“Poor Davith. How undignified.”
“I don’t give a damn about my dignity, I just don’t want to get caught. You go to a table where the play is deep and at least one of the players is fleecing the others. If I want to play it safe, I’m playing for chicken stakes.”
“Tsk, tsk.” Marguerite raised an eyebrow. “And your…ah…other widow isn’t providing sufficient love gifts?”
He went quiet for an instant too long. Marguerite could practically hear the wheels turning. Davith was clever and very good at getting into people’s good graces, but he did not have her experience in the game.
“My other widow would like results before they send more gifts,” he admitted. “Of course, you’re familiar with how that works.”
“Very familiar.” Her current hope was to convince Davith that she was still working for the Red Sail, and that their employer had seen fit to pit them against each other. Sadly, not as unrealistic as it could be. There are always spymasters who think it’s cute to make their people fight. “I would offer to help, but I would not want your widow to think that you were taking gifts from someone else.” She gave him a level look under her lashes. “You know how highly some prize loyalty.”
He grimaced. “I do, yes. I suppose I shall simply muddle through.”
Just how desperate was he? Marguerite studied the lines of his face; the circles under his eyes expertly concealed with paint. His clothes were quite fine, but if you knew where to look, you could make out signs of expert mending. His own work, if memory serves. How much is he cutting his coat to fit his cloth, though?
She examined her nails with studied casualness. “Of course, some would say that what one’s paramours don’t know won’t hurt them. If I were to come across a bauble that might interest your other widow, perhaps I might be convinced to part with it.”
“And what would be in it for you? I have little to offer except my gratitude.” His smile was equally studied, although there was a gleam of the old wickedness in his eyes. “Mind you, I have been complimented on the size of my gratitude before…”
She snorted at him. “I don’t require that sort of gratitude, thank you.”
She thought that she waited a sufficient amount of time afterward before glancing in Shane’s direction, but Davith always did have a sense for those things.
“Ahhh…” he murmured, “So that’s the way of things, is it?”
Marguerite didn’t bother to deny it. Denial would only have looked suspicious, even if it was, regrettably, true. “My bodyguard,” she said. “Pretty, isn’t he?”
“Very. I’d try to bed him myself if I hadn’t sworn off men.”
“You swore off men?”
“Years ago. We’re far too much trouble. I don’t know why you put up with us.”
“Someone has to reach the high shelves.”
He laughed softly. “There’s that. I wouldn’t suggest you bed that one, though, my dear. He’ll disappoint you.”
Irritation sparked and she had to work to keep her tone light. “And you wouldn’t?”
“My dear Marguerite, it is my job to know what a woman wants.” He stroked a fingertip down her bare arm and she repressed the shiver, turning to glare at him. “You want, for once, not to be performing. You want to be in charge, not pretending that some slobbering minor politician is doing you a favor by bedding you.”
The problem with other spies was that they were just as capable of seeing you as you were of seeing them. Marguerite shook her head, annoyed with both of them. “And you’d be happy to let me be in charge, I suppose?”
Davith chuckled. “Oh, a few times at least, until the novelty wears off. But that fellow…no, the moody types come in like a storm. Look at his eyes. He is waiting to see who he needs to kill.”
“He’s a professional killer, what do you expect?”
“An assassin?”
“A knight.”
Davith’s laugh was startled and unfeigned. “Good god. A knight for a bodyguard? You?”
“He can’t be bought and he’s good at what he does.”
“Stone the crows, of course. I don’t know why I never thought of it.”
“Because you lack imagination, my dear Davith.” She stretched up and planted a kiss in the air a few inches from his cheek. “And now, as delightful as this conversation has been, I shall take my leave. Good luck with your widow.”
“I am certain that the lady shall yield to my charms eventually,” he said, with a mournful glance at his feet. “I only hope that it is before my socks have too many more holes in them.”
Marguerite shook her head and went to find other people to mingle with.
SEVENTEEN
FOR THE FIRST time in three days, Shane was not shadowing Marguerite. She had gone to a meeting and bodyguards were, apparently, not allowed.
“It’s not that it’s dangerous,” she said, “it’s that there’s no room. The largest meeting room they can give us only fits a hundred or so, and we’ll be packed in like pickled herring in a jar. There’s no room to attack anyone.”
“Poison could be administered, or a very narrow dagger—”
Marguerite just looked at him. “I’d notice. And since I couldn’t get out of the room before I dropped dead, it would make quite a scene.”
“But the danger is there. It is my duty—"
“It is your duty to follow my orders.”
This was true so far as it went, and it probably wasn’t dangerous enough to try to veto it, but Shane made one last stab. “I could pretend to be your apprentice.”
She put her hands on her hips and gazed up at him. “Because you look so much like a perfumer’s apprentice.”
“What do those look like?”
Her mouth suddenly curved in one of those irrepressible grins. Shane had a sudden urge to run his thumb across her lower lip. He froze that thought and set it aside to dispose of later.
“They wear less armor,” she said, patting his arm. He could feel the touch through his surcoat, chain, and a layer of padding. “And they don’t walk like they’re trying to figure out how to murder everyone in the room.”
“Not everyone.”
“I’ll see you in three hours. Wait for me at the door of the meeting room. Go take a walk or a nap or something.”
Shane bowed his head in acknowledgment. There was, after all, a second mission that he had been ordered to accomplish, and now was as good a time as any. He only hoped that it did not bring another layer of complication down on all their heads.
“PARDON MY INTERRUPTION,” said Shane, approaching two ladies hovering over a punchbowl.
The taller of the two eyed him appreciatively from behind her fan. “You can interrupt me any time.”
Shane coughed. “I am looking for Lady Silver.”
“Oh, her,” said the other one, waving her fan dismissively. “I might have known.”
“Do you know where I might find her?”
“She was in the Lion Room, last I saw,” said the taller one. “Wearing a green gown.”
“You can’t miss her,” said the short one, “she’s a real bitch.”
“Martha!” gasped her companion, with a shocked giggle.