The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(127)

The porter handed them off to another retainer who escorted the twins across the outer courtyard and through into the privy apartments. Mal stole a sidelong glance at the man: one of Grey’s personal guards by the look of him, broad-shouldered but light of step, staring straight ahead but nonetheless aware of everything around him. Including Mal’s attention. Mal looked away, focused on the house they were entering. Quiet. No sounds of music or merriment as one might expect in a rich man’s mansion on a summer’s evening, but it was hard to imagine Grey hosting a masquerade. He wondered how the duke passed his leisure hours. No doubt he was one of those men who lived for his work, the way others lived for pleasure.

So sure was he of this picture of his employer that he was surprised to be shown up to a spacious parlour where Grey, his wife and his mother were sitting around a table playing cards. Candles lit the players’ faces and the game in front of them, but the rest of the chamber was lost in shadows.

“Sir Maliverny Catlyn. And brother.” The guard snapped a bow and withdrew.

“A little late for a social call, is it not?” Grey folded his cards and put them face down on the polished surface, but did not get up. “I thought you’d fled the country.”

“My brother and I were called away on… business, my lord.”

“And has it been concluded in a satisfactory manner?”

“In as much as it could be, my lord. But there have been consequences that require your immediate attention.”

“Can it not wait until morning?” Grey yawned. “I fear I may have drunk rather more sack than is wise.”

Mal was not fooled. The duke looked perfectly sober.

“I’m afraid not, my lord.”

Grey gave an exaggerated sigh. “Noblesse oblige, I suppose. If you will excuse us, mother?”

“Really, Blaise, you need to come up with a new excuse for wriggling out of a losing hand.” The dowager duchess put down her cards and stood up, taking her daughter-in-law’s offered arm. “Let us leave the boys to their little games, my dear.”

Lady Frances gave them a wistful look as she passed. Mal responded with what he hoped was an encouraging expression, and she grinned back, nodding almost imperceptibly.

“Well, what is so urgent that you must interrupt my evening’s pleasures?” Grey asked when the door had closed behind the ladies.

“My lord, I must beg your indulgence a moment.”

He nodded to Sandy, who stepped behind the duke’s chair and put his hands either side of the duke’s head.

“What in God’s name are you–?” Grey’s eyes rolled up into his head and his cane clattered to the floor.

Mal hurried back to the door, ready to intercept Lady Frances if she returned quickly. He glanced over his shoulder.

“Well?”

“He is untainted,” Sandy replied, releasing Grey.

“Thank Christ for that.” Mal stepped outside, just in time to see Lady Frances enter the adjoining room. “My lady, I need your aid. My wife and son are waiting out in the street, along with Ned Faulkner and Gabriel Parrish. Please could you send someone to bring them to us, and stable our horses for the night?”

“Of course. You will all be staying?”

“That is my intent.”

She gave him a curious look but said no more. He guessed she would question his wife instead, hoping that womanly camaraderie would avail her where simple politeness had not. Perhaps he should have Sandy look at her too, but many more such incidents and they would become hard to conceal.

When he returned to the parlour Grey was rousing from the stupor that Sandy’s mind-probing had pushed him into.

“Are you unwell, my lord?” Mal asked. “Shall I pour you another cup of wine?”

“Yes, if you would.” Grey rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Came over somewhat giddy for a moment. Must be the heat.”

“It is very close in here. Sandy, open a window, would you?” Mal took a candlestick over to the sideboard and half-filled a clean glass with honey-pale sack. “You asked me to tell you about my business, my lord. I’m afraid it may take a while.”



Coby sat in the window-seat, arms around her knees, staring out of the window at the moonlight shimmering on the Thames. She was still wearing her boy’s garb, though Lady Frances had offered to lend her clean clothes. Tomorrow, perhaps. Tonight all she could think about was Kit. Kiiren. Whoever he was now. She hugged her knees tighter and swallowed past the lump in her throat. When the door opened she ignored it. She didn’t want to speak to anyone right now, not even Mal.

“Mamma?”

Her head jerked round. He was standing there in nothing but a shirt, a gleam of dark metal at his throat. His legs were skinny, and all red and scabby round the knees like an ordinary boy.

“Kit?”

He climbed onto the window-seat and wormed his way into her lap. His dark curls still smelt of the dream-herb smoke. It reminded her of Sandy, and she wondered if her brother-in-law was behind this.

“Kiiren says he’s sorry for upsetting you,” Kit said in matter-of-fact tones, as if talking about an errant younger sibling. “He was scared after being asleep for so long.”

“I know, lambkin.”

She wiped the betraying tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, then to cover the action she licked her thumb and cleaned a smudge from Kit’s cheek. He grimaced and buried his face against her doublet. After a while he looked up at her again.