Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(32)
I catch my reflection in the small oval of polished silver hanging on the wall. we could not be more different. She has the feel of a delicately wrought treasure. I, on the other hand, am dark and serious; a faint frown draws my brows together. In my mind, I can almost hear the mocking laughter when the baron and his wife learn of my fakery and deception. I will not let that happen. I relax my scowl, which improves my looks somewhat but not nearly enough.
I dip the linen cloth into the warm water — scented faintly with rose petals, a true luxury — and take the opportunity to wash my face and arms and anywhere else I can reach.
I travel with only one gown grand enough for this evening, so with reluctance I put it on. I have not grown any more fond of it since I wore it last. And while I have no fancy headdress such as Madame Hivern wears, I do have my hairnet with the pearls. I smile at this reminder of the dark skills I possess that Hivern does not.
As I poke the last stubborn tendril of hair into place, there is a knock at my door. I open it to find Duval, ready to escort me to dinner. He takes in my greatly altered appearance, much as I take in his. He has changed from his riding leathers to an elegant black doublet with fresh white linen at his neck. I wonder briefly if black is a signature color for him. He eyes me thoroughly, and I grow a bit flustered under the warmth of his gaze. “I am not certain I would let my cousin appear in public in such a gown,” he says at last.
“Your cousin has no other choice available to her, milord.”
A look of resignation settles over his face. “And so our lots are cast.” He holds out his arm. “Come, let us join the others.”
After a moment’s hesitation, I gingerly place my hand on his sleeve. Annoyed by these courtesies I must endure, I look for a way to torment him. “Madame Hivern did not look especially pleased to see you,” I point out. “Nor the baron, come to that.”
He snorts, and the earthy noise catches me off-guard. “Madame Hivern and I do not see eye to eye on many things. The baron’s discomfort is somewhat newer.” Then he looks down at me, a faint air of amusement touching his eyes. “You do know who she is, do you not?”
I curse my own ignorance. It is even worse than being assigned to Duval’s care. “No,” I say shortly. “I do not.”
Duval gives a short bark of a laugh. “That, dear assassin, is the late duke’s mistress.”
I gasp in surprise. “The French whore?”
He glances at me sharply. "Why do you call her that?”
I shrug as I try to peer ahead into the room, full of lewd curiosity now that I know who she is. “That is what the sisters at the convent called her,” I tell him.
There is a long, heavy moment of silence. when I look back at him, his whole demeanor has shifted and the amusement is gone from his face. “Yes,” he says. “And just so you are clear, I am the French whore’s son.”
I feel as if a giant cavern has just opened up at my feet as Duval’s words clang through my head like a great bell. He is one of the duke’s bastards. Half brother to the duchess.
Chapter Fifteen
Duval tugs my arm and pulls me into the great hall. It is ablaze with a roaring fire and candles burning brightly in heavy silver holders, but I hardly register any of this as my mind scrambles back to Sister Eonette’s tapestries. The French whore is listed there, along with her five children by the late duke, but they are listed by first name only, and the name Gavriel is common enough.
Did the abbess know that I was going into this blind? was this part of her test? Or was there merely a mistaken assumption that I would know the duke’s bastard by the name Duval?
As if from a great distance, I hear Baron Geffoy say, “Here they are now.” with effort, I try to concentrate on the introductions. “Viscount Duval, Demoiselle Rienne, this is my ladywife, Katerine.” She is a drab peahen of a woman with sharp, intelligent eyes, and I warm to her immediately.
“Her brother, Anthoine de Loris, and my steward, Guy de Picart. And of course, Duval, you already know the charming Madame Hivern.”
The clash of Duval’s and Hivern’s gazes as they meet is as loud as the opening parry of any duel, but what makes my breath catch is the brief glimpse of pain I see in Duval’s face before he shutters it. It is so fleeting, I cannot help but wonder if I have imagined it.
When Hivern puts her hand out for Duval to kiss, he dons his formal court manners like a suit of armor and bows over it. “As always, your presence leaves me speechless, madame.”
"Would that were so,” she mutters. Baron Geffoy shifts in discomfort while his wife’s brows rise slightly in surprise.
Duval’s eyes narrow. “I am glad to see you have taken my advice and removed yourself from court.”
Hivern’s smile is as sharp as a knife. “Oh, but I have not. I am only taking a little break to visit with my dear friends and draw comfort from their company.” She lifts a delicate linen handkerchief and dabs at her eye.
“My pardon.” Duval’s voice is drier than bone. “I did not mean to remind you of your loss.”
She waves her hand in the air and I cannot tell if she misses the irony in his tone or simply chooses to ignore it. “It is always with me. I am just so grateful to Baron and Lady Geffoy for offering their hospitality, far from the painful reminders of my dear Francis.” Her voice catches slightly, as if she is about to cry, and I am struck by the sense that they are acting out parts in a masque.