“Miss Feathers, may I beg a simple service of you?” Vitor asked.
She nodded.
“Miss Caulfield has suffered an accident—”
She gasped. Sebastiao’s eyes went wide.
“She is well.” He prayed it was true. “But she requires fresh garments. In the absence of the maids, may I prevail upon you to choose for her suitable raiment?”
“Of course, my lord.”
Sebastiao thrust back his shoulders. “I will assist you, madam. A diminutive lady like yourself mustn’t be employed in tasks suited to servants.”
“Oh, I don’t mind it, your highness,” she said, staring at her shoes. “I like to be useful.”
Sebastiao took her hand upon his arm. “Shall we?” He opened the door to Miss Caulfield’s bedchamber and they passed inside. Rubbing the back of his neck, Vitor headed for the great hall and his coat.
“THANK YOU, MISS Feathers. You are kind to lend me these.” Ravenna fingered the frothy neckline of the muslin gown that was insanely impractical for a castle in the middle of winter, but she could not have refused it.
“I hoped you would like them. The prince insisted. He said that . . .” Miss Feathers’s cheeks colored like round ripe peaches. “That your gowns . . .”
“That my gowns are not as fashionable as everybody else’s?” A vast understatement. Petti had insisted she pack more than her usual gowns borrowed from the housekeeper. Even so, she had nothing to compare to the potential brides’ clothing. “I don’t mind it, Miss Feathers. In the usual course of things, you see, I have no need of such finery.”
“Miss Caulfield?”
Ravenna took another sip of tea. She couldn’t seem to drink enough of it; the chill had only just left her bones. Petti had suggested adding whiskey to the tea, but she didn’t fancy having a muddled head the next time the killer tried to dispatch her. Or the next time Lord Vitor Courtenay came within five yards. “Yes?”
“Would you—” Miss Feathers attempted. “That is to say, I wonder if you would not take it amiss if I asked— I mean to say, if you might consider—”
“I would be happy to call you Ann if you will call me Ravenna.”
Her face relaxed. “You do not mind that I ask?”
“You haven’t asked. I offered.”
Ann fingered her ruffled cuff. “I never had a sister. And I have rarely had . . .”
“A friend?” Ravenna reached for Ann’s hand and squeezed. “Now you do.”
“You don’t think I . . . Well, that is . . . that I . . .” Her eyes dropped to her lap in confusion.
“That you are the murderer? I don’t. You are far too kind, as evidenced by these gowns and whatnot that you have lent me.” She had changed out of her sodden shift into one of Ann’s deliciously thin French linen chemises, dry stays of the finest cord and linen, a petticoat embroidered with tiny pink roses at the bosom, and a pale green pin-striped frock. Wrapped in a blanket and curled into the remarkably comfortable chair Mr. Brazil had set by the fire in her bedchamber, she felt like a veritable queen. “You may never have had a friend to call by her Christian name before, but I have never worn such a pretty dress.” Albeit with three superfluous flounces at the hem. But those could be removed with the needle she carried in her black bag for emergency surgeries.
Lord Vitor’s knife would do the job even quicker, she suspected. He had removed her icy clothing from her as though it was second nature in him to cut women out of their garments. Then he had carried her in his arms, against his chest.
“But, you see, Ravenna . . .” Ann tried the name on her lips as though it were foreign, which it was. Ravenna had no memory of her mother or father and she had no idea why they had named her after an ancient Italian city. Whimsy, perhaps. The same whimsy that had made her mother send three tiny daughters on a boat from the West Indies all the way to England with no protection except an old nurse.
“What do I see?” she prompted.
Ann’s eyes darted to the closed door, then back to her, like soft gray flowers now. “I encountered Mr. Walsh the night—” She laid the back of her hand across her mouth and said upon a rush, “I believe I encountered him directly before he died.”
Ravenna sat forward with a jerk. Tea spilled on the blanket.
“Oh, no,” Ann exclaimed. “Look what I have made you do. I knew I should not have—”
“Ann, I pray you, tell me about it.”
The door opened and Prince Sebastiao smiled with every tooth in his mouth, it seemed. Golden epaulets and a sash dotted with medals decorated his vibrant red coat.
“Miss Feathers, you bade me wait, but I could not endure it another moment. I am of an impatient temperament.” He swept a flourishing bow to Ravenna. She and Ann began to stand, but he exclaimed, “No! You shan’t rise on my account. Rather, I should be prostrating myself at your feet. Miss Caulfield, I am devastated that you have been harmed in my home.” His smile was radiant and teasing at once. He was not a particularly handsome man, but appealing when he wasn’t foxed. His eyes crinkled at the edges.
“You mustn’t, your highness,” she said.
“Ah, that is a relief,” he replied with exaggerated relief. “Without my usual bevy of servants, I cannot hope for a new pair of trousers any time soon. I shouldn’t sully the knees of these.”
“And if you made yourself truly prostrate, your coat would suffer from it as well. Those medals are too pretty to scuff.”
He glanced at his chest and fingered the decorations. “They are, aren’t they?” The corner of his mouth quirked up anew. “Fakes. Every last one of them. Invented by the royal jeweler for decoration only. I am my father’s only heir, and he did not allow me to go to war.”
Miss Feathers’s eyes widened.
“You are stunned. And well you should be. Ah well,” he sighed. “I never claimed to be a noble warrior. Pistols are loud and they stain everything.”
“You are too modest, your highness.”
“Not at all. Only honest . . . in this instance.” He bowed. “Dear ladies, you seem to encourage the best in me.”
Perhaps he was not dissipated and wicked, after all. Perhaps he was only young and spoiled.
“Enough of me,” he said. “Miss Caulfield, say the word and I shall order that wretched river drained and filled in with dirt.”
Miss Feathers giggled softly.
“That will not be necessary, your highness,” Ravenna said.
His cheeks shone with pleasure. He cast Ann a lazy smile. “She rejects my offer. Ah, Miss Feathers, what is a man to do with an obstinate woman?”
“Allow her the obstinacy,” Lord Vitor said at the doorway. “She will learn in time that it is not to her benefit.”
“You are a beast, Courtenay,” the prince chided, swinging around to him. “No true gentleman could be so cold.”
Lord Vitor’s gaze came to Ravenna. “Then I mustn’t be a true gentleman.”
“I know what!” the prince said brightly. “We shall get up a play. Two years ago to celebrate Napoleon’s second capture I had a grand masked ball here. Magnificent party. Everybody in spectacular costumes. I’m certain Brazil could find them somewhere about this old place, in the attics or whatnot. It should be precisely the thing to enliven the gloom about here. Miss Caulfield, you shall have the prime seat in the audience.”