The Lord of Illusion - 3 (11 page)

“Very, well. Then send her in.”

Augusta nodded with relief and retreated, and Hawkes turned to Camille.

“Can you write as well as read?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good. Then you shall answer all these notes”—he looked at them in disgust—“and give your voice a rest from reading. Return to me as soon as Lady Hensby leaves.”

Camille rose. “Yes, my lord.”

“And do not look like that, Camille. I have eyes for no woman but you.”

He took her breath away when he said such outlandish things. And yet, she suddenly felt lighter, and when she saw Lady Hensby enter the apartments in all her silk and lace and rouge, she did not feel dowdy by comparison, even when the lady glanced at Camille’s refurbished clothing with a sniff of distaste.

Lady Hensby closed the bedroom door behind her.

“Well,” announced Augusta. “This shall make my duties more difficult.”

“May I help?”

The maidservant looked at Camille for the first time. Really looked at her, from head to toe. “It seems his lordship has acquired an attachment to you, and far be it from me to complain. He should have hired at least several more servants, yet refuses to do so. And I am not so proud as all the rest to deny help from a slave.”

A knock sounded at the door.

“Lud, I have broth to reheat for his lordship, but nothing fancy to serve the ladies, and I will lay odds it is another woman who has set her cap upon him.”

“Her cap?”

“Oh, aye. Viscount Hawkes has not been to court for years and has taken the ladies quite by storm. There is naught a servant I know who has not heard of how handsome, noble, and charming he is from their mistresses. And although many of them seek marriage, there are more than a few who will gladly settle for his bed.”

Camille colored.

The knock at the door sounded louder.

“We need a footman! Lud, Camille, will you run to the kitchens while I answer the calls, and fetch something fancy from the cook? Tell him it is for Viscount Hawkes and his lady friends.”

“I… yes, of course.”

“No, wait! You cannot go looking like that. You will embarrass the house. Fetch a new gown from my wardrobe; although you were right not to borrow my hoop-petticoat, for they shall all be too short otherwise. You are so tall and thin.”

A tiny man suddenly materialized before them, complete with red pointed hat and a beard that reached to his toes. He bowed. “Excuse me. Lady Windthrop is at the door and requests to be allowed entry.”

Augusta clasped a hand over her large bosom. “Now they are sending in illusions. Quick, Camille, be off with you.” And the small woman hurried to the door while Camille ran to their room and did as Augusta asked, choosing a serviceable brown serge with a white apron to cover the front of it.

By the time she entered the main withdrawing room, several ladies sat upon the velvet settees and gilt-edged chairs, eyeing one another jealously, uttering false compliments on each other’s appearance. Augusta’s thin brown hair had escaped its bun and hung about her cheeks as she bustled around the room, setting pots of tea on lace doilies.

Camille escaped into the hall with a sigh of relief. Even the dreadful tapestries woven with death scenes seemed tame in comparison to the feminine vultures within Lord Hawkes’s apartments.

He said he had eyes for no woman but her.

Camille stalked through the hallway, ignoring the dancing of the nymphs and the glorious flapping wings of the Pegasus. She had grown up in this palace of illusion. Why would she believe in the even stronger one Hawkes offered her?

What type of man would fall in love with a dream?

She took the servants’ stairs down to the kitchens. At least they offered no glamour, for the elven lord did not waste his talent upon the staff. That knot of fear that always sat coiled within her breast began to tighten. There were always soldiers in the kitchen. Her gown declared her new status, but would they honor it? Everything had happened so quickly—from misery to hope yet again—that her head still spun with the thought of it.

She stifled her fear and marched onward. She must see Molly today. Although she had nothing to pay her with as yet, she felt sure Lord Hawkes would allow her the same wages he paid Augusta, and she would soon be able to repay her fellow slave any costs she might incur. And she dare not waste any time in planning her escape.

Robinson Crusoe had liberated his slave Friday, making him an equal. And Lord Hawkes had looked at her as if she should believe in such a thing happening.

Such an altering of circumstances did not occur in real life so easily.

Still, she could not wait to go back and finish the book.

The kitchen bustled with activity, scullery maids and serving boys rushing about. A few soldiers sat at table, but when they caught sight of her, they quickly glanced away.

The knot of fear lessened.

Camille stopped to talk to Cook as he chopped onions. “Viscount Hawkes is entertaining ladies in his room. He requests luncheon for them.” She could not keep the scowl from her face at the thought of his lordship feeding the vultures, smiling that gentle smile of his all the while.

“So, ye managed to find a place upstairs yet again,” said Cook, eyes watering from his task. “Wouldna’ believed ye could do it thrice.”

“I scarcely believe it myself.”

“Well, there’s no accounting for the odd ways of the gentry. Some like ta skim the edges of society. Thrill for them, it is.”

Camille bristled. “I am not his whore, if that’s what you are implying.”

Then Cook surprised her. He actually looked frightened that he might have given offense. To a slave. “Nay, Camille. I know how it’s been with ye.” Cook briefly turned and smacked a girl for putting a finger in the pudding, then said, “We have a new slave master. Ain’t as good as the old one. Slaves don’t fear his lash as much without the magical taint of pain that used to come with it.”

So, Cook knew Camille had been the cause of the old master’s dismissal. No wonder he looked so frightened. She changed the subject, nodding at the empty table. “Where is everyone today?”

Cook jerked his head in the direction of the courtyard. “Another fight. As usual. Sounds like a good un, and I wished they’d waited until after the noon meal rush so I could watch. Ah, well. I’ll have a girl set up a tray for ye in a few minutes.”

Camille almost smiled. She had just been given the perfect opportunity to visit Molly.

But when she reached their little closet, it lay empty.

When she turned to go, Ann opened the door of her own closet and poked her head out. “Camille. If you are looking for Molly, she is out in the courtyard.”

Camille should have known. Molly never missed a good fight.

Ann’s dark brown elven eyes sparkled. Eyes that proved her link to the sovereignty of Terrahame, to the Lady Annanor with the brown scepter of the power of earth. “I heard you had come back, and then”—she snapped her fingers—“you’re right up the stairs again.” The little golem that sat on her shoulder snapped its twiggy fingers in perfect imitation of its mistress.

“I am sorry I did not get a chance to visit you, Ann. How have you been? Is there anything I could bring you?”

Ann shook her head, thick white hair sparkling with silver. She rarely left her rooms, and seemed to require nothing more than her stick-and-mud creations to keep her company. “They have nothing up
there
that I desire.”

Camille glanced at the golem on her shoulder. “Perhaps some bits of cloth to dress them? Or tiny buttons to use for eyes?”

“La, what a famous idea!” She turned her head to peer at her little man. “Would you like that, Sir Mudwise? We shall dress you up like all the fine lords of the court. How grand you will look!”

The creature could not portray an expression, but it did clap its twiggy hands, a portion of mud flaking away to fall upon Ann’s shoulder.

“I promise to bring you scraps from the sewing box the next time I come, but I do not know when that might be. Do you think you could manage to give Molly a message for me?”

The other woman nodded.

Camille huffed a breath. She would be taking a risk, but she felt the urgency to plan for her escape as quickly as possible. She feared Lord Hawkes. His gentle smiles. His talk of dreams that portended more than he would admit.

Besides, Ann could not read, nor could most of the soldiers. Still. “It is a secret message, Ann. It cannot fall into the wrong hands.”

Her eyes widened and then she… saluted. The little golem mimicked her.

“I shall be right back,” said Camille, wondering about Ann’s peculiarities, and not for the first time. The girl had escaped the cruelties of her situation by retreating into an often childlike world populated by her enchanted creations.

Camille removed the brick from the wall and took out quill, pot, and parchment, and scratched Molly a hasty note.

I need a soldier’s uniform that will not be noticed missing. I will pay. Do not take any risks. C.

Molly was too smart of a girl not to understand the implications in the message. Perhaps it had been an advantage that Camille could leave her only a letter. There would be no arguments about the foolishness of her plans.

Ann took the folded paper and handed it to the golem for safekeeping, then retreated into her room, immediately admonishing another of her creations for making a mess in her absence.

Camille entered the kitchens just as two soldiers escorted another man from the courtyard toward the stairs. She froze in place, for the man screaming curses at his escorts looked familiar. Flashes of magical illusions scattered about the heads of the soldiers: small winged creatures with jagged fangs and wicked claws, daggers of smoke and shadow, keening wraiths dancing in frenzy. But the escorts were the elven lord’s personal guards, and they possessed enchantments to protect them.

“Look, see?” screamed the man. “My magic ain’t strong enough to get past yer barriers. I tell ye I ain’t no threat to his lordship! Let me go, devil take ye!”

Camille could not remember his name, but she recognized him as the man who had set the wraiths upon her the other evening. She waited until the three of them and their magical maelstrom went up the stairs before accepting the tray of pastries and sweetmeats from Cook.

“Everybody’s scared to show a whiff of their magic,” he muttered, “since that half-blood killed the elven lord Mi’cal and stole the green scepter of Verdanthame.”

“It has made Roden of Dreamhame cautious.”

“Ha! Cautious, she says. More like a madman—go off with ye, Camille. Yer partly to blame for
that
one.” And Cook gestured toward the now-empty stairs.

“What do you mean?”

“Go ask yer new master.”

But Camille did not need to. She carried the tray slowly up the stairs, making sure she did not encounter the man and his guards again. Roden had told his court to report those who showed a marked increase in their talent, so anyone could have reported that man for testing, but Camille knew Lord Hawkes had taken revenge for her sake yet again.

He would make those who harmed her pay, trying to ensure her safety. Did he not realize what would happen when he left court? That those who suffered because of her would exact revenge?

She had made the right decision to escape as soon as possible.

By the time Camille reached the apartments, she had made another decision. Tonight she would visit Roden’s dragon, Grimor’ee. She would tell him of this strange man, and of her plans for escape, and perhaps it might help.

Not that the dragon had ever shown any interest in helping her directly. But talking with him always allowed her head to clear, to strengthen her resolve to help herself.

Grimor’ee had the oddest way of giving her courage by goading her to it. Camille had not quite decided if the dragon’s perverse nature rankled, or if he just brought out her own obstinate nature in response.

She could be sure of only one thing: the dragon kept her secrets.

At her knock, the door of the apartment flew open, and Augusta frowned at her. “Where have you been?”

“You know perfectly well—”

“Oh, aye, I’m sorry; here, let me take that.” Augusta took the tray, eyes widening as it sagged in her arms from the weight of it. She lacked the elven strength and seemed to forget Camille held it in plenty. “He has been asking for you.”

“Where are the other ladies?” asked Camille as she stepped into the now-empty apartments.

“He made them go. Well, Lady Hensby did, when she finally emerged from his room. She has a will of steel, that one. Told them all that his lordship needed his rest to recover from his ‘valorous wound,’ and if she heard of a one of them pestering him within the week, she would take them to account. None of the ladies seemed inclined to challenge her.”

Camille rather thought not. Rumor had it that Lady Hensby held the ear of Roden’s inner circle of admirers.

She half-smiled at the thought of Lady Pembridge and her gossip. It came in handy more often than not.