The Gypsy King (31 page)

Getting dressed was as much of a production as bathing had been, and there was no way Persephone could hide the marks on her back because she had to have her corsets tightened by someone standing behind her. However, as no one mentioned the marks, Persephone let herself hope that perhaps they hadn't been noticed—or, if they had been, that it had been assumed that she'd been beaten by her husband, a common enough occurrence among couples of all classes.

After she'd hung onto the bedpost and had Martha haul on the corset strings until she was sure she felt her ribs crack, Meeka helped her into her petticoats and then into a gown of shimmering yellow shot through with silver thread. Its generous overskirt was pinned up into deep swoops along the hem to reveal the thickly pleated ruffles of her underskirt and petticoats, its tight-fitting, lace-trimmed sleeves hung almost to her fingertips—admirably hiding her whiplash scar—and its bodice was cut so low that Persephone was afraid to breathe too deeply for fear that her dangerously straining bosom would spring free entirely.

Once she was dressed, Meena fetched a pail of warm rose water and gently bathed, oiled and dried Persephone's feet. Meanwhile, little Meeta carefully shaped and polished each of her fingernails, and Meeka combed her hair for a thousand strokes, piled it upon her head, pinned it, perfumed it and pomaded it until it was as hard as marble. When the sisters were done, Martha brought over several jars of cosmetics that she used to powder Persephone's face, rouge her cheeks, paint her lips and draw a fashionable black beauty mark on the left side of her chin. Then she helped Persephone into a pair of beribboned stockings secured high upon her thigh and slipped her feet into a pair of high-heeled dancing slippers before finally— reverently!—securing the amethyst necklace about her neck and hanging the matching earrings from her lobes.

“You look
very
fine,” breathed little Meeta, clasping her hands beneath her chin.

Martha and Meena nodded their agreement, as did Meeka, who added, “No one would ever know you for anything other than the great noblewoman you are.”

Although this statement felt alarmingly close to an accusation, Persephone could think of nothing to do but ignore it. “Thank you,” she said primly.

“You're welcome,” replied Meeka. “Now, would you like to do some needlepoint while you wait for my Lord Regent to collect you?”

“Needlepoint?” said Persephone blankly as Meena bobbed a curtsey and hurried off.

“Yes,” said Meeka as Meena reappeared carrying an enormous basket full of colourful yarns and fine threads.
“Knowing how ladies of your station adore passing the time knitting socks and embroidering cushions and the like, my Lord Regent has kindly provided you with all the tools of your noble craft.”

“Oh,” said Persephone, whose sewing experience was limited to resentfully stitching up the torn seams of the owner's dirty pants. “Well, uh.…”

“Oooooh and
look
!” squealed Meeta, snatching up a square of white silk. “I daresay my Lord Regent has given you one of his very own handkerchiefs to embroider!”

“A great honour,” observed Martha with apparent reverence.

“Indeed,” said Persephone, who wondered how the Regent was going to like his handkerchief when she gave it back to him covered in great, uneven stitches, ugly knots and loose threads. “In fact, it is
such
an honour that I believe I shall this very minute go for a walk in the garden that I might find inspiration for a design.”

And also a way over the castle walls
, she added silently,
for with the Regent taking such care to ensure that I spend my time engaging in activities appropriate for “my station,” it may be harder than I expected to find an excuse to go into the city.

“Actually, m'lady—” began Martha.

“While I'm gone, why don't you and the others help yourselves to something to eat?” called Persephone as she strode briskly toward the door, her skirts and petticoats swishing deliciously with each step. “After all, I should not like to disappoint the kitchen staff by sending any of the dishes back other than picked clean.”

Certain that the prospect of dining from her table
would keep Martha and the sisters well occupied while she attempted to flee the palace, Persephone smiled inwardly at her own cleverness, flung open the door and screamed shrilly as a pair of ferocious-looking guards spun around to fill the doorway, the tips of their deadly poleaxes mere inches from the tip of her nose.

“M'lady?” one of them grunted.

Making a noise that sounded very much as though she was leaking air, Persephone smiled weakly and slowly closed the door.

Martha cleared her throat. “What I was going to say just now, m'lady, was that a walk in the garden was likely not possible seeing how my Lord Regent posted guards outside your door. You know,” she added hastily, “to ensure that no one enters without permission.”

Or leaves without permission
, thought Persephone. “That was very kind of him,” she said, trying not to sound as anxious as she felt.

“Yes,” said Meeka, reaching for another sweet bun. “Wasn't it just?”

While Martha and the others ate their fill of sweet buns and everything else, Persephone paced the chamber floor, trying to think of a way past the guards—or at least a way to retrieve her dagger from beneath the loose floorboard without Martha and the sisters noticing. Unfortunately, after only a short while pacing in her lovely new high-heeled dancing slippers, she had blisters the size of
cockroaches on both heels and was forced to sit down. Thereafter, she divided her time between listening to the noisy racket of many hammers banging away in a nearby courtyard, wondering aloud when the Regent would come for her, making excuses as to why she was not indulging in the adored noble pastime of needlework and limping over to the open window to scan the crowded cobblestone streets beyond the palace walls for a glimpse of Azriel and the others. It would not have done them a great deal of good to be seen, but it would have brought Persephone a great deal of comfort to know that they yet lived.

But only once did she see anything that held the hope of comfort—a single, fleeting vision of a tall, broad-shouldered man who might have been Azriel. He had his head down as he made his way slowly through a distant market square, and he appeared to be alone. Heart pounding wildly, Persephone leaned halfway out the window and stared so hard that her eyes began to water.

Just then, the man stopped abruptly, lifted his head and seemed to return Persephone's stare. Unfortunately, her eyes were so watery by that point that she could not get a good look at him, and when she blinked to clear her eyes, he was gone.

By mid-afternoon the hammering outside finally stopped. A short while later, a herald showed up to announce the imminent arrival of the Regent. At once, Martha and the sisters fell upon Persephone—dousing her with perfume,
fixing her makeup, checking her hair and helping her on with her gloves. Meeka even offered to stuff some wadding down the backs of her slippers to give some relief to her poor, blistered heels. She was still on her hands and knees making sure that the wadding didn't show when there came another knock at the door.

At the sound, Persephone started so badly that she nearly put the delicate heel of her slipper through Meeka's hand.

“Sorry!” she blurted as Meeta scampered across the room to open the door.

“No worries,” whispered Meeka. “Try not to be nervous, m'lady. You look well—just watch the others, do as they do and you'll be fine.”

Persephone looked sharply at the girl, but Meeka had already hastened to take her place against the wall next to Martha and Meeta.

And then the chamber door was flung open and there stood the Regent Mordecai, resplendent in a long velvet robe trimmed in white fox fur and of a colour that would have been called purple if he'd been king.

Head held high with obvious effort, he shuffled into the room.

“Lady Bothwell,” he breathed, inclining his head without taking his eyes off her.

“Your Grace,” she replied with a deep curtsey.

“You look … much improved this day,” he said.

“I do not believe that I have ever before so appreciated a hot bath, a fine meal and a good night's sleep in a warm bed,” she said truthfully.

Mordecai's dark eyes gleamed. “And I trust that you were not offended that I took the liberty of sending you a few things of my own careful choosing?” he asked, gesturing to her ensemble.

Persephone flushed at the thought that the Regent had
personally
selected her clothing—probably from among the poor dead queen's pillaged belongings—and that his gnarled hands had touched the very undergarments she currently wore next to her skin. “No, of course I wasn't offended that you sent me things,” she said, trying not to shudder. “It was … most kind of you.”

Mordecai smiled broadly, showing his beautiful teeth. Then he shuffled forward some more until he was standing directly before Persephone.

“And this,” he said huskily as he reached out and slipped his cold fingers beneath the amethyst that hung about her throat. “You were not offended that I sent you
this
?”

Persephone hesitated, sensing that she was about to make a misstep but not knowing exactly what it was or how to avoid it. “No,” she said at last. “I was not offended.”

The Regent sighed softly. “Excellent,” he breathed. Then, with a quiet grunt of effort, he held out his arm to her and said, “Now we must depart, for the spectacle I promised shall shortly commence, and I would not have you miss a moment of it.”

“That is most thoughtful of you,” murmured Persephone as she gingerly laid her hand upon his trembling arm.

“Yes,” mused Mordecai as he led her from the room. “It is, isn't it?”

TWENTY-FOUR

M
ORDECAI WALKED THROUGH the corridors in a calm silence that was at odds with the tumult erupting inside of the Regent. He felt like a boy! Not like the boy he'd actually been, of course—sickly, twisted, ridiculed and reviled by strangers and family alike—but like a vital, healthy boy, full of energy and optimism! The feel of Lady Bothwell's arm resting lightly upon his own arm was as tender as a caress, and the way she effortlessly moved beside him somehow—miraculously!—made his awkward, uneven gait seem almost graceful. Not only that, but she'd
deliberately
mentioned how warm her bed was, and she'd accepted his gift of jewellery without a single word of protest that it was unseemly for a married woman to accept such intimate gifts from a man other than her husband. Why, it was tantamount to accepting him as a lover—or at least as a
potential
lover. True, he'd given such gifts to noblewomen in the past only to have his subsequent advances rebuffed, but Lady Bothwell did not seem the type. Somehow, she was different
than those other sows had been—more genuine and at the same time, more mysterious. Certainly more hotblooded. He'd seen her flush when he'd mentioned having had a hand in choosing her things, as though she, too, had felt the intimacy of the act. He wondered how she'd react if she knew how he'd rubbed the silky, rose-scented undergarments against his cheek, and how he'd held up each item to better picture it hugging the soft, firm flesh of the young queen to whom it had once belonged—and of the young woman who presently wore it. The thought almost made Mordecai giggle aloud—or might have, if he'd been a man predisposed to giggling.