Traitor's Masque (24 page)

Kyril growled under his breath, but agreed. “As long as you promise not to make me dance with her. She’s not as harmless as you think. That girl could smother you with nothing but meaningless conversation.”

Still muttering, he sorted through the pile of discarded applications until he found the one he was looking for. “Here you are. Beautiful. Rich. Apolitical family. Absolutely not to be considered.”

“Are you going to give us a name?” Ramsey asked sarcastically, not really in the mood for humor.

“Anya Colbourne.”

Ramsey thought for a moment. He couldn’t remember meeting any Colbournes.

“Blonde, blue-eyed, nice complexion.” Kyril supplied helpfully. “She’s cold-blooded, childish, and has the brains of a cabbage. Comes complete with a predatory mother and an identical younger sister.”

Ramsey winced. “Do I have to?”

Kyril grinned at him, not without sympathy. “You don’t have to marry her, just dance with her and ask her to dinner. Not necessarily in that order.”

“Ick.” Ramsey was already tired. “All right, who else?”

Over the next hour, they sorted and discussed until they agreed on a group of ten. Five who seemed less objectionable than the others, and the best potentials for an actual proposal. Five more to throw the gossip-mongers off balance. It was not a very encouraging process.

Lizbet seemed hopeful about the first five. She knew four of the girls and their families and felt there was at least some chance for common ground between them and her favorite nephew. Brawley didn’t appear very hopeful about any of them, which did not surprise Ramsey at all. Brawley considered it his job to be suspicious, and especially suspicious of anyone who was about to get close to his prince.

Kyril favored the whole process with a characteristic shrug. He had probably already judged the available damsels as being unworthy of his best friend, and seemed no better than resigned to the idea of Ramsey’s marrying any of them. His own part in this evening’s program was coming up, and he would no doubt do it well.

As Lizbet cleared away the papers, Kyril looked over at Ramsey, who felt he would have preferred throwing himself out the window to what they had to do next.

“Are you ready, brother?”

Ramsey really couldn’t do anything except nod. They were expected to join the party at some point. To single out a few young ladies for attentions that would set tongues wagging until tomorrow. After straightening each other’s cravats and brushing off their formal coats, they left Lizbet’s rooms and headed back downstairs. But before they could get very far, Kyril looked both ways down the hall, grabbed Ramsey by the arm and dragged him forcefully through a nearby door, into… a linen closet? Pushing the prince up against a row of shelves covered in neatly folded sheets and towels, Kyril folded his arms and glared at him grimly.

“All right, Ramsey. Right here, right now, it’s time you tell me the truth. Before we go down there and ruin your life forever, you’re going to tell me about her and why you can’t ask her to marry you.”

Ramsey’s brain froze in shock. “Kyril, I don’t have any idea what you’re talking—”

“Enough!” Kyril kicked a shelf in evident frustration. “Don’t lie to me, Ramsey. It’s stupid and it hurts.”

Ramsey flinched from the pain in his best friend’s voice. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust him. It wasn’t that at all.

“I know you met someone,” Kyril continued, “and I think you love her, if you’ve ever loved anyone. Or at least you think you could. But you’ve decided you can’t have her or maybe that she won’t have you. And I want to know why.” He glared at his friend fiercely. Daring him to lie again.

Ramsey wilted under the accusation in Kyril’s eyes. Put his face in his hands and groaned. “How did you…” He stopped. That didn’t really matter. Lizbet had seen it too. Maybe he had smiled too much, gotten lost in thought too often. What mattered was that Kyril be made to understand he had not lost Ramsey’s trust.

“Kyril, this isn’t about whether I trust you. Yes, I met someone. And yes, I care, more than I thought I could possibly care about a girl I’ve only seen three times. I barely know her name. But I do know that she’s not here tonight. I’m not ‘permitted’ to consider her as anything but a momentary folly! ”

He tugged at his hair in frustration and exasperation.

“Yes, I think she could be perfect. She’s everything and she’s nothing and she’s hurt and she’s sad and I can’t help her! I have to pretend she doesn’t exist because I have this damned kingdom and its damned expectations hanging around my neck!”

Kyril stared at him, his mouth slightly open, looking vaguely ashamed. “I’m sorry,” he said slowly. “I should have—”

Ramsey stopped him abruptly. “No, Kyril,” he admitted tiredly. “
I
should have. Should have at least trusted you with that much. But…” He held up his hands, resigned and discouraged. “I didn’t even know what to tell you. You’re my brother in every way that matters, but I couldn’t think how to explain what it feels like, how wonderful and horrible at the same time.”

He couldn’t really go on. Embrie’s face was already going to haunt him. He would be seeing her behind every girl he would be forced to dance with, her smiling eyes instead of their mocking ones, her tears instead of their masqued and painted cheeks.

“When this is over, will you tell me about her?” Kyril’s question brought him back and took him by surprise. “I want to know who you could have fallen in love with, if you were just Ramsey, and she were just…”

“Embrie,” Ramsey offered, surprising himself and Kyril. “Her name is Embrie.”

Kyril reached up and gripped his shoulder in sympathy. Ramsey, oddly, felt better for having been dragged into a linen closet and forced into a confession. Shared pain was not lessened, but it was far easier to bear.

 
Chapter 8
 

Trystan forced herself to return to the ballroom. Her shoulders were tense, her head ached, and her fingers could not seem to stop clenching around fistfuls of her already crumpled skirt. The evening was probably not even half over and she was tired. Tired of thinking, tired of feeling ignorant, foolish and confused.

And she wanted to go home. If she even had one, after tonight. Where was home? It should be a place where she could put her head under a pillow and make the world go away. Especially this world filled with light and music and tight dresses and shoes that pinched before she’d danced a single step.

Trystan wiggled her toes irritably, or tried to. If she was forced to waltz in those ridiculous slippers, she might never be able to walk again.

But she could not put her head under that mythical pillow just yet. If her fledgling search for the truth about their Royal Highnesses was going to get anywhere, she would have to work quickly. She certainly could not ask Lady Isaura, any more than she could ask Donevan, whom she was still having a difficult time thinking of as Prince Ramsey.

Her misgivings could hardly be discussed with Malisse, either. Trystan was beginning to doubt whether anyone in that glittering crowd had more to offer than common gossip. Even if they did, pointed questions in the middle of a masque would sound highly suspicious.

Who could she find that might answer her inquiries without worrying about her motivation?

Trystan went to look for Larissa.

By that time, the contre dances had given way to couples. A rather strenuous mazurka was being performed by several dozen pairings, one of which, Trystan noted, contained a polite but stiff-looking Prince Ramsey. She was, at least for the moment, safe from his notice.

Larissa was standing next to her mother, watching the dancers wistfully, and appeared pathetically relieved at Trystan’s approach.

“Elaine, there you are!” She grabbed Trystan’s arm with something like frantic haste. “I need a drink. Do you need a drink? I’m sure you do, it’s so hot in here! Come on.” Fanning herself and tugging at Trystan’s arm, Larissa towed her inexorably towards the refreshment table, while her mother stared after them with lowered brows.

“Oh gad, Elaine, you have no idea how horrid my mother is being about this whole thing. She thinks my chances are ruined and wants me to remember every word I wrote and of course I can’t on account of being so nervous when I have to write anything and now she’s probably going to sit around all evening glaring at Prince Ramsey unless he asks me to dance, which he won’t, and if he does she’ll just glare at me again and ask me to repeat everything we talked about the whole time and I won’t be able to remember because I’ll be so nervous about remembering where to put my feet, and if I forget and trip or step on his feet she’ll never forgive me and I’ll have to run away from home…”

Trystan listened in growing amusement as Larissa cut off her hair, ran away to sea, and married one of her father’s ship captains, whom she liked but wasn’t allowed to speak to because he was beneath her. By the time they acquired two glasses of punch, Larissa’s three darling little boys had become pirates and her parents had died in shame.

“But then,” Larissa added, “I suppose maybe I won’t step on his feet after all. I have been practicing nearly forever!”

Despite her own worries, Trystan couldn’t stop a peal of delighted laughter. “Larissa, you’ll be fine. And if not,” she added mischievously, “I’m sure you’d make an excellent sailor.” She paused. “I didn’t know your father was in shipping.”

“Oh yes,” Larissa waved one gloved hand dramatically through the air as she sipped her punch with the other. “He has ever so many ships. He used to take me to see them, until Mother caught me telling sailor stories to my dolls. I don’t know why she minded so much, but Mother said they were scandalous and not at all the thing for a young lady to know. That probably just meant they weren’t boring, like the books she makes me read. And Captain Masterson, when he would come to visit, used to tell me all about the exotic places he’s sailed to, like Thalassa, Fren, Caelan…” Larissa was forced to break off by the sight of her father bearing down on them, his face no longer looking very jolly.

“Larissa, my dear, I think you’ve had enough punch. Come back over here by the dance floor where you can be seen.”

Larissa pouted, but did as she was told, leaving Trystan to stare after her thoughtfully. What was so very wrong with Larissa talking about sailing stories?

Setting down her empty cup, Trystan made a face at it. Punch was actually an appalling beverage. Did they serve water at balls? Turning to eye the refreshment table in a spirit of curiosity, she caught sight of Lady Isaura, walking towards her in the company of a large gentleman in a wig. She looked entirely too pleased with herself.

The bewigged fellow turned out to be the ceremonial steward, who begged leave to introduce a young man who most particularly wished to make her acquaintance. The two older people performed the necessary formalities, making Elaine Westover known to Lord Kyril Seagrave.

Lady Isaura had included a treatise on Lord Seagrave in Trystan’s brief but harrowing education at Westhaven, and by the time Trystan took his arm for the next dance, she had managed to remember the pertinent details. Younger son of an earl. Permanent fixture at court. Popular with the ladies. Principal confidant of His Royal Highness.

Trystan was not at all sure what she ought to do in this situation. It was probably an honor to be singled out by such a dashing figure, but she was hardly a practiced flirt. If he expected her to understand the intricacies of coquetry, he would likely be both disappointed and bored.

Before they could push through the crowd to the dance floor, Lady Isaura stopped her. “Elaine, my dear, I hope you will forgive me for deserting you, but I’m feeling rather poorly.” She seemed to have developed a sudden headache of some severity, from the grimace on her painted lips.

“Of course, Lady Westerby, allow me to get my things and we will go at once.” Trystan was well aware that this was the expected reply, and that Lady Westerby had no actual intention of permitting her to leave the ball.

“Why, Elaine, I wouldn’t dream of taking you away so soon, before you’ve even had a chance to meet anyone.” She place a reassuring hand on Trystan’s arm. “I’ve arranged it with Lord and Lady Fellton. They will offer you a ride home in their carriage when you are ready.”