I shrug. “You are most charming, so it seems fitting to me.”
Fran?ois’s brown eyes grow serious. “There is more to me than that, demoiselle.”
“Is there now?” I ask, putting just a touch of doubt in my voice so that he will be compelled to prove it to me.
In spite of the seriousness that has fallen over him, he smiles. “I was dedicated to Saint Mer,” he says, "With the hopes that I would have a naval career.” He gives a self-deprecating grimace. “Until we discovered that I become deathly seasick and am of absolutely no use to anyone on a boat.”
I laugh, as he intends me to, but I am more than a little surprised to find that I grieve for him as well. It is no small thing to be dedicated to a saint you cannot serve. “And your sister the duchess?” I ask.
“Ah, Saint Brigantia,” he says, then falls silent.
Of course. The patron saint of wisdom.
“You are not close to your sister, are you?”
He looks up at me again, and this time his normally open gaze is unreadable. “I was not given a chance. From the time of her birth, Duval was her champion; I could never get close.”
I study him. It is not the faint bitterness in his voice that surprises me but the faint echo of abandonment. “You miss him,” I say in surprise.
Fran?ois picks up his rook and studies it. “Aye, I miss him. we spent our youth doing everything together. He was my older brother, the one who taught me how to hold a sword and how to draw a bow and where to fish for the fattest pike. when Anne was born, that all fell away, and he became consumed by duty.” He moves his rook down eight spaces. “Check,” he says quietly.
I study the board a moment, trying to force my mind back to the game. At last I move a pawn. It is a feeble move, and Fran?ois looks at me with mild amusement. “Does speaking of my brother distract you so very much?” he asks.
“No,” I say, managing a dismissive laugh. “It is just that I am so very bad at chess, as I warned you.”
He smiles, but it does not reach his eyes. Something behind me draws his attention. “Gavriel, you finally decided to come up for air?”
I look over my shoulder, surprised to see Duval glowering in the doorway. “No,” he says shortly. “I came because I must speak with Demoiselle Rienne. If you’ll excuse us?” His voice is filled with ice and I cannot fathom why.
“But of course.” Fran?ois stands.
As soon as I reach Duval’s side, he takes my elbow in an iron grip. I wince as he begins walking me to the door. His face is unreadable and I have to quicken my pace lest I end up being dragged. even so, something compels me to glance back at Fran?ois. His eyes are fastened hungrily on Duval and filled with yearning.
Once Duval and I are in the hall, I pull away from him. “Have I done something wrong?”
He stops, twirls me around to face him, then backs me up against the wall. His eyes spark in fury as he leans in close. “Did you receive orders from the convent that you did not share with me?”
Before I can utter so much as a word, he gives me a little shake. “Did you?”
“No!”
“Do you swear to it? Swear on your service to Mortain, if that is what you hold most dear.”
I frown at him. “Yes, I swear it. Tell me what’s happened.”
He stares at me a long moment. “Better,” he finally says, “I will show you.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Duval tucks my arm through his — none too gently — then leads me deep into the castle. His face is set in harsh lines and there is a grimness I have not seen for a number of days. “How long have you been in the grand salon?” he asks.
“An hour. Maybe more.”
“Has Fran?ois been with you that whole time?”
“Yes, my lord, but — ”
"What of my mother? Did you see any sign of her while you Were there?”
“No. what is amiss?”
He does not answer as we hasten through the hallways, past closed doors and empty chambers. "Why are we in such a hurry?” I ask, breathless.
“Because there isn’t much time before news begins to spread through the castle faster than the plague.”
we finally reach a closed wooden door. Duval nods at the guard posted there, who steps aside to let us enter. Duval leads me into to a well-furnished room with an outside balcony. winding steps lead from the balcony to a private courtyard. Duval points to a still, twisted body on the flagstones below. “Fedric, Duke of Nemours.”
“No!” I whisper, then lift my skirts and hurry down the staircase. I curse my sense of death, wishing to hold out hope one moment longer, but there is no mistaking that Nemours is dead.
when I reach the body, I kneel at his side. "When did this happen?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
I glance sharply back at Duval. One eyebrow is raised in a sardonic question that does nothing to mask the fury and disappointment he feels.
“You cannot think that I did this!”
“I cannot?”