The Queen's Assassin (The Queen's Secret #1)(69)

Cal shakes his head. Then he puts his hand out to the waiter, stopping him from pouring any more into my glass. “My sister has had quite enough.”

“Don’t listen to my brother,” I growl. “Pour.”

I drink from my newly full glass.

Cal sighs. “What’s going on? You are jealous. I had to kiss her! Or we would have been discovered!” he argues.

“No choice, did you? Well, from what I saw, you seemed to be enjoying it.” I wish I’d never helped him escape from Deersia; I should have let him rot there.

“Everything all right down there?” the duchess calls across the table.

“Absolutely,” Cal says. “My sister is chastising me for continuing to feast.”

“Nonsense,” the duchess says. “Who doesn’t like a man with a bit of meat on his bones?”

The ambassador raises his hand, and his husband smacks it down. “You’re terrible!” he says, laughing.

Lady Helena adds: “A gentleman should eat as much as he pleases, unlike a lady. Though I believe Lady Holton knows that already.” She looks approvingly at my full plate.

“It’s been a long day and the wine is strong,” King Hansen says. It’s the first he’s spoken during the entire meal. “Leave the poor girl alone.”

At least someone is sticking up for me. The duchess takes exception to that. “Just a bit of fun, Your Majesty, no harm meant.” She bats her eyelashes at him but he isn’t paying any attention to her whatsoever. The king looks directly at me. Like he can see straight through the makeup . . . the wig . . . the gown . . .

I turn away from his gaze. Servants are placing dessert in front of us. This ordeal is almost at an end, and then I can go lock myself upstairs, wipe this paint off my face, and continue our search for the duke’s true allegiances.

A tall chocolate confection arrives, dusted with powdered sugar and a dollop of fluffy sweet cream. I pick up my fork and skim a bit off the side. I’m aware of tension in the room but don’t want to look up. I just pick at my cake. The table has become awfully quiet. I glance up and see that the king is still watching me. Everyone else is aware of it too, but they’re pretending they aren’t.

“Lady Lila,” King Hansen says. “Have you received an invitation to the Small Ball?”

I blink a few times. “Er, no, Your Majesty.”

He looks at the vizier. “You haven’t invited Lady Lila—and her brother—to the Small Ball?”

The vizier shifts uncomfortably.

“Issue the invitation at once.” The king returns to his cake, as if the matter is settled.

“May I ask a question?” Cal says. “Why is it the ‘Small Ball’?”

“Because we are a small group, of course,” the vizier says, looking baffled. “Are you not familiar with the tradition?”

“No, I’m not. In Argonia we only have large balls,” he says with a straight face.

I thwack Cal’s shin with my pointy-toed shoe. He doesn’t even flinch.

“In any case,” the vizier says, “I was under the impression that the Holtons were going to depart by then; otherwise I would surely have sent them an invitation. Allow me to set this right, Lord Holton?”

“We would be honored to attend,” Cal says.

“Then it is done, and, Renovia, are you staying for the event?” asks the king.

“It is our distinct pleasure to be able to,” says Ambassador Nhicol as Mathieu beams at his side. “You are too kind, Your Majesty.”

Please no. Please no. Please no. I can’t do this all over again.

Duchess Girt claps her hands. “It’s settled! Everyone’s coming to the party!”





CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Caledon

THE VIZIER SHOWS UP FIRST thing in the morning to fret over their wardrobes. He visits Cal’s closet first. “Oh, but what will you wear?” The vizier sighs, flicking through the various shirts and jackets and pants Cal has collected during his stay. “We have, let’s see, one . . . two . . . three days! Three days. We can come up with something in three days, I think. We’ll get started right away.” He shuts the closet door decisively.

Next they walk down the hall so the vizier can tackle Shadow’s closet. The duchess follows him around, taking mental notes for the tailor. He pulls each gown from the oak wardrobe and tosses it onto the bed until there’s a gigantic rainbow of silk and lace toppling over onto the floor. A maid picks them up, replaces the hangers, and places them over a chair, waiting for the vizier to leave so she can hang them back up. “Something . . . let’s see . . . no . . . no . . . absolutely not . . . what’s your favorite color, dear?”

“Red,” Shadow says.

“No. Blue for him, darker blue for her,” the vizier tells the duchess.

She nods solemnly. “Agree completely.”

“In fact, we should get out there right away.” He turns to address his footman, who stands patiently in the hall outside the door. “Get the coach ready.” The footman bows and leaves. The vizier sighs and rolls his eyes, as if to suggest the staff is a bother, rather than people doing him a great service.

“Tea for the drive?” the vizier asks Duchess Girt. He doesn’t wait for her response, which will of course be yes. He leaves the room. As she follows, she brushes suggestively against Cal. Later, she mouths to him. She runs her manicured nail across his lips.