Traitor's Masque (29 page)

Lady Isaura huffed impatiently and sat down across from her. “Both, immediately.” She obviously felt Trystan was being obtuse. Which was no less than the truth. “Stop behaving like an imbecile. This is not a game, child!”

Trystan nodded obediently and pried off her shoe. She removed the paper and handed it over with a curious glance at both sides. “I suppose this is the message. At any rate, it’s the only one I was given.” She cocked her head to one side. “Though you might have told me whom to expect, you know. Prince Rowan nearly gave me heart palpitations!”

Lady Isaura snatched the paper from Trystan’s fingers, but did not unfold it. “Everything went well, I take it? No one asked any questions? Did you speak to the prince?”

Trystan nodded, but without much enthusiasm. “Yes. We danced, actually. He was a bit distant. Preoccupied. I don’t think he paid me much attention.”

“Good.” Lady Isaura looked thoroughly satisfied. “Did anyone indicate what other arrangements have been made? How Prince Ramsey will eventually choose his bride?”

Trystan shrugged nonchalantly. “I believe it was said that they will be inviting back a select few, and that Prince Ramsey will pursue a closer acquaintance with them and their families. Tomorrow sometime.” She yawned and stretched. “Though I’m certain he was not impressed enough to invite me back.”

Lady Isaura looked thoughtful, but nodded. “Very well.” She stood in dismissal. “You have completed your task admirably, child. I’m sure you are tired. On the morrow we will discuss remuneration as promised. Until then, I am sure you could use your rest.”

Trystan rose to her feet, wobbled a bit for effect, and agreed. “I confess, I am fatigued. I had no idea a ball could be so exhausting!” She walked slowly towards the door, her ankle still throbbing, but likely not seriously damaged.

“Good night, child.” Lady Isaura inclined her head graciously as Trystan walked past her. “You have done your kingdom a brave service today. Few people may ever know, but those who do will have great cause for gratitude.”

Trystan waved a gloved hand and yawned again. “Happy to have been of service, Lady Westerby.” Another yawn. “Good night.”

Despite her unfeigned yawns, Trystan did not immediately find sleep. While still convinced that there was little she could do, her doubts and suspicions refused to die. What had she really done and did it matter? Who were the villains and why? What did they want and how far would they go to get it?

If nothing else, Trystan knew that at some point during the evening, the question of the succession had become greatly important to her. Should she support Rowan, the polished, calculating plotter? Or Ramsey, who was tired, dutiful and sincere? Lady Isaura thought Rowan was the man to lead the kingdom into the future. What future? What did she think Rowan could accomplish that Ramsey could not? Or perhaps
would
not?

After her brief time in his presence, Trystan felt comfortable with the assertion that Rowan possessed few scruples. Despite her complete lack of experience in political matters, Trystan rather doubted that this was a good thing in a future monarch. The king of Andar held a great deal of power, and though in her memory it had never been abused, that was no guarantee that it could not be.

Whatever King Hollin’s faults, he had never been accused of being a despot, only of being overly traditional. Lady Isaura believed that Ramsey would follow in his father’s footsteps and prove likewise traditional with regard to policy. As Trystan knew Donevan to be neither ignorant nor incompetent, she had to assume that the conspirators’ complaints must be in regard to something her friend would not permit. Something that perhaps the unscrupulous Rowan would.

The harder Trystan looked at the situation, the more clearly she realized that her actions had the potential to affect far more than which man wore the crown. This wasn’t just about Donevan anymore. Whatever was going on, whether or not she decided to further involve herself, the outcome would not affect just one person, but many.

How could she possibly decide?

Despite the endless litany of her doubts and questions, Trystan eventually fell asleep.

It felt like five minutes later when the pounding commenced. Befuddled by drowsiness and confused by dreams, it took Trystan a moment to remember where she was and why it sounded like the house was falling down around her. Someone, or an army of someones by the sound of it, was determined to beat her door in.

“Trystan!” Lady Isaura’s strident tones made her exasperation clear, even through the heavy wooden door. “You must get up this instant! Answer me! Trystan!” A bit of muttering, still audible. “Ridiculous child. Why she never said… This is a disaster!” Louder. “Trystan!”

Trystan cracked an eye and wished she hadn’t. The light pouring in from the window suggested it was late morning. It also triggered a sharp pain in her head that suggested she may have had more to drink than was good for her. Which was ridiculous, as all she’d had was punch. What did they put in that stuff?

She finally managed to croak out a response. “What is it, Lady Westerby?”

“Open the door! It’s late and we have no time to prepare!”

“Wha’?” Trystan mumbled to herself sleepily and managed to get out of bed, noting as she did so that her ankle was still a trifle swollen. It had not bruised, but she would obviously not be dancing on it again anytime soon. Shuffling over to the door, she opened it to admit a wrathful and harried Lady Isaura, who was waving a large, official-looking piece of paper in one hand and what looked like a dress in the other.

She stopped abruptly and looked at Trystan with an appalled expression. “You look dreadful,” she pronounced, sounding unnecessarily irritated by the fact. “How I’m supposed to make you presentable inside of four hours I’m sure I don’t know.”

Trystan still felt groggy. Why did she need to be presentable? “Is Malisse coming?” she asked. “To take me home?”

Lady Isaura’s frown suggested that Trystan had suddenly become a simpleton.

“Of course not! Don’t be a dullard, we haven’t the time.” She waved the paper in front of Trystan’s nose.

Trystan took it and tried to read it, but her eyes crossed. Which hurt. “What is it?” She would put up with being called a dullard as long as she didn’t have to focus on anything. Her head wasn’t quite up to the task.

“Your invitation! Apparently, Miss Colbourne, you are far too socially inexperienced to know when you have caught a man’s attention.”

Lady Isaura’s astringent tone made her opinion of Trystan’s romantic ineptitude clear. Unfortunately, her scorn was wasted on the now-gaping Trystan, who was firmly in the grip of panic.

“What? I can’t be… No, that’s not right… it’s a mistake, I swear it. There’s no possible way!” Wide-eyed and gabbling, Trystan sat down heavily on her bed, under the bemused eye of her hostess.

“I assure you,” Lady Isaura replied sarcastically, “it’s no mistake. This was delivered by a royal courier only a few moments ago. It clearly has your name on it.” She favored Trystan with a look of suspicious inquiry. “Is there anything you have not yet seen fit to tell me? Anything that might explain this?”

“No!” Trystan’s temper flared sharply. “I told you what happened! We danced, he seemed distracted. I hurt my ankle, he left.” She groaned and flopped back onto her pillow. “This is terrible! I can’t go back! What are we going to do?”

Lady Isaura appeared shocked. “Whatever are you talking about? Of course you can go back. You must!”

Trystan shook her head. “I can’t! Without my masque, Don…” She barely stopped herself in time. “Someone might recognize me. Anya or Darya could be there with Malisse!”

Lady Isaura frowned at her, but thoughtfully. “Well, what do you suggest? You can hardly refuse such an exclusive invitation without seeming suspicious.”

Trystan stood up and paced the room, limping a bit as she cast about wildly for an excuse. “My ankle!” she said suddenly. “I was dancing with Prince Ramsey when I injured it.”

Lady Isaura nodded, pursing her lips.

“Surely,” Trystan continued, “he would not expect me to come to a party if I am abed with a dreadfully swollen ankle.” She sank theatrically onto the bed and assumed a pitiful expression. “He need not know that I am still able to walk.”

“Perhaps it would be for the best,” the older woman admitted, though she seemed reluctant to do so. “But…” She paused, tapped her foot, and was silent for a brief period. “Very well.” She sighed and picked up the letter of invitation from where Trystan had let it fall. “I suppose that will have to do. I will send a note with your extreme regrets.”

Trystan leaned back into her pillows, trying to hide the depths of her relief. “After all,” she offered lightly, “it’s not as though we could go through with it, even if he wanted to marry me. It would surely prove awkward when he discovered that Elaine Westover does not actually exist.”

Lady Isaura stopped and glanced back sharply as she was leaving. “Do not imagine, child, that such a trifling matter could not be dealt with. If it is possible that he would propose.”

Trystan scoffed aloud, but inwardly quailed. Could Elaine's resemblance to Embrie have influenced Ramsey more than she, or even he, had realized?

“As I had no inkling of his interest, I cannot suppose it likely,” she asserted. “I presume he invited me to be polite, as I am from out of town. Or perhaps to express his condolences over my injury last night.” She grimaced. “In any case, it hardly matters, as I cannot go.”

Lady Isaura’s mouth twisted oddly. “Of course, you are right,” she allowed. “You should stay in bed, in that case. I will send someone up with your breakfast.

“Perhaps,” she added, “you should compose your own note to Prince Ramsey, expressing your dismay and desolation at being unable to accept his invitation.”

Slightly worried by the new tone of calculation in Lady Isaura’s suggestion, Trystan nonetheless agreed, anxious for the conversation to be over. It could do no harm to write a brief message. She would be as bland as possible, and leave Prince Ramsey to his remaining candidates. Leave Donevan to another woman who very likely would not love him.

Trystan closed her eyes and her heart. She would not think of that. Their paths should never have crossed and she must go on as if they never had.

Prince Ramsey awakened that morning from unpleasant dreams. Only to realize that they had been vastly more pleasant than his reality. Rolling over, he pulled his pillow over his head and groaned.

His calves and his feet ached like the devil. He had forgotten how much he hated dancing and drinking until dawn, though he hadn’t really done much drinking. His head thought he had, and was pounding insistently even in the relative darkness under his pillow. It was probably still morning. He had hoped not to awaken until well after midmeal, having not been permitted to fall asleep until the sun was already on its way up.

The whole travesty of an evening crashed in on him then, reminding him forcefully of why he needed to be awake.

Rowan was in residence. He had come back in defiance of their father’s orders. There was going to be a lot of shouting.

Wincing, Ramsey made his way out from under the pillow, noting the advanced hour from the light coming from behind his curtains. Not advanced enough, but he shouldn’t have slept this late as it was. Hells, maybe he shouldn’t have bothered sleeping at all.

Getting out of bed required a few more theatrical groans as his much-abused feet hit the floor. It was little wonder poor Miss Westover had hurt her ankle last night. Even with the benefit of being allowed boots instead of those ridiculous little satin slippers young women were expected to wear, his own feet were suffering. Shuffling painfully, Ramsey managed to ring the bell for his valet. The tone had scarcely sounded when a quiet knock came at his bedchamber door. Ramsey pulled it open, impressed.

“Your timing is…” He trailed off. It was not his valet. His Aunt Lizbet stood there, her mouth ajar, a bit wide-eyed at his disheveled state. “Er, Aunt Lizbet?” He remembered suddenly his state of near undress and bolted for his dressing gown, which lay in a crumpled heap on the floor.

“I just rang… thought it was Foster,” he called over his shoulder, a bit embarrassed. “What are you doing here this early?” A touch more presentable, he tied the sash and turned around to look quizzically at his aunt, who still stood in the door. Her expression… something was wrong. Lizbet’s face was still and careful, her eyes shadowed.