Traitor's Masque (23 page)

Trystan turned and walked away, through a crowd of milling people, mostly parents conversing in frustrated tones with their complaining daughters. When she reached the opposite side of the room, she ducked around some potted trees, pulled aside one of the green velvet curtains and walked between it and the wall until she reached the end of the ballroom closest to the balcony. Glancing behind her for pursuit and seeing none, Trystan slipped outside, strangling a groan of relief at the relative coolness and quiet. She could still hear the sounds of the ball, but they seemed muted by the dark, and not as threatening.

There were benches on the balcony, mostly unoccupied at the moment due to the furor inside, and Trystan appropriated the one farthest from the open ballroom doors. She plopped down defiantly in the middle of it, hoping to warn off any unwary persons who chose to interpret her solitude as an invitation. If anyone approached her she would probably punch them.

So he was here after all. Donevan. Prince Ramsey. The heir to the throne. The man she had called a prat, who had held her filthy boot in his hand, who had given her his coat and sworn she was not alone… this was the man who would one day be king. Well, unless Lady Isaura had anything to say about it.

Trystan could blame herself for not having guessed, but she would rather blame her stepsisters and their friends. Either they were blind or they were all prodigious liars. Donevan was neither boring nor remotely ugly. It seemed exceedingly odd to Trystan that no one managed to describe him accurately.

It was not, however, odd enough to distract her from the miserable irony of her situation. Her secret friend, a man she had grown to like and respect, had turned out to be the prince. And she was here, at his masqued ball, a mysterious stranger wearing a beautiful dress. If this had been a story, she would simply walk inside, dance one dance, fall in love, marry her prince and be happy forever. Except, of course, this was not a story, and she had not gone to the ball to marry the prince but to betray him.

It was an ugly word, betrayal, but Trystan could no longer deny that it fit. Nor could she truly deny that she had known it all along. But now, the object of her betrayal had not just a name but a face—a familiar face that forced her to confront the depth of her own foolishness.

She had convinced herself that her task that night would be simple. Even meaningless. Whatever was going to happen would happen anyway, with or without her, and no one need ever know of her part in it. No one would be hurt; well, no one who mattered, and certainly no one Trystan knew. It had seemed such a small price to pay for her independence.

It had been too great a temptation, and in her frantic haste to grasp that impossible prize, Trystan had refused to face her own doubts. She had recognized that the task was too simple and the rewards too great and then chosen to ignore her own warnings. She had foreseen the possibility that Lady Isaura might be using her and decided not to care. In the end, the people Trystan cared about would be safe. The people who might be hurt were not her problem.

But that was no longer true. How could she pretend even for a moment that it didn’t matter if she hurt Donevan? How could she blithely betray a man who had shown her only warmth and courtesy when she was nothing to him but a nameless acquaintance? And if she could not betray him, could not go through with her purpose for being there, what in all the hells
was
she going to do?

Trystan did not really even know where to start. She sat on her bench in the dark feeling shattered, crushed, and bewildered, listening with only half an ear to the dancing music that continued to play, and the inane chatter of the other guests that filtered out into the night. For everyone else, nothing had changed. The ball went on, dancing and flirting went on. Several couples, oblivious to the presence of anyone else, strolled about the balcony or leaned on the balustrade, each pair content with the company and conversation of one another. Trystan watched them, jealous of their closeness. Coveting the certainty of someone she could trust with her whole miserable, foolish story, someone who would then hug her and laugh and tell her what to do.

She was in desperate need of advice. More than anything else, she wanted to ask Donevan… no, Ramsey, to give her that advice. She knew he would be honest, that she could trust him to tell her the truth about anything. Which was, of course, the problem.

The truth, in this case, was that she had done something unforgivable, and if he ever found out, he would hate her. Even the thought twisted like a knife in Trystan’s chest. Better that she never speak to him again, never even see him again, than to have him look at her with loathing in his eyes.

But neither could she go to him and not tell him any of it. Pretend she had been Embrie all along. That Elaine was simply a game she was playing. Even if he never found out what she had promised to do, it would look as though she had pretended to be someone she was not in order to attract his attention. In order to become a more fitting bride for a prince who could not afford a scandal.

And, of course, he would learn the truth eventually, whether the truth about her attempted betrayal, or the truth about herself: Trystan Embrie Colbourne, a fatherless, dowerless, social outcast. If Trystan did not tell him, Malisse would be sure to do so, including whatever details she thought would serve to separate her stepdaughter from any hope of happiness.

No, her friendship with Donevan was over, and it hurt, that recognition, in a way that nothing, not even her father's death, had hurt her before. Trystan acknowledged the hurt even as she shied away from the reason for it, even as she forced her heart to accept that whatever was between them had been doomed from the start. And if it hadn’t been, she had destroyed it with her own hand the moment she agreed to Lady Isaura’s plan.

Eyes burning suddenly behind her masque, Trystan rose from the bench and walked the edge of the balcony, staring fixedly into the dark, willing the tears not to fall. She could admit now to a hope, one so secret she had barely admitted it to herself, that there might be something between her and Donevan beyond friendship. That once she was her own mistress, with a home and a respectable dowry, she might seek him out. But that was before she had known who he was. Now she knew that it would have been too late. He would be married. To one of those girls in there who would never stop comparing him to his brother.

Which, really, was the problem at the heart of this entire unspeakable disaster. Everyone seemed to want to compare the two princes, and Ramsey was always the one who suffered for it. What was it about Ramsey’s mysterious brother that caused so many people to overlook the scandals and ignore the fact that the elder prince seemed to care even less about politics than he did his own reputation?

Everyone in Trystan’s life wanted to claim that Ramsey would make a poor king. But the man she knew cared about his people. He cared about his duties, even the boring ones, and yes, probably even the paperwork. And what, Trystan now wanted to know, was so wrong with that? More importantly, what was so wrong with it that half the kingdom would prefer to be ruled by his irresponsible older brother?

Trystan realized that she no longer just
wanted
to know the answers to her questions, she
needed
to know. She could not continue to charge forward blindly without some guide beyond vague, secondhand impressions. Personal ambition was no longer enough. She had to make certain of Lady Isaura’s motivations. If the older woman's observations and fears were accurate, Trystan needed to understand why they didn't match her own.

And if they were not accurate, if Lady Isaura had lied, Trystan realized with a chill that there could be far more riding on her own actions than she had assumed possible. Not to mention there had proven to be far more to lose than she had ever stood to gain.

At about that same time, in the warm, fire-lit sitting room of Lady Lizbet Norelle, a handful of people sat poring over fifty hand-written sheets of paper. Lizbet sat next to her husband, Count Caspar Norelle, an older man who had been one of the king’s most trusted and valuable advisors over the years. Together, they boasted a formidable knowledge of the kingdom and its most influential people, and Ramsey trusted them implicitly.

Brawley, looking ill-at-ease, sat across from them. In addition to his keen ability to judge the political climate, as an armsman, Brawley was often ignored by people who considered his station beneath them. He had been standing in corners unseen for years and probably knew as much unpleasant gossip as a chambermaid.

Next to Brawley sat Kyril, serious for once. As a youthful member of the nobility and a notable flirt, Kyril was acquainted with nearly all of the girls downstairs to a degree that Ramsey could not hope to better. And while he might flirt outrageously, Kyril had proven a shrewd judge of people and their motives. Between the five of them, Ramsey hoped to single out five to ten candidates that might not drive him to insanity within a year of their marriage.

Lizbet had already rejected a number of girls based on her own information. There were four who had broken engagements when they learned of the masque. Three whose scandalous relationships with various unsuitable persons had been a matter of gossip for years.

Brawley offered a list of young women whose parents were vocal and possibly seditious supporters of the movement to place Rowan on the throne, and though Ramsey thought it might not be entirely fair to reject a girl for her parents’ politics, he accepted Brawley’s recommendations.

Kyril was, perhaps, the most useful. He knew better than any of them what sort of girl his friend needed, and was able to disqualify quite a number of them on the basis of character and personality.

When they had finished this initial sorting, only about twenty applications were left. These they settled in to read, not without an occasional strangled laugh from Kyril.

“Well, brother, you can take heart,” he noted cheerfully. “There’s fifty girls downstairs and they’ve all accepted your proposal. Can’t find a single one who says she doesn’t want to marry you!”

“Actually,” Lizbet broke in, “I did find an odd one here who isn’t sure. Kyril, what do you know about an Elaine Westover?”

Kyril’s brow furrowed in thought. “I’m not sure I’ve ever met her. Is she new?”

Lizbet nodded, looking pensive. “My sources say she’s from the northern border. Father made his money in timber. Her parents are dead, so she’s guesting with Lady Westerby.”

Brawley looked up. “Throw that one out, Your Highness. Isaura Westerby is up to her neck in something. We’ve never been able to pin it down, but she’s definitely someone you don’t want to mess with.”

Surprisingly, Lizbet spoke up in disagreement. “Actually, Donnie, you might want to consider this one. She’s never been to court before, that I am aware of, and doesn’t seem to be acquainted with Lady Westerby at all beyond a distant relationship with the deceased Lord Westerby. I believe he was a cousin of her father’s. From what I’ve heard, Miss Westover came to Evenleigh for a diversion, after being jilted by her betrothed.”

Kyril raised a skeptical brow. “And we’re considering this recently-jilted distant relation of a known dissenter why?”

Lizbet held up an application and smiled at her nephew. “Because she at least has the virtue of originality. Look at this! Nine words, including her name. Her answer to the first question is ‘I don’t know.’”

Ramsey was interested in spite of himself and took the paper from his aunt’s hand. “Elaine Westover” was written at the top in a neat, rather than flowing script. Elaine said she didn’t know if she wanted to marry him because: “We’ve never been introduced.”

Kyril laughed when Ramsey showed him the paper, but didn’t seem much impressed. “Lady Norelle, I hate to be snide, but this might be a simple case of witlessness, rather than originality. If she was jilted, perhaps there was a reason.”

Lizbet shrugged, but did not discard the paper. “I think you should at least try to find out,” she encouraged Ramsey. “If she’s new, she won’t have any of the political connections a lot of the other girls bring with them, good or bad. You wouldn’t be giving either side a chance to feel slighted by your choice.”

Ramsey nodded slowly, not quite willing to agree, but seeing the virtues of his aunt’s argument. “All right, we’ll consider it. Who else?”

“I think you should invite a few girls you are not actually considering,” Count Norelle put in unexpectedly. “Pick a few from families across the political spectrum, to keep speculation open about whether you are trying to court favor by your choice.”

Kyril agreed. “It’s a good idea, Ramsey. And it’ll keep everyone guessing what you’re actually looking for. You know they didn’t really believe a word you told them tonight.”

Kyril was right, of course, much as it galled him.

“Any suggestions?”

“Larissa Fellton,” said his aunt without hesitation.

“Really?” Kyril grimaced. “She’s so… silly.”

Lizbet nodded an affirmative. “Yes. And I’m fairly certain she’s harmless. She’s also friends with everyone who’s anyone, if only because no one can bring themselves to rebuff her. It would be like kicking a particularly friendly puppy. And her parents are dangerous seditionists with ties to a lot of other dangerous seditionists.”