When the young man didn’t look inclined to speak, the duke decided to begin. “You are Captain Huzar, correct?”
The man nodded once from inside his hood but said nothing. Kimisar were darker than Demorans from Aristel, and even this close he almost faded into the shadows. Swirling tattoos on his exposed forearms added to the shapeless effect.
“Are your men in place?”
Huzar responded in a thick accent that hardened every consonant. “Yes. By your calendar, they have arrived.”
D’Amiran allowed a tiny smile. “Excellent.”
Huzar was unmoved by the praise. The lack of deference irritated the duke, but he ignored it for the moment. Things were going too well to quibble over a few phrases of respect from someone who had probably never addressed anyone as important as himself. D’Amiran clasped his hands behind him. “And they all understand their parts?”
“As instructed, only their parts. If some are captured, which is doubtful, they will not be able to inform on the others. Or you.”
“Your men must not frighten the group.” The duke lowered his chin to give Huzar a piercing look. “It only needs to be isolated from communication. As long as they believe nothing is wrong, they’ll continue on their way here.”
Huzar’s lips tightened at the implication his soldiers did not understand their task. “They will not act unless necessary.” He paused. “When shall we expect our hostage?” He couldn’t manage the soft g, and it came out as a hissing sch.
D’Amiran waved his hand. “My brother is seeking him. Prince Robert is a cavalry officer, so it’s only a matter of time until he patrols away from the main force. When your men carry him through the pass at Jovan, much of the army will follow, and we will act. As long as your men in the south can bring the prince back through the pass here, he is yours.”
13
A LINE OF servants carried trays to the ladies’ dining room at sunset. The women ignored them as they set places and filled wine goblets. When the head server announced the evening meal was ready, the guests made their way to the long table.
One server’s mouth twisted in disgust as the higher ladies forced the lower ones to defer to them in small ways. His ears perked up when the conversation began, but after a few minutes he suspected it would bore him to death—luxuries they owned, marriage proposals they’d turned down, and other, even less interesting topics. Only their impression of the soldiers held any interest; they’d be amused to know the girls compared notes. None had recognized Prince Robert, which was a relief.
The matchmaker’s letter had given only surnames, but the ladies addressed one another by first name, leaving him at a bit of a loss until he realized they’d arranged themselves in the same social rank as the list. He studied each girl in turn, attaching names to faces. The unnatural enhancements were distracting—how could they stand the paint on their eyelids? Some of the hair designs looked positively painful; they made his own scalp itch and reminded him he hadn’t had a trim himself in two months, when it occurred to him one lady was missing. He counted again. Only fifteen.
Bowing deferentially, he approached the head of the table. “Mistress Rodelle, may I inquire if all your ladies are present? I see an extra plate.”
The matchmaker scanned the table and sighed. “Yes. She’s probably in the library and didn’t hear dinner called.” The blonde on her left snorted.
He decided there was little more to learn tonight and felt glad for a chance to escape. “Should I fetch her, mistress?”
The blonde—Lady Jacqueline—interjected, “We’ve already finished the first two courses. It would be rude for her to show up now.”
Mistress Rodelle gave the girl a warning look, then turned back to him. “If you’d take a small meal to her, I’d appreciate it. Thank you.”
He bowed and stepped back and around the table to assemble a tray of food. The bread was all taken, and he’d just decided this girl would have to do without when the lady at the matchmaker’s right waved him over. With an inward grimace, he went to her, but to his surprise she handed him her loaf.
“You can take this to her; I have plenty.” Lady Clare smiled and met his eyes—the only lady to have done so. They weren’t all snobs, apparently.
He slipped out of the room and down the dark passageways he’d already memorized in the few hours since arriving. At the library door he balanced the tray on his knee long enough to lift the latch and nudge it open with his elbow. Deliver the food, get a look at her, and get back to the barracks. Based on placement of the empty seat and Lady Jacqueline’s disdain, it was safe to assume this was the last on the list, Lady Broadmoor. He doubted he could find a way to get her first name tonight, though.
She didn’t look up from her seat at the table by the fire, so he cleared his throat as he approached. “Forgive the intrusion, my lady, but I’ve brought you some supper. The other ladies said you wouldn’t be joining them.”
The girl lifted her head from between stacks of books. “Oh, thank you.” She stood and shuffled papers and books aside. “I’ve made a bit of a mess, but you can tell the steward I’ll clean up before I leave.”
She’d been writing in a large ledger. Trying not to be obvious, he maneuvered closer to see. About half the pages looked to have been used, but the book was divided into sections with dog-eared corners, so it wasn’t a diary. His eyes flitted over the scattered scraps of paper around her. Each appeared to have the name of a man on it. The open page had the information of a nearby paper copied on it. Transcribing notes. Interesting.
Her precise handwriting also closely resembled that of the letter from the matchmaker. A strange coincidence to be sure, especially considering what she was writing. He tried to get a better angle, but she gathered a few pages and shoved them into the ledger before closing it. Then she piled a few more books on top and moved them aside. The remaining loose scraps she collected in a stack before turning to toss them in the fire behind her. As the flames blazed higher, he was better able to observe her features.
She looked young, maybe just sixteen, and on the tall side, though perhaps due to her shoes. Her face lacked the doll-like beauty of the other women, but she smiled like she meant it. He couldn’t tell the color of her eyes with her back to the fire, and a halo of fine hairs had escaped her simple braid, giving her a windblown appearance. The color was also difficult to nail down as the dancing light gave it red and golden hues. And either the shadows were playing tricks on him, or her nose was slightly crooked, like it had been broken at some point in the past.