While Daref was jealous of the viscount’s rank, Albert, on the other hand, was envious of the extra layer of fat Lord Daref had put on since the last time they’d met. He literally jiggled when he walked. After Daref inquired about his lean frame, the viscount had lied, saying he was taking a vow of abstinence for the love of a lady. She had refused to speak to him, he had explained, but his heart had been so chained that he fasted until she granted him an audience. Turned out she was a stubborn wench. When at last she had relented, he found her a bore beyond suffering. After denying himself for so long, he had wanted to cast his dice and ride the wind. His first thought, naturally, had been to visit his good friend Lord Daref.
Albert chewed on an almond sweetmeat as he watched the crowd. He had two tasks to perform that night and was ever thoughtful of the consequences of both. Success in one would result in a man’s death; failure in the other would result in his own. He needed to line up a job worth paying for his expenses, and he needed to deliver a message to Lord Simon Exeter. The second had been impossible, since the high constable was nowhere to be seen.
“Albert, is that really you?” Lady Constance approached, waving a fan at the top of her breasts.
“Of course not. Albert Winslow is a much more considerate man than I, for he would never have waited so long to greet so magnificent a creature as yourself.” He bowed, took her offered hand, and kissed its back with barely a touch.
Constance was the quintessential lady-in-waiting—gorgeous, but proper to a fault. She spoke with perfect diction, which gave a hard edge to her words, as if she were biting celery. Many men wanted to take her to bed, and dozens claimed they had, but they were all liars. Albert knew only three who had ever succeeded in this endeavor, and none of those ever boasted. He knew this because he was a member of the lucky trio.
“You’re so thin.” She let her eyes linger, her sight roaming up and down his person with a whimsically wicked smile. “Have you been ill?”
“Utterly sick with my longing to see you again.”
She giggled. She did a lot of that. It was her most annoying trait, especially when she did it in bed. There were few things that could kill a romantic mood more than a woman giggling—unless it was her apologizing afterward.
“How have you been?” Albert deftly shifted the course of the conversation. He did not want to spend all night parrying inquiries into how he had spent the last two years, and he had learned long ago that women preferred to talk about themselves whenever possible, even more about other women. “What mischief have you caused since the last time we spoke?”
Another giggle, this one followed by a half-turn and a sultry over-her-bare-shoulder gaze. “You know I would never do anything unseemly.” She batted her eyes.
“Of course not. You are a paragon of virtue.”
“You jest, but as of late it’s unfortunately true. I’m forced into a corner of boredom by a dull landscape.”
“So you haven’t done anything, but surely you know of some decadent gossip.”
“Let’s see … Baroness Quipple is rumored to have had Lady Brendon’s poodle killed for tearing up her roses. Word has it she drowned the poor thing in the same crystal punch bowl that the baroness had gifted to her this past Wintertide.”
“Is it true?”
“I haven’t seen the dog yet.” She offered a wicked smile.
Albert couldn’t share her humor. A dead dog offered few possibilities of employment and he’d been working the party for hours without any luck. “As wonderful a tale as that is—”
“Actually it didn’t have much of a tail!” Constance burst out, and giggled, covering her mouth with her free hand. “I’m absolutely awful, aren’t I?” She caught his eyes and frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“I had been hoping you were only joking when you spoke of a tired landscape.”
“I think I actually described it as dull.”
Always so miserably precise. He wondered if she made a point to giggle an exact number of times. That might be why he found it so annoying. Her laughter wasn’t only excessive, it was repetitious.
“So disappointed.”
“In me?”
“Well … you used to have your ear to the door of every noble, and I could always count on you for something … well … really entertaining.”
“First of all, it’s not my ear to the doors—I have servants for that.” Another uniform giggle. “Second, well…” She hesitated.
“Oh, please, you must indulge me. I am so dying for a good story.”
“Actually…” she began, and then stopped. Her eyes focused on his hands. “Oh dear, where is your drink?”
“Ah, uh, well, that is to say, I was out late last night—if you understand me. My head is still a bit thick.”
“All the more reason, right?” She stood with her hands clasped in front of her, smiling expectantly.
“Oh! Of course, forgive me. Shall I bring you a cider as well?”
“Oh, would you? That would be so kind.”
Albert felt rusty as he wormed his way to the nearest cider barrel. He used to be better at this. He should have offered first. In the past he often had extra cups around him that he offered up without needing to leave.
“Because it is ridiculous!” the Earl of Longbow shouted. “The man has been dead for five hundred years!”
“You’re a coward!” the Earl of West March shouted back.
“You’re a fool!”
The two were near the big oak table, spilling drinks on each other and on Count Pickering, who stood between them like a fence between two bulls. Albert got the drink quickly, making certain to scoop an apple slice into the cup, and returned to Lady Constance.
“The shield argument?” she asked, not noticing or caring that he had no beverage for himself.
“Good to see nothing has changed.”
“They seem more adamant this time.”
“More drunk, I think. Now, you were saying?”
“Oh yes.” Lady Constance pointed across the room. “Do you remember Lady Lillian?”
Albert searched the far side of the hall, seeing a pretty woman who was in a ball gown of pale blue but who looked decidedly stiff. She stared more than watched as if she were in another world. He nodded in her direction. “Lillian Traval of Oaktonshire?”
“Yes, that’s her husband, Hurbert, beside her, the one with the lucrative fleet of trade ships that he runs out of Roe. Well, it seems she got herself in a fine state.”
“She’s not…”
“Oh no, worse—I think. Oh, I really shouldn’t be telling you any of this.”
“How many cups have you had?”
Constance paused, her eyes shifting. “Just since I got here?”
“Never mind, have another sip and go on.”
She followed his instructions, except it was more of a gulp than a sip. “Well, as you may know, she has been suspected of having a fling with Lord Edmund of Sansbury. Which, of course, is true, but she stopped seeing him well over a year ago. As there was never any proof, her husband agreed with her that it was just cruel gossip. But … recently Hurbert asked about her earrings, the ones he gave for their anniversary. He wanted to see them and was oddly demanding. She explained that they must have been stolen, but her husband accused her of leaving them in Edmund’s bedroom.”
“Coincidence?”
“Not likely. And it was then that a chambermaid came to her defense and said that Her Ladyship had lent them to Lady Gertrude just a few days before.”
“Had she?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why did the maid lie?”
“Because she knew where the earrings really were. She knew because she had stolen them. The maid snatched the pair from her lady’s table and handed them over to Baron McMannis, who, as it happens, is in heated negotiations concerning Lord Hurbert’s shipping fleet. McMannis would dearly love to get a peek at Hurbert’s trade manifests.”
“So he put the maid up to it?”
“Absolutely. Planned the whole thing. The maid will come to work at McMannis’s estate where she will no doubt receive several promised perks. Now, in order to avoid appearing to have betrayed her husband, poor Lillian needs to actually betray him and hand over the manifests to get the earrings back. The only problem is that she really does love old Hurbert, and it will break her heart to do it. So as you can see, poor Lillian is beside herself tonight and, sadly, not at all enjoying this wonderful party. Clearly this is not mischief of my making, but I do so enjoy spreading the tale.”
“Gossip becomes you, milady.”