Once again, I can feel the immense weight of Beast’s gaze upon me. I do not know if it is that gaze, the abbess’s veiled barbs, or my desire to erase some of d’Albret’s taint from myself, but before thinking it through, I speak. “I could identify them.”
All eyes turn toward me. One gaze in particular feels sharper than broken glass. “You?” the abbess asks.
“Who better?”
The duchess leans forward, her eyes serious. “You do not need to do this. You have already put yourself in far too much danger.”
“My sister is right. Besides, in practical terms, if they saw you, it might tip our hand,” Duval says.
I nod my head in agreement. “But they do not need to see me in order for me to identify them. It is no hard thing to don a disguise.”
Beast speaks for the first time, his voice rumbling into the small room. “I am not certain that is advisable,” he says.
My head snaps up. His dissent is like a kick to my gut, for while I know he is angry with me, I had not realized his newfound distrust would run this deep. “I do not see how we have a choice if we wish to gain the upper hand in this.”
“There is always a choice.” Beast turns from me and addresses the others. “I think this is a bad idea.”
“Do you not think I am capable, my lord?”
His hands grip the arms of his chair so hard that it is a wonder the wood does not splinter. “I know full well you are most capable, my lady. What I do not know is whether the costs would be worth the risks.”
“And what risks would those be, my lord?” My words drip with honeyed sweetness that is as false as it is polite.
He says nothing, but he glowers at me from across the table. The loathing he shows toward me is every bit as painful as I feared. “If you do not trust me—”
“Of course he trusts you, my lady! If not for you, he would still be rotting in some dungeon, or worse.”
“I am so glad that someone remembers,” I mutter. I take a steadying breath, and when I speak again, my voice is calm. “If you do not trust me, or are too worried about the risks, the captain can send whatever men he likes to accompany me. Indeed, the plan will only work if he does, for a man can stay close to the traitors and mark their movements, while I cannot.” Beast and I hold each other’s gazes for a long moment.
Captain Dunois begins stroking his chin again, a sure sign he is deep in thought. “I do not see how it could do any harm. And while I hate to ask this of you, it is unnerving knowing his agents are lurking about in the city, waiting for orders from him. We could start with the free companies and hangers-on. That would be the easiest place for someone to slip in unremarked.”
“I concur, Captain. It is decided, then. How shall we do it?” We spend the better part of an hour hammering out a plan. The entire time, I can feel the abbess watching me. Her displeasure puzzles me somewhat, for have I not done the very thing she wishes, showing how helpful the convent can be in such times? But it may be that only she is allowed to offer such help.
By the time we finally have our plan in place, Beast is pale, whether from his injuries or his fury, I cannot tell. As we rise to leave, the abbess takes two steps toward me, her lips pressed into a flat line. Before she can say anything, the duchess calls out. “Lady Sybella?”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Will you attend upon me this afternoon? I have some things I would speak with you on.”
My heart skips lightly at this reprieve she has granted me. “But of course, Your Grace.” Without glancing back at the abbess, I follow the duchess out of the room.
Chapter Thirty-One
“METHINKS YOUR ABBESS WAS NOT pleased with the service you offered us in the meeting.”
“She did seem most unhappy. Forgive me if I overstepped, Your Grace. I only wished to help in some way. It is my family, after all, that is plaguing you so.”
Much to my surprise, the duchess stops walking and grabs my wrist. “No,” she says fiercely. “I do not hold you responsible for Count d’Albret’s actions. If I held you responsible for those, then would I not be responsible for what he has done in my name?”
I stare mutely, as I have no answer to give her.
“Tell me,” she whispers, her hands twisting together in a knot. “Tell me of those who died at Nantes. Tell me so that I may honor their memory and the sacrifice that they made.”
In that moment, my budding admiration coalesces into respect. She accepts not only the power and privilege of ruling, but also the painful responsibility.