to these festivities has gone astray. Perhaps it missed me as I travelled back from the country, eh?” He clasped Ramsey’s shoulders in good-humored camaraderie. “No harm done, though, brother! I seem to have arrived in time for the best part.” He released Ramsey, who had grown noticeably stiff and silent, and bowed to the crowd. “And if the young ladies will forgive my riding dress and muddy boots, I would like nothing better than to join the celebration without delay!”

Rowan looked back at his brother. “I do understand correctly that this is a celebration? Of your upcoming wedding?” His smile grew even more angelic. “Then I will be sure not to distract you from the vitally important task of choosing a bride! Go on then! Don’t let my humble presence disturb you.” He gestured to the musicians in the gallery, waved commandingly at the couples who had been standing like stones since his arrival, and, within the space of only a few moments, both took command and made himself at home in the midst of his brother’s ball.

Trystan watched this little drama from the sidelines, still tucked behind Lord Kyril’s shoulder, with a mixture of revulsion and admiration. It had been a masterful performance. Rowan had taken advantage of his surprising entrance, superior height and polished address to completely overwhelm the room with very little effort. Even Trystan could note that all eyes now tracked his movements, rather than Ramsey’s. The dancing may have continued, but it was half-hearted. Everyone’s attention was divided. Some, Trystan saw, were watching after the elder prince with hard, angry expressions. Prince Ramsey was not, then, entirely without partisans. Others looked calculating; still others, voracious. No one knew what was about to happen, and no one wanted to be left out of whatever it was.

Trystan risked a look at her partner. “You know,” she whispered under her breath, “if you continue to wear that expression, the guards will be forced to arrest you for attempted murder.”

Lord Seagrave started, and glanced at her as though he had forgotten she existed. He probably had. His answering smile was both apology and dismissal. “I regret, Miss Westover, that our conversation and our waltz have been spoiled in such a spectacular fashion.” He lifted her gloved hand and kissed it gallantly. “But I’m afraid I must beg your indulgence and offer my sincere hopes that fate will permit us to make another attempt at a later time.”

Trystan did not feel inclined to cavil. “I thank you, Lord Seagrave, for the honor and the pleasure.” She curtsied with grave propriety and left the floor, feeling that her partner’s distraction was entirely understandable.

And quite welcome, as it permitted her to turn her thoughts in other directions. First, why had Lady Isaura left the ball? Her timing had been bizarre and her behavior inexplicable. After keeping such a close eye on Trystan all evening, why would she simply abandon her before the most important part of the evening? Lady Isaura did not seem the sort of person to be overwhelmed by a simple headache. Unless, perhaps, something had gone wrong with the plan.

Had they been discovered and Trystan left behind to take the fall? Or had Lady Isaura managed to obtain the message after all without needing Trystan’s help? It would certainly be convenient, but seemed unlikely. Apparently, Trystan thought bitterly, the mysteries she presently had to contend with were not enough. And just as apparently, she was going to have to muddle through them on her own.

Lady Fellton seemed to have completely disappeared, showing few signs of being concerned with the possibility that her new charge might be inclined to behave scandalously. Larissa? Trystan searched the refreshment tables, the walls, everywhere, and eventually spotted her dancing—with none other than Prince Ramsey. He must have changed partners when Rowan took it upon himself to re-start the music.

Trystan smiled to herself at the sight. Larissa did not appear to be stepping on anyone’s feet, despite her voluble misgivings, though her eyes did roll a bit wildly at every turn about the room. Hopefully Larissa would be able to remember what Prince Ramsey talked about, as Trystan was certain Lady Fellton would be demanding a full report.

She did not have time to notice much more. The steward applied to her for another introduction, after which point the honor of dancing with her grew to be quite a popular one. She was passed from partner to partner, all of whom were interested to a varying degree in what she had talked about with Lord Seagrave. No one seemed interested in speculating about the motives behind Prince Rowan’s spectacular entrance. Frustrated by the failure of her own attempts to discover anything meaningful, Trystan subjected her partners to meandering answers to their queries, leaving most of them with the impression that she and Lord Seagrave had spent their waltz discussing camels.

After nearly an hour, Trystan could no longer manage to feel much of anything beyond disappointment and fatigue. She wished the ball would simply end. There was no way to know when Lady Isaura’s shadowy contact might slip her the message, but surely they did not expect her to wait until dawn. It was already past her bedtime.

Trystan retreated again to the balcony, where she found an empty bench and claimed it with a yawn. Her feet hurt, her ribs hurt, even her face hurt from the chafing of the mask. One of those, at least, she could remedy.

Under the concealing volume of her skirts, she used her toes to remove both shoes and stretched out those offended digits with a groan. If all dancing shoes were that tight, it was a wonder any of the other girls still had feet.

She had one shoe back on and was searching for the other with her foot when a tall, masculine figure approached her bench. Trystan meant to warn him off and insist that she was resting, not looking for company, but the words died in her mouth as she looked up and saw that the figure bearing down on her was none other than a warmly smiling Prince Rowan.

Who apparently even looked good in the moonlight.

“Your Highness,” she managed to say, and tried to rise so she could curtsey properly, but found she was standing on her skirts and still missing a shoe. She tripped, and would have fallen, had the prince not caught her arm and lowered her back onto the bench with a look of solicitude.

“Please, do not concern yourself with courtesies,” he said quickly. “Are you injured?”

Trystan laughed in spite of herself.

“No, Your Highness, I assure you, it’s only that I seem to have… um… misplaced my shoe.”

An expressive face turned towards her and brightened in a burst of infectious laughter.

He really was beautiful, Trystan realized. His eyes, his hair, his teeth—all perfect. His voice was like butter and his laugh was like sunshine. A peerless golden prince, sitting next to her, offering sympathy with a smile. It was no wonder people were starting riots in his defense. He was positively overwhelming in person.

“Please,” he offered, “allow me to help.”

Trystan tried half-heartedly to protest, but he managed to shift her flowing skirts to one side long enough to locate the offending dancing slipper. Kneeling in front of the bench while holding it out, he obviously intended to put it back on her foot himself. It was extremely forward, highly improper, and Trystan knew very well she ought to say no. Somehow the gleam in his eye over-ruled her and she began to put her foot out, but before she could, one of his hands slipped beneath the trailing edges of her skirt and found it himself. Shocked, Trystan could only stare at him as he used the other hand to gently replace her slipper, lingering a bit as he did so, never taking his gleaming eyes from hers.

It was a mesmerizing performance. So mesmerizing that Trystan had risen and accepted his arm, as well as his invitation to dance, before she realized that her shoe now contained something besides her foot.

The dance was a simple one and thankfully did not require much concentration, as Trystan had none to give it. She was twirling about the room in the arms of the enigmatic Prince Rowan, a strange and scandalous creature who might be Lady Isaura’s mysterious contact. She could feel the pressure of jealous regard from nearly every girl in the room. She wondered too about another set of eyes, and whether they were watching. What Donevan might be thinking about his brother’s choice.

Rowan was watching her closely as they danced, with a concentrated attention that might have confused onlookers into believing it was romantic interest. Trystan could see his eyes. They were now more calculating than warm.

“Your Highness,” she managed, “I find myself surprised that a newcomer to your court would merit your attention.”

Rowan’s expression did not change. “Then you know little of court, Miss Westover, first that you call it mine, and second that you are surprised.”

“Oh, I think I have its measure well enough,” Trystan responded, surprising even herself. “It is yours that seems to elude me.” Despite her uneasiness, she found she was unwilling to be intimidated.

“And by what standard would you measure me, Miss Westover?” The prince raised one elegant eyebrow, even as he spun her through a flawless turn. “I confess I frequently find myself confused by the scope of my own reputation.”

“How very strange!” Trystan allowed her eyes to widen expressively behind her masque. “It seems we have something in common.”

Rowan’s steps seemed to quicken a trifle, though his face betrayed nothing. “How tragic for both of us, then,” he said blandly, “that it is my brother’s reputation in question this evening, and not my own.”

Trystan managed to meet his eyes levelly. “As you have said, I know little of court,” she replied, “but I have a strong impression that you may be mistaken.” Taking another step out on the limb, she continued: “This evening seems to have everything to do with your reputation.”

Rowan’s hand tightened almost imperceptibly around hers, and his arm around her waist seemed made of steel as it drew her closer. “What a clever little mouse my lady has sent me!” His mocking voice sent shivers down Trystan’s back. “But not too clever.”

“How would you know that, Your Highness?” Trystan was too curious not to take the bait.

He leaned even closer, dancing as though entranced by her nearness, and breathed his answer into her ear. “You are dancing with me.”

Trystan drew back as far as his arm would permit, her body tense with a sudden premonition of danger. Was he trying to warn her? Or perhaps just frighten her enough that she would stop asking questions? Could she have put herself at risk by allowing him to single her out so publicly? Or did he simply enjoy being annoyingly mysterious? She would have pulled her hand from his in the middle of the dance, had he not grasped her even tighter.