The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(58)

“There he is!” Elizabeth cried, her hand tightening on Coby’s. “Is he not handsome?”

For one moment Coby thought only of Mal, but there was no sign of her husband amongst the throng of courtiers, servants, foresters and kennel-masters required of such a grand enterprise.

“Who, dear?”

“Why, Rutland, of course. My betrothed.”

Coby followed Elizabeth’s gaze to a young gentleman with short red-brown hair beneath a high-crowned beaver hat. His moustache had been bleached a yellow colour and waxed so that it stuck out on either side in a sharp point, perhaps to divert attention from his equally pointed chin. Not an ill-favoured young man, but not what Coby would call handsome.

“There you are, my dears!” Lady Derby’s smile did not quite reach her eyes, though the pleasure in her voice sounded genuine enough. “I wondered where you had got to; you missed the assembly and the displaying of the fewmets and everything.”

The countess stepped around her mare, and Elizabeth’s jaw dropped. Lady Derby wore an expertly tailored bodice of dark green wool, with a matching pair of knee-length breeches in the Venetian style. White silk stockings and embroidered leather shoes completed the ensemble, which showed off the countess’s curvaceous figure to great advantage.

“Don’t look so shocked, my dear,” Lady Derby said with a laugh. “The Queen herself used to wear them for hunting when she was young. Far more practical than skirts, don’t you think?”

Over Lady Derby’s shoulder Coby could see Olivia watching them, green eyes twinkling with amusement. She was spared any further embarrassment, however, by the arrival of a groom with her own mount.

“We shall have to get you a proper hunter as well, Lady Catlyn,” Lady Derby said, springing lithely into the saddle. “Now that you are at court, you must insist that your husband equips you properly.”

Coby forced a smile. She had spent too many years making do with hand-me-downs to feel easy about spending an entire year’s wages on one set of clothes – or on a horse she would seldom ride.

A change in the chaos around her heralded the arrival of Prince Robert. The heir to the throne was said to take after his late father a great deal, being tall and straight of build, with dark hair now turning silver at the temples. He wore a magnificent riding habit of black leather and red velvet, though with little other ornament: a hint of lace at collar and cuffs, a black plume in his cap affixed with a jewelled brooch, a heavy gold ring on his right hand. His solemn blue eyes seemed to take them all in, weigh their worth and stow the information away for later consideration.

Coby glanced across at Lady Derby but the countess had modestly lowered her gaze, though she was blushing furiously, no doubt from more than the chill morning air. Robert’s gaze drifted down to take in the revealing garments. Cool appreciation, but no flicker of surprise, Coby noted. Had he been forewarned? Perhaps Lady Derby always dressed like this for riding, and it was only Coby who found it remarkable.

At last the hunting party was ready and they began to move out into the park. Mist lingered beneath the oak trees, turning the undergrowth into a maze of grey lacework. A place where one could be hidden from one’s companions, though they were mere yards away.

“Found you at last.”

Coby turned with a start to see her husband riding at her side.

“Where did you spring from?”

“So disappointed to see me?” He nudged his gelding closer, until Coby’s skirts brushed against his calf.

“I was just thinking that a hunt is the perfect opportunity to slip away from prying eyes for a tryst.”

He grinned. “My thoughts exactly.”

“Not us,” she hissed, waving her riding crop at him in mock chastisement. “Bartolomeo. Lady Derby. Rutland. We have three of them to keep an eye on, and only two of us. You should have brought Sandy.”

“My brother does not care for hunting. I think you know why.”

“Oh. Of course. Sorry.” Mal had told her about how Erishen had been ridden down and murdered in the hills near Rushdale. She knew Mal still had nightmares about it from time to time, mostly when he was worried about Sandy.

“I’ll follow Rutland,” Mal said, breaking into her train of thought, “and you can take Lady Derby. If we see either of them with Olivia, we’ll know who to suspect.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, as much to God as to her husband. She had prayed Mal would not suggest following Olivia himself. She ought to trust him – did trust him – but she did not trust the Venetian woman. Not an inch.

Ahead of them, the yipping of the hounds turned into a clamour of baying.

“The hunt is up!”

The formal procession along the trail dispersed as the leading horses broke into a canter. Mal’s chestnut pulled ahead, disappearing into the throng. Coby cursed and clung to her little mare. As someone who had fled pursuit on too many occasions her heart was with the buck, not his hunters, and she rather hoped he would get away.

Coby had no idea how big the park was, but they seemed able to ride forever and not come to the end of it, as if the paths led into an enchanted world made up entirely of forest. She was soon totally disoriented and chilled to the bone, mist condensing on her hair and clothes in hundreds of minute beads like Venetian glass. She reined her mount to a halt and wiped her dripping nose on the back of a damp sleeve. The other riders were blurred shapes in the mist, melting into invisibility. She spurred her mare into a canter and caught up with the rest of the party again.