Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(7)
“Disloyalty? What of your disloyalty? Besides, you knew those people!” I hiss. “They were servants who’d waited on you for years.”
Her eyes snap open. “What do you think I should have done? It’s not as if I could have stopped him.”
“But you did not even try!” Our angry gazes hold for a long moment.
“Neither did you.”
Her words are like a kick to my gut. Afraid I will slap her, I shove to my feet, cross over to her wooden chest, and begin fumbling through her pots of powder, jars of cream, and crystal vials. “But I am not his favorite, the one voice he listens to. That role has belonged only to you for as long as I can remember.” At last I find a linen cloth. I dampen it with water from the ewer, then return to her side and practically fling it onto her forehead.
She flinches, then glares at me. “Your tender ministrations may well kill me.”
I sit down and busy myself with my skirt, afraid she will see just how close to the truth she has come. Our secrets sit heavy in the room, not only the ones that we share, but those that we keep from each other. Neither she nor Rieux is marqued, and I am plagued by this nearly as much as I am by d’Albret’s lack of a marque.
When I speak again, I am able to keep my voice calm. “And what of the duchess? You have cared for her since she was in swaddling clothes. How could you let d’Albret spring such a trap on her?”
She closes her eyes to the truth and dismisses my words with a quick shake of her head. “He was only claiming what was promised him.”
Her steadfast denial is like flint to tinder, and my temper flares again. “He was going to kidnap her, rape her, declare the marriage consummated, then perform the marriage service after the fact.” Not for the first time, I wonder if he is as rough with Madame Dinan as he is with others, or if there is some softer emotion between them.
She lifts her small, pointed chin. “She betrayed him! Lied to him! She had been promised to him by her father. He was only doing what any man would when such promises are broken.”
“I’ve always wondered what you tell yourself so you may sleep at night.” Afraid that I will say something to break our precarious truce, I rise to my feet and head for the door.
“It is the truth!” The normally elegant and refined Dinan screeches at me like a fishwife. While getting under her skin is no small accomplishment, it does little to wash the bitterness of the day from my tongue.
It is no easy or pleasant thing to examine d’Albret for a marque. Ismae claims it is a way for the god to keep us humble, marquing men where we cannot easily see. I say it is the god’s own perverted sense of humor, and if I ever come face to face with Him, I shall complain.
But after today’s spectacular bit of treachery, d’Albret must be marqued for death at last. It is the one reason I allowed myself to be sent back, because the abbess promised he would be marqued and that I could be the one to kill him.
For once, luck is with me: the chambermaid is none other than Tilde, Odette’s sister. Which means I have something with which to bargain. I find her in the kitchen, filling up jugs with hot water for his bath. When I tell her what I need, she looks at me with the frightened eyes of a cornered doe. “But if the count sees you . . .” she protests.
“He won’t see me,” I assure her. “Not unless you give me away by looking at my hiding place. Do not be so stupid as to do that, and we will both be fine.”
She begins chewing her lip, which is already ragged from her constant worry. “And you will get Odette away from here? As soon as possible?”
“Yes. I will get her away tomorrow morning when the first delivery comes to the kitchens. She will be hidden in the cart as it leaves.” I will smuggle the girl out even if Tilde and I do not reach an agreement. The child reminds me far too much of my own sisters, who, if not for my desperate machinations, would be here in this vipers’ nest with me now.
It was the biggest argument I had with my father since the convent forced me to return to his household six months ago. Last autumn when he made ready to travel to Guérande to put his case before the meeting of the barons, he was planning on bringing all his children. He wanted them nearby, where he could use them for his own ends and needs. I argued long and hard that little Louise was too young—and ill—to make the trip. And that Charlotte was too close to young womanhood to be near so many soldiers. He ignored me and had their nurse administer them each a sound beating—simply to punish me—then ordered their things packed.
But I would do anything to keep my sisters from d’Albret’s dark influences. Including poison them.
Not too much. While I am not immune to poisons as Ismae is, I did pay careful attention to Sister Serafina’s poison lessons and used only enough to make both my sisters and their nurse too ill to travel.
I blamed it on the eel pie.
Little Odette is in every bit as much danger as my sisters but has none of the protection afforded them by virtue of their noble blood. So I will get her to safety regardless, although I do not tell Tilde that.
“Very well,” Tilde says at last, her eyes taking in my borrowed servant’s gown and headscarf. “You have certainly dressed the part.”
I give her an encouraging smile when what I want to do is wring her skinny neck so she will quit talking and get on with it. That would not, however, reassure her.