Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(55)

Madame Dinan, Count d’Albret, and Marshal Rieux have left the duchess and now stand together, buzzing among themselves like busy little bees. That could prove a most interesting conversation.

I shift directions and move toward them, determined to hear what they are plotting. I am nearly halfway there when a tall figure steps boldly in front of me and I must stop suddenly or plow right into him.

The French envoy Gisors looks down at me from his towering height. “Demoiselle Rienne,” he says.

“Milord Gisors.” I give a small curtsy.

“It occurs to me that I did not greet you as warmly as you deserved yesterday. You must forgive me, as I had weighty matters on my mind.”

“But of course, my lord ambassador. I understand completely.” Indeed, I am a marvel of restraint and cunning.

“You are young and innocent of the ways of court, even such a small court as this one. I would be honored if you would allow me to act as your guide in some matters.”

“That is very kind of you, my lord, but that is what Lord Duval has promised to do.”

Gisors’s green eyes seek out Duval. “And yet he is not at your side. And you may not realize it, but a small flock of young cockerels are lining up behind you even as we speak. I would help you learn who it is wise to associate with when your Duval is otherwise occupied.”

I open my mouth to demur, but he steps closer — far too close — and places his hand across my mouth. The boldness of the gesture shocks me into silence. “Do not say no, demoiselle. I only ask that you think about it. I can make it worth your while. Living at court is very expensive, and no woman should be without her own resources. especially since you cannot be sure just how long Duval’s protection will last.”

I push his hand away. "What do you mean?”

“I mean, once it becomes widely known that Duval’s mother is plotting to put her son on Anne’s throne, you will find yourself a pariah at court. I wager you will not be too proud to accept my friendship then.” And then he moves away, back to whatever rock he has crawled out from, and I am left breathing hard, shock simmering in my veins.

Duval and his family are plotting treason.





Chapter Twenty-three


I cannot sleep. My mind worries and gnaws at this newest revelation about Duval like a rat on a bone. A week ago, I would have been thrilled with the discovery, eager for the proof needed that would compel my god to act against him. But tonight — tonight it does not feel like a victory at all. I tell myself it is because the duchess trusts him so much and has so few allies left, but that is a lie. I fear my lack of pleasure has more to do with Duval himself, and it pains me that my heart has been so easily swayed.

It is also possible — likely, even — that he is not involved in his mother’s schemes. Indeed, it would go a long way to explaining the rift between them. So too would acting as if they were estranged prevent suspicion from falling on him.

There is a faint click at the door and everything inside me stills. I have no idea if I will confront Duval with what I have learned. I am torn between wanting to leap out of bed and rail at him for his duplicity and wishing to hide in shame because I was so easily misled. Instead, I pull the covers up under my chin and close my eyes, hoping he will think me asleep. I will my heart to slow its beating and my breathing to become deeper. My elaborate efforts are foiled by a muffled curse exploding out of the darkness. “God’s Teeth! what is this you have used to barricade the path to the window?”

His good-humored discomfiture befuddles me. "What?” Disoriented, I sit up and push the hair out of my eyes. “’Tis Vanth’s cage. You can just move it out of the way.”

“I already have,” he grumbles. "With my shin.” He flops into his customary chair and glares at me. "Who by the grace of God is Vanth, and why must he be kept in a cage?”

The darkness in the room is not absolute. I hug my knees while trying to read his face, but it is too hidden in shadow. “He is the crow sent by the abbess so that she and I can communicate.”

“Ah, did she have any news for you? Any assignments that I should know about?” Is that a note of concern I detect in his voice?

"Why, my lord? Are you afraid she has learned of your mother’s plot to put her son on the throne?”

His head snaps up and I can feel the intensity of his gaze. His silence is proof enough of their guilt.

"When were you planning on telling me? Or did you truly believe I would not find out?”

“No, I knew that you would eventually, and when you did, I hoped that you would ask me about it.”

“Then I am asking you.”

He leans his head back against the chair, and when he next speaks, his voice sounds impossibly weary. “My mother got it into her head that what our country needs is a duke, not a duchess. She does not believe that Anne will be able to weather the current crises with both France and the barons. Instead of risking the duchy going to one of them, Madame believes it should go to one of the duke’s sons, bastard or no.”

There have been bastard dukes before, but not in a long while. "Why Fran?ois and not you?”

“Can you not guess?”

“I can, but I want to hear it from you.”

“Because I refused.” His words are clipped.

"Which is why you and she are estranged.”