Traitor's Masque (37 page)

“We’ll be waiting, Miss, till called for.” The coachman’s unnecessary words intruded on Trystan’s frantically incongruous thoughts. Of course they would be waiting. Even if she had no intention of calling for them. She wondered if they would wait all night, or if they had instructions to return after a certain time. What did coachmen do if they had no instructions? Her thoughts both fractious and petulant, Trystan barely managed the wave of dismissal that left her standing, insignificant and alone, in front of the wide entry doors. There were a handful of guards stationed about the bailey, but they did not seem quite human enough to count as company.

Full dusk had fallen, she realized, and even without the rings of torches that had brightened every corner on the night of the ball, the bailey seemed as crowded as she remembered it. Not with the clatter of wheels, the shouts of greeting, or the murmur of massed voices, but with shadows and silence. They pressed tightly against her already trembling hands, made it difficult to even draw a breath. And into that awful quiet came the gentle sound of hinges. The massive doors were opening.

A gray-haired and blank-faced steward bowed politely and ushered her into the entry hall, as oddly empty as the bailey.

“Lady, if you would be so good as to follow me?” The steward addressed her with formal courtesy. “His Highness has requested that you wait for him on the balcony.” Trystan was surprised, but a bit relieved, she realized. The balcony would serve her purposes well. It was wide and dark, and there were stairs, as she recalled, leading off into the garden. Perhaps having an escape route would give her enough courage to say what was needed. And the darkness would hide them both. Her task would be that much easier if she could pretend it was Ramsey, not Donevan, to whom she spoke.

The steward led her through the gloomy depths of the great hall, which was largely unlit and echoed eerily with their footsteps, to the edge of the unoccupied balcony. Its dimness was brightened only by the distant gleam of lamps from the garden paths below. How romantic, was Trystan’s first, hysterical thought. How horribly, tragically, romantic.

“His Highness will be with you shortly.” The steward vanished back into the hall so thoroughly that Trystan could not even hear the sounds of his retreat.

She looked around frantically, hoping to occupy her mind, slow her thoughts, gain control of herself before he arrived. Should she sit? Should she stand? Place herself as close to escape as possible? Her eye fell on the bench, but it was the same bench she had occupied only a few nights before when… her thoughts shied away from that memory. Lost in fruitless argument with herself, Trystan was still standing at the balustrade when the last light of the sun died and she realized she was no longer alone.

She was waiting for him by the railing, frozen in a state of watchful stillness Ramsey could recognize, even in the dark, as fear. Her hand was clenched on the stone; her breath came fast and uneven. A dark cloak with a deep hood covered everything but those hands—pale, ungloved and trembling. Ramsey had expected to find her calm, possibly flirtatious, or even triumphant. She could not know that he had found her out, could not have realized that the real Elaine had finally shivered herself to sleep only a few hours before in his aunt’s apartments. She should have displayed some portion of that self-possession which had so impressed him at the ball. But she did not. Whoever she was, this nameless woman who had played him so skillfully and plotted the death of a harmless child was now quite obviously terrified.

Good.

“Take off your hood.” His voice grated harshly in the silence. He wanted to look at her, even in the dark. Wanted her to be brave enough to face him.

“No.” Her answer shocked them both. They stared at each other warily. “I came only to speak to you.” Her voice was tremulous, uncertain. “There are things that must be said. I did not come to discuss marriage, but… there seemed no other way to reach you. I have to tell you, before it’s too late.” Her voice broke off, as if she searched for words. “Please, this is not for me, but for the good of the kingdom. I only ask that you hear me, and then I will go, unless you command otherwise.”

Ramsey’s mouth twisted in revulsion. He had intended to draw her out, bait her into confessing, but the day had worn him past endurance. His anger and contempt were past being contained. “Really? The good of the kingdom?” Sarcasm fueled every furious word. “By all means, ‘Elaine,’ tell me of the good of my kingdom! Tell me of your glorious plans for me and my court! Dazzle me with your lies if you still think you can!”

The girl’s breath caught. Her body went rigid.

“Oh yes, Elaine.” He spat the word with revulsion and scorn. “We found her. Your poor terrified twin. How far did you think you would get on a stolen life? How great a fool did you think me?”

She started to answer, growing frantic with denial, but he was not quite ready to hear her excuses. He stalked across the balcony until there were only a few paces between them and she shrank back, away from his rage.

“No, Elaine, don’t answer that.” His voice dropped to a threatening tone just above a whisper. “I know exactly how great a fool my kingdom thinks me to be, and now I can only agree with them.” He regarded her coldly, arms tightly folded as if to hold himself back. “After all, if it had not been for a lucky accident, I might have married you. And spent the rest of my worthless life shackled to a scheming, treacherous fraud!”

He saw her flinch. Almost it made him question his judgment. She should not have cared what he thought, but his words had wounded her.

“She is alive? Unharmed?” Her question shook with something repressed. Nerves? Pain? Ramsey did not care. Promised himself that his rage was justified.

“Harmed beyond days of helpless terror? You dare even ask?”

“Please!”

Her raw plea shook him. Forced him to see her. Holding her ground in the face of his uncharacteristically brutal temper.

“Tell me if she is well!” The girl was neither smug nor unconcerned, but instead seemed fiercely determined. Ramsey was silent for a moment. Took a step back, both mentally and physically. Was she a brilliant actress, or was there more going on here than any of them had yet guessed?

“She will be.” His reply was succinct but sufficient, a bridge between them that he was loathe to offer. He wanted nothing more than to give vent to his anger at whoever was responsible for this contemptible plot, a plot that had nearly ensnared him. But the woman’s response had been nothing like what he imagined. If she had truly not known the fate of the real Elaine, what
had
she done? And, more importantly, why? If she was nothing but a mercenary schemer, why had her shoulders slumped in relief at his answer? Was it genuine consolation or a consummate performance?

“Thank you,” she murmured. Almost too quietly to hear. “I am glad.”

It was something like peace that settled over Trystan as she heard that Elaine was unharmed. That the girl would live. Recover from her ordeal. It gave Trystan enough courage to say what she had almost decided not to. As terrifying as it had been to think of confronting Donevan when she believed the truth would hurt him, the reality was infinitely worse. He had come already convinced of her perfidy. Her story would now, at best, only sound like a frantic attempt to clear herself of guilt by casting the blame on some shadowy conspiracy. With the burden of suspicion already resting squarely on Trystan, it would be difficult indeed to convince Ramsey of the need to investigate others. Especially when she possessed nothing resembling proof. Only a few words overheard by chance, words that no one could or would confirm, that sounded too horrific to be true, even to Trystan.

But in the end, no matter how Ramsey chose to respond, what other course could she choose? This particular plot may have been thwarted. Ramsey would be safe for now. But they would try again, and again. Rowan, she believed, would not stop until he had gained the crown. But how did one already under suspicion of attempted murder go about convincing a man that his brother wished him dead?

“Yes, I’m sure you’re glad.” Ramsey’s icy sneer interrupted her thoughts. “Glad that your little plot has failed. What I wish you would tell me is this: what could you possibly hope to gain? A crown? A kingdom? I cannot believe you blind enough to think that no one would ever find out. That you could go on forever living a lie.”

At that moment, Trystan felt she could not bear to hear more. The part of her that had ridden through the Kingswood in blissful innocence was already dying, shattered and grieved by the harsh words from a man she had so very nearly loved. With almost her last breath, that girl grasped for comfort, reaching into her pocket to grip the golden talisman hidden there and remember his hands, Donevan’s hands, curled warmly around hers.

But her fingers stopped before they reached their goal. There was another part of Trystan that refused to give in. Refused to be crushed by disdain. The girl who had borne her stepmother’s caustic and crushing commentary for years without being utterly defeated. Who rose up now to confront her prince with every bit of pride, every scathing word she had buried rather than said.

“Do you truly wish to know?” Trystan squared her shoulders, released the railing and took a step in Ramsey’s direction. “Or have you already decided what to think? I will answer your questions, Your Highness, but it will do you no good if you have chosen not to hear me!”

She could see him shift backwards, surprised that she attacked when he expected her to retreat. Perhaps she had a chance. If she could keep him off balance long enough to tell him the truth.

Ramsey was indeed startled. He had confronted the girl with her crime, flung it in her face, surprising even himself with the strength of his anger. The sight of the real Elaine, trembling, pale and terrified, had affected him more than he realized. He expected at the least that the impostor would be cowed into admitting guilt. Perhaps make a tearful attempt to win favor by offering to name her confederates. Instead, she flung it back at him with defiance. A fine show of spirit, if not wisdom.

“Why should I trust you?” The way he said it, it was more an accusation than a question.

She did not falter at his coldness. “Because there is no one else to trust.” The ice in her voice matched his own. “Unless you prefer to ask your brother.”

His breath caught in shock. She dared to accuse Rowan? To involve him in her guilt? “That is a gross breach of courtesy as well as sense,” he snarled, taking another threatening step towards her. “I will not permit you to—”

The girl did not even wait for him to finish. “Do not play games with me!” Her anger left him stunned and silent. “Either you want the truth or you do not! Evil does not stop where we wish it to! Not for me and certainly not for you. You know your brother’s character better than I, but if you cannot bear to hear someone else recognize him for what he is then say so and I will stop before your delicate humors are disturbed.”

Ramsey wanted to lash out. To silence her. To pretend he did not know what she meant. But he could not. Because even as she offended on every possible level, she offered what every instinct screamed was the truth. The guilty were not always liars. And he did indeed know Rowan’s character. Or thought he did. So he said nothing as she tore his world to shreds.