“Does he?”
“Oh, yes. Why only yesterday he told me how Lord Vitor’s piety astounds and amazes him.”
“His piety?”
“Why, yes. Why else do you think he has ridden up the mountain every morning?”
To find a hidden path used by a thief or murderer. “Why has he?”
“He visits Father Denis at the hermitage.” Ann’s pale brow creased. “It is a singular thing to contemplate.”
A young, handsome, virile lord paying daily calls on a hermit in a mountain peak retreat? “What is singular to contemplate?”
“Wedding a Catholic.” Ann’s eyes opened wide and as round as the cut of bone in Ravenna’s palm. “Oh, Ravenna, you must believe me horridly presumptuous. The prince is kind to all the ladies, and I know he admires Lady Iona’s beauty and Lady Penelope’s elegance. And you are quite obviously his favorite. He produced the play to amuse you, after all.”
“I think it may have been a case of a suitable excuse,” Ravenna said. “He clearly enjoys the theater.”
“He is such a fine actor. He says it is the only thing he does better than Lord Vitor. But I cannot understand why that should matter to him as he is a prince and Lord Vitor is only the second son of a marquess.” Her delicate brow pleated. “He said that perhaps if he had lived for years in a monastery he might have the presence of mind and noble duty toward others that Lord Vitor does. I assured him that could not be true and that he is as splendid a man as ever I have known.” Emotions overcoming her, she threw caution to the wind and grasped Ravenna’s sleeve. “Do you think I spoke too forwardly when I said that, Ravenna? I should be ashamed beyond measure if he believed me immodest. But he was so low-spirited. I simply had to say something to cheer him.”
Ravenna understood that with Lady Margaret as a mother, Ann Feathers came to her to unburden herself of words as much as concerns. Plenty of farmers’ wives did the same when she visited their homes to give care to a child or animal or the woman herself. With no one to speak to all day except their little ones, their conversation often ran like a creek after a spring rain, and she listened. Ann’s flowing confidences had not before disturbed her.
Now they did.
Years in a monastery?
She detached her arm from Ann’s grip. “I do not believe you have said anything amiss.” She wrapped the bone in a cloth. “Prince Sebastiao is still young and uncertain of himself. But so are you young, with, however, the understanding of a woman, which is always greater than a man’s understanding. You can truly appreciate him, and for that I am certain he must be very glad.”
Ann leaped up and threw her arms about Ravenna’s neck.
“Dear, dear Ravenna,” she whispered. “How grateful I am that Prince Raynaldo invited you to attend this party. When I marry, I wish for you to stand up with me at the altar.” She released her. “Will you?”
Ravenna could not decline.
Lady Iona appeared in the doorway, eyes bright with excitement. “Come, lasses. Monsieur Sepic has returned.”
They hurried to the drawing room. The Frenchman stood in its center, the focus of all attention. He bowed to the prince, Lord Whitebarrow, Lord Case, and Lord Vitor, then to the duchess and the countess.
“Well, out with it, man,” Lord Whitebarrow demanded.
“The assassin,” the mayor said gravely, “has been found in the village.”
Cecilia’s hand flew to her mouth, catching her exclamation of relief. Iona slipped an arm around her waist and squeezed her close. Cecilia leaned into the embrace and tears trickled down her cheeks.
Lord Prunesly turned his face away.
“Who did it, monsieur?” Lady Margaret asked.
Monsieur Sepic became deeply interested in the pattern of the rug beneath his boots. “My deputy, Monsieur Paul,” he said in clipped accents. Then he thrust up his chin. “Because he is the son of my sister, the imbecile believed himself to be immune to the law. The drunkard confessed to me. He is now locked in my jail.”
“I’ve a mind to ask him if Mr. Paul’s still got the thither key,” Iona whispered to Ravenna, but Ravenna could not laugh. Relief slid through her. Then Lord Vitor’s gaze caught hers and the slight crease in his cheek put the last vestiges of her guilt to flight.
MR. ANDERS WAS freed. Wholly contrite, he waited attendance upon the ladies as though he had never been acquainted with angst or drama. Although his poet’s hair still fell across one eye, he spoke to the gentlemen without a hint of poor humor.
No one had really known Mr. Walsh. The relief they all felt upon discovering the identity of his murderer—and that it was not one of their own number—was undimmed by grief over his death. Within hours, the members of the prince’s party were chatting gaily and laughing, and raising toasts to the mayor’s investigative brilliance and the prince’s hospitality. Someone suggested making another attempt at staging the play on the following day, and the idea was greeted with enthusiasm all around. Prince Sebastiao soon required Monsieur Brazil to bring additional bottles from the cellar, and the afternoon turned to merry celebration.
The servants returned from the village, weary of sleeping on straw pallets and dining on peasant fare, by all appearances cheerful to be at the beck and call of their masters again. A-bustle with busy maids and footmen and valets, the castle exhibited the sort of industry that only came with a gathering of men and women of consequence and wealth.
Sir Henry suggested that it would be splendid to stretch the horses’ legs, and wouldn’t the ladies like a ride in a sleigh? Two such conveyances could be found in the carriage house. Horses were harnessed and saddle mounts prepared. As the sun descended everybody had opportunity from sleigh bed to marvel at the white bedecked landscape, the quaint little village in which a murderer now suffered behind bars, and the snow-capped turrets and battlements glowing red in the fading light as they approached the chateau upon their return.
Goblets of mulled wine awaited the chilled hands of the prince’s guests in the drawing room. More toasts were raised. The servants had been whipped into a frenzy of activity while the guests disported themselves out of doors. The prince wanted a party, and everybody obliged.
Ravenna had often seen this sort of grand celebration, but always from below stairs. Confronted by it now, she barely knew how to go on. After dinner in the drawing room she watched Lord Whitebarrow approach Iona with a glass of wine, and a sick sensation wiggled through her belly. Lord Case once again stood by Arielle at the pianoforte. The precious dog—a dog for whom a man had encouraged his children to thieve—sat upon her lap sipping from a porcelain cup. For the first time in a sennight Ravenna now noticed the delicate lace on the bodice of Arielle’s exquisite gown, the small, glittering tiara set in her dark locks, and the collar fashioned of leather braided with gold filigree about Marie’s neck.
Beast had never worn a collar of any sort. Now, surrounded by wealth and comfort, he would have been sitting by the window watching for hare and wishing he were chasing them through knee-deep snow.
Prickles crept along Ravenna’s shoulders. As they had done once before in this castle, the walls seemed to creep inward. Toward her. This was a strange world, a world in which amiable young ladies took married men as their lovers, in which rich young men with no occupation goaded poor peasants to commit murder, and in which she had nothing whatsoever in common with the son of a marquess—second son or any. He had not approached her since the mayor’s announcement. She could only imagine that he, as she, was now coming to recognize the inequality of their friendship. Mr. Walsh’s death had turned the castle upside down and for a moment she had forgotten, as perhaps he had, that this place of ancient towers, glittering crystal, gold and jewels and velvet and satin was not her world.