"Who is that, my lord?”
When he looks up, his eyes are so dark they seem almost black. “You,” he says, our eyes holding for a long moment. “I can count you among those loyal to the duchess, can’t I?”
“Of course, my lord,” I murmur, struggling against the unexpected warmth his words bring me. But, I remind myself, I am not the issue. Better for me to ask if I can count him among those loyal to the duchess. Instead, I look back down at the board and wonder what piece Duval has assigned to himself.
Chapter Eighteen
I stand among a gaggle of women who are clucking and honking like a flock of geese. They are tugging and pulling and patting and smoothing until I fear I will scream. Instead, I stare out the window at the lengthening shadows and wonder how they would react if they knew what I planned to hide under this fine skirt and these elaborate sleeves.
Louyse gives a final tug, then steps back. “You look a wonder, demoiselle.” There is a warm glow in her old cheeks.
Young Agnez clasps her hands together as if in prayer. “It is the finest thing I’ve ever seen.”
I want to dismiss their foolish prattle, but as I finger the heavy silken brocade, I cannot help but agree. I do not know where these seamstresses have found this gown or whose it was supposed to be, but it is mine now, and I must remind myself that assassins should take no pleasure in their finery and frippery.
But surely even a knight can admire his armor?
“Go get the mirror from the master’s chambers,” Louyse tells the others.
“That is not necessary,” I tell her. “I trust what you have done.”
“Pish.” Louyse flaps her hand. “You should see how lovely you look.”
I realize then how much she misses having a lady of the manor. I also realize that she does indeed know that Duval has spent the night in my room and is much pleased by it. The housekeeper appears to have a taste for romance, and I do not have the heart to take that from her, so I keep silent.
Agnez and the other two women return to the room, lugging the heavy mirror between them. when they lean it against the wall, Louyse takes my hand and gently pulls me toward it. “There.” The triumph in her voice is unmistakable.
"Well? what do you think?” Young Agnez is practically bouncing on her toes in her excitement.
Slowly I lift my eyes to the image in the mirror and for one heart-stopping moment I do not recognize that person. It is most certainly not me, for my complexion has never been that fine nor my cheeks tinged with such a becoming shade of pink. The dusk-colored gown has done something to my eyes, and they shine back deep and luminous. I am filled with a ridiculous desire to lift my skirts and twirl to see how the fabric moves. Instead, I scowl at my image and turn away abruptly. “It will do,” I say, and I harden my heart against the women’s falling faces. “Now leave me, please. I would like a few moments alone before I go.”
“But your hair,” Louyse says, her old face uncertain now.
I soften my voice. “Thank you, but I can dress it myself. You forget that I am convent raised and all this vanity sits poorly on me.”
“Ah.” Her old face clears with understanding, and she reaches out and pats my hand. Then she shoos the others from my room as she leaves, and I am blessedly alone. At least for a moment. I allow myself another quick look in the mirror, and — with no one to see — I do give a twirl, savoring the thick drape of the heavy skirt and the way the fabric ripples like water.
Feeling foolish, I turn my back on my mirror and hurry to the bed and snatch up the net of gold and pearls. I hastily twist my hair into a knot, then secure the net around it.
Next, I go to the mattress and reach for my weapons. The moment my fingers touch my ankle sheath, certainty flows in my veins once more. I strap it in place, then take up the wrist sheath. There is barely enough room for it under the tight sleeve, but after a long struggle, I am able to make everything work. I slip the lethal golden bracelet onto my wrist, then put my hand to my waist. At the comforting touch of the misericorde, I smile, and a sense of purpose settles over me. Surely Mortain will make His wishes known to me tonight, and I will be able to deal with our country’s traitors in a manner suited to their crimes.
I am still smiling at that thought as I go to meet Duval. He is waiting for me at the foot of the staircase, and when I appear at the top of the steps, he forgets what he is saying to his steward and stares as if he has never seen me before. even though this may well be an act, it pleases me more than it should. It cannot all be an act, for Duval is master at having the last word and would never knowingly grant me such an advantage. “That will do for now,” he finally tells the steward.
“Good evening, milord,” I say as I descend the stairs, trying to tamp down the bubble of pleasure.