“Two things,” she said, drawing him away from the group with which he had been mingling. “First, I would have you seek out my musketeer. I have a task I need him to perform.”
Don Angelo’s silvered brows drew down. “Is something the matter, Highness?”
“Nothing,” she lied. “It is a personal matter between me and his master, for which he is the only suitable go-between. Will you help me?”
Don Angelo looked as if he wanted a better explanation but said, “Of course.”
That was a relief. If she was right, Kantelvar had murderous intentions toward Jean-Claude, and he must be warned. And if there was some other truth, she would still feel happier knowing he was safe.
“And the second thing. Might you tell me who invited that mathematician, Lord DuJournal, to the ball?”
“Has he offended you, Highness?”
Isabelle still didn’t like anyone stealing her work, but if the imposter could help her expose Kantelvar’s schemes to the world she’d let him keep the name. “Quite the contrary. It was very thoughtful of his patron to invite someone with whom I might speak in my native tongue. I wish to thank the patron personally.”
Don Angelo brightened at this. “In that case, it is my pleasure to tell you that his invitation was given to me by Princesa Xaviera.”
Isabelle was nonplussed; that was an entirely unanticipated angle. Contrary to rational expectations, Princess Xaviera had been the least of Isabelle’s concerns. Did this mean that she knew about Isabelle’s literary double life? If so, sending a DuJournal imposter was a strange way of showing it. Or was Xaviera also a dupe of the imposter?
“Where is she now?” Isabelle asked. The seat Xaviera had occupied earlier was empty, and she was not to be seen on the dance floor.
“She does not share your enthusiasm for our celebration,” Don Angelo explained. “She has retired for the evening.”
DuJournal seemed to have disappeared as well, though now that everyone was unmasked, she had lost her one real point of reference for most of the guests. Kantelvar had also disappeared. She disliked having him present, but his absence made her cold with dread. What could he be plotting now?
To Don Angelo she said, “And if you could please have someone summon Kantelvar for me? I have had a thought pertaining to his investigations that I would share with him personally.” Even if Kantelvar refused her summons, the fact that he had people looking for him might deter him from doing anything diabolical. She wished she could have someone go check on Marie, but she had no precise idea where her hollow friend was.
And then she was back to dancing—it was the safest place she could be—and thinking. Diego had put Thornscar’s mirror aboard her ship. He had to know about the prince. Was he trying to help Julio thwart Margareta and Kantelvar by killing his potential brides? Isabelle felt like she was one obstinate variable short of an equation. No matter how she turned it around in her head she kept coming up with a tautology. She needed one more factor. One more substitution.
Substitution. One expression that serves exactly the same purpose as another.
She looked up at Julio. A man without a scar. A man with a wooden leg who would have been no good at all running up and down stairs in a burning ship.
“Oh merde,” she breathed.
*
Jean-Claude sucked in his gut as Adel buttoned his doublet, snowy white with silver buttons in the shape of the thundercrown, epaulets, and lots of silver braid. Formal uniforms were a lot like coffins, in Jean-Claude’s opinion; both were methods to present stiff old sticks in public. He’d rather have been trolling the unlit streets, the taverns, the filthiest gutters stocked with the lowliest scum of the world than spending one minute amongst the oh-so-noble throng, but tonight, for Isabelle’s sake, he had to put on the proper show.
Adel examined him. “You must have cut quite a dashing figure in your youth.”
Jean-Claude put on a pained expression. “Are you implying I no longer do?”
“Hah! Time has made you more solid than dashing, I think. A redoubtable profile.”
“Mademoiselle.” Jean-Claude smiled. “No man’s pride may survive your scrutiny.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Oh, but, se?or, I have not had the opportunity to scrutinize your manly pride.” Jean-Claude’s eyebrows rose. It had been a very long time since he had been propositioned so; the women in Windfall had quite given up on him. He had always been so preoccupied with guarding Isabelle. And was he any less so now? Hardly, but Adel seemed to move in the same layer of pressure that he did. She might understand … or she might have an ulterior motive, perhaps trying to peel him away from Isabelle or divide his loyalty. Not that Adel seemed the type, but he had not known her long or well, and, for Isabelle’s sake, he simply could not take chances.
Sluicing himself with self-deprecation, he said, “Alas, I doubt it would be able to answer your call. It has been some years since the regiment has mustered.” Thank the Builder for a codpiece that covered his lie. He bowed over her hand but did not kiss it.
“Oh.” She flushed with embarrassment and retreated to more formal tones. “Builder keep you.”
“Until the Savior comes.” He took up a polished walking stick, donated by Don Angelo; made his way out of Isabelle’s chambers; and girded himself for the hobble to the grand hall. At the front door, he was very nearly bowled over by a royal page coming the other way.
“Oh, excuse me, se?or,” said the child. He was about to brush on by when his gaze focused on Jean-Claude. “Are you the musketeer? I am supposed … I mean, Princesa Isabelle invites you to attend her.”
Jean-Claude chuckled indulgently. “Very good, boy. As it happens, I am heading that way now.”
“Oh. Uh, if milord pleases, a coach awaits.”
“I have become fond of coaches in my old age.” Jean-Claude followed the boy into the torch-lit night. A whole fleet of conveyances ringed the courtyard like ships in a harbor. The creak of wood and leather and the grunting, snorting conversation of horses underlay the muted, mingled gossip of servants.
At the foot of the steps awaited a dark coach. Jean-Claude asked, “How did Princess Isabelle know I was here?”
“I don’t know, se?or; I don’t get explanations, just orders.”