Traitor's Masque (25 page)

Trystan thought this odd, but did not presume to question it, merely offered her condolences and promised to be mindful of Lady Fellton’s direction. As Lady Isaura moved delicately towards the exit, Trystan’s partner, Lord Seagrave, who had listened with silent politeness to the exchange, placed a hand over the one resting on his arm and turned towards the dance.

Trystan darted a covert glance in his direction. Lord Seagrave was shorter than average height and stocky, not fat, with wavy blond hair and charming blue eyes—eyes that were watching her with a gleam of both intelligence and curiosity from behind a green leather masque.

So he was probably not just a flirt. It occurred to her abruptly that any friend of Donevan’s was likely to be more than
just
anything. This was going to require caution.

“Miss Westover, may I be the next in what is, no doubt, a long line of admirers to welcome you to our court at Evenburg.” His glib flattery was delivered in obviously overstated accents. Was he hoping she would laugh or that she wouldn’t notice? “I hope,” he continued, “that you have been as enraptured by the entertainment as I have been to discover such an exotic creature amongst our number this evening.”

Though he kissed her hand as he said it, the barely leashed amusement in his tone needled Trystan into responding. She craned her head and scanned the room in apparent confusion.

“I’m sorry, did you lose something?” her partner inquired curiously.

“Possibly,” she responded. “I was hoping for a camel. I’ve heard they’re very unusual. Or perhaps a peacock. The pictures I’ve seen are exquisite.”

Lord Seagrave appeared quite politely confused.

“Well I may be an uncivilized child of the north, but I hardly qualify as exotic,” Trystan explained, letting more than a hint of sarcasm color her tone.

Her partner narrowed his eyes at her briefly, then flashed a grin that was both devilish and unrepentant. “Our waltz, Miss Westover?”

Trystan nodded, swept up her train and was swept in turn into the small sea of twirling couples. Lord Seagrave was, she was relieved to note, at least as accomplished at dancing as he was at flirting. He guided her effortlessly around the floor, leaving her free to respond to his conversational sallies.

“Since you are unamused by my flattery, Miss Westover, I hope you will permit me to express my condolences on your recent disappointment, if it is not too forward to mention the circumstances that bring you to Evenleigh.”

Trystan raised a surprised eyebrow under her mask. Gossip did move fast. Apparently, Lord Seagrave had already been apprised of her reluctant suitor’s flight and preference for maritime pursuits. And was pushing for information that she did not intend to give him.

“I suspect, Lord Seagrave, that your conversation is almost entirely composed of forward remarks. If I were to forbid them we might run the risk of dancing in silence.” She quirked a smile at her partner. “Since that is almost as great a solecism as daring to mention a lady’s disappointments in love, I believe I must allow it.” She had intended to divert him from his purpose, not to make him laugh. But he did so, with a great deal of enjoyment.

“Miss Westover, you seem to have taken my measure quite accurately, which leaves me at something of a disadvantage.”

“Lord Seagrave, I doubt you have experienced many social disadvantages lately. I’ve been advised that you are considered something of a sensation by the unattached ladies at court… and something of a menace by their parents.”

Lord Seagrave looked pained. “I wish, Miss Westover, that you would tell me who has been spreading such tales. I assure you my reputation for wrongdoing is mostly fabricated and entirely exaggerated, though”—Trystan detected a sharp curiosity in his voice—“Lady Westerby no doubt considers it her responsibility to safeguard your character by warning you away from fellows like me.”

Trystan reminded herself to be careful. This could be a perfect opportunity to gain information, but it wouldn’t do at all to give away more than she got. “Lady Westerby has been very kind,” Trystan agreed, “but we scarcely know each other. My father was a very distant relative of Lord Westerby, so this is, I believe, the first time we’ve met. I’m very grateful for the invitation, but I don’t presume to ask her for social advice. Her station is far above mine.”

It wouldn’t hurt to convince the prince’s best friend that she was a nobody, and a provincial one at that. His disapproval of her court manners would ensure that she did not merit Prince Ramsey’s attention, which might dismay Lady Westerby, but would greatly relieve Trystan’s fears of being recognized.

“If it’s social advice you need, Miss Westover, look no farther,” Lord Seagrave answered with a disarming smile. “I am considered a leading authority on most topics of social interest.”

Trystan decided to take the bait. After all, who better to help her unravel the mysteries surrounding the royal brothers than someone who knew them both?

“Well,” she said, trying to sound as innocent as possible, “there is one thing you could help me with.” Her partner nodded encouragingly as Trystan looked directly into his blue eyes. “You could tell me why no one will talk about Prince Rowan.”

Kyril Seagrave was having a very interesting evening. His task was to get to know the five young women who were still considered serious contenders for Ramsey’s hand. Four of them he had met before.

His first dance that evening had been with Miss Hester Ulworth, a staid young woman from a pedestrian, shop-keeping family which had nonetheless managed to build a comfortable fortune and purchase a respectable estate. Miss Ulworth was undeniably well-educated, but dull and almost painfully dutiful. Her parents could probably have guided her right off a cliff, and most certainly into a loveless political marriage. In her favor, Kyril thought she would be unlikely to make his friend’s life miserable with tantrums or whimsy, or to throw herself wantonly at Ramsey’s brother once they were married. In short, boring but safe.

This girl, Elaine Westover, was not at all boring and almost certainly not safe. In fact, Kyril was finding himself hard-pressed to label her at all. She seemed attractive enough, from what he could see, and well-spoken, possessing a dry sense of humor that appealed to him. Flattery seemed to make no impression, and she was canny enough to avoid the most pointed of his questions. Then, of course, she had looked at him innocently with those enormous amber eyes and asked bluntly about Rowan. Not where he was, or why he wasn’t looking for a bride, the usual questions girls wanted to ask about Ramsey’s chiseled blond bastard of a brother.

Well, not bastard in the parental sense. The elder prince’s parentage was, regrettably, not in dispute.

No, Miss Westover seemed to be inquiring about scandals, or at least wanting to know if there was any truth to them. Unless she really was that naive, which he very much doubted.

“Don’t tell me our Evenleigh gossip hasn’t made it all the way to the wild northlands yet.” Kyril wasn’t sure how to answer even if he’d wanted to. The breadth of opinion about Rowan made it difficult to determine what, if anything, anyone knew about him and to what degree his public figure failed to match up with his private one.

“I’m afraid I’m acquainted with very little news of court,” Miss Westover admitted, lowering her lashes, “though not for want of trying. My mother believed in keeping me unsullied by the world.” A corner of her mouth twitched, as if her words were a private joke.

“Am I to believe you ask such a thing in innocence?”

“Believe what you will, Lord Seagrave,” the girl answered without embarrassment. “I am new to society and woefully behindhand in matters many girls consider commonplace. I would like to understand this world, which is very different from my own.” A smile briefly crossed her lips. “It would seem wiser not to make myself an outcast for no better reason than ignorance. If this disgusts you, I understand, although”—her brief look held more challenge than discomfiture—“I fear I will not apologize.”

Kyril was fascinated despite himself. Elaine Westover was making no attempt to impress him, and seemed on the brink of actively trying to discourage his interest. If he were any other dandy of the court, she probably would have succeeded. Her straightforward confidence of manner would be seen as both provincial and provoking, though her dancing left nothing to be desired and her behavior was otherwise decorous. It was her conversation that unnerved him: intelligent, educated, and utterly unpredictable.

“What
does
one hear of Prince Rowan in the Northlands?” He covered his surprise with an open-ended question.

“Nothing, for the most part,” Elaine tilted her head as if considering. “No one really talks
of
him, they talk around him.”

Her assessment was interesting. And alarmingly perceptive. Most people did, indeed, tend to talk around Rowan, at least when he or anyone else likely to be unsympathetic was present.

“Perhaps there’s a very good reason,” Kyril tried to deflect her, but the words fell flat as soon as they left his mouth. He could see her scorn even behind her masque.

“And now you sound very much like my nurse. You know,” his partner said thoughtfully, “I’m beginning to wonder if he’s not actually a person, but more like a malevolent spirit who haunts you if you say his name three times.”

Kyril gaped at her, not at all equal to the task of maintaining his own decorum in the face of her audacity. “You do know,” he said, unable to stifle a grin, “that it’s considered unwise to speak ill of royalty?”

A corner of Elaine's mouth quirked in humor. “Prince Rowan, Prince Rowan, Prince Rowan?”

Kyril knew he shouldn’t encourage the girl, but her perfectly timed response, and the casting of Rowan as some sort of evil imp, nearly brought him to his knees with laughter. He almost lost his balance and had to pull the insufferable girl out of the dance for a moment.

He decided later that her jest had been an act of providence. It meant he was better able to keep both his feet and his head when the dancing faltered and silence spread across the ballroom.

The locus of the disturbance seemed to be the moonlit balcony, and the tall, stylish figure that detached itself from the shadows. It moved forward, out of the night and dawned into the already brightly lit ballroom like a new and glorious sun.

Prince Rowan had arrived at the ball.

 
Chapter 9
 

Trystan was slightly appalled by her own temerity. She hadn’t meant to stir up trouble, only ask a provoking question to see if she could get a response. Lord Seagrave actually seemed a likable, even kindred soul, with a daring sense of humor. Even so, Trystan was entirely unprepared for the hilarity unleashed by her unguarded commentary on the elder prince. The hitherto self-possessed Kyril actually had to stop dancing for a moment in order to regain his composure, causing Trystan to wonder whether she had unwittingly hit rather too near the mark.

It was as they stood there, outside the dance, her partner trying very hard to contain his laughter, that it happened. Ripples, through the crowd, as from a rock thrown into a pond. A very large, shiny rock, Trystan realized. The ripples were moving outward from a man who had appeared as if by magic on the balcony. A tall, beautiful, golden man who appeared unsurprised by the effect he was having on the assembled company.