Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(33)
As if to distract from Madame Hivern’s sorrow, Lady Geffoy directs us to take our seats at the table, and I use the moment to try to collect my wits. with Duval’s revelation, so many small details fall into place. The abbess’s and Crunard’s incredulity that Duval would try to pass me off as his cousin; Beast and de Lornay’s reactions as well. In truth, remembering causes me to blush and squirm at how stupid they must have thought us. No wonder Beast thought me noble born, for although Duval is a bastard, he is a royal one.
Humiliation courses through my veins. I reach for my wine goblet and take a healthy swig, wishing I could drown my ignorance. As my thoughts begin to settle, I become aware of the tinkle of crystal, the smell of braised meat and strong wine. The table is laden with all manner of food and delicacies, but they are as tasteless to me as the dust kicked up by our horses.
Lady Katerine artfully steers the conversation to hunting and recent jousts, people and events I am not familiar with. I let it recede into the background until it is naught but the buzz of gnats hovering over a stagnant pond.
I try to remember everything the convent told us about the French whore, for that is how they referred to her always and why I did not recognize her by the name Hivern. She was the mistress of the old French king when she was but fourteen. when he died, she became mistress to our duke. Over their many years together, she bore him five children: three sons and two daughters.
Duval’s arm rests next to mine on the table, his long elegant fingers playing with the stem of his glass. when his fingers tighten suddenly, I force my thoughts to the conversation going on around me.
“That is the fourth tournament this year that my dear Fran?ois has won,” Madame Hivern is saying to the baron. “He has few equals in the jousting lists.”
Baron Geffoy casts an admiring glance at Duval. "Except perhaps for his older brother. If I remember correctly, he was never beaten — ”
“Those days are long gone,” Duval says, abruptly dismissing the baron’s attempt at flattery. As Duval lifts his goblet and drains it, and there is a brief moment of awkward silence. Lady Katerine tries to brush over it.
"We have had uncommonly good hunting this year,” she says, but once again Madame Hivern turns the conversation and begins prattling of Fran?ois and his prowess at hunting and how he speared a wild boar single handedly in last week’s hunt.
Is that what lies between them? Does she favor Fran?ois so much that it has driven Duval to hate her? It happens thus in families sometimes, especially the noble ones, where favor translates into titles and holdings. I glance over at Duval, but he looks pointedly at his plate, cutting his venison with angry, precise movements.
I turn my attention across the table to Madame Hivern. Her gown is the color of emeralds and is cut even lower than mine, leaving her entire shoulders exposed as well as revealing the profuse swell of her womanly charms.
“Gavriel, dear,” she drawls. "Who is this maid of yours again and why is she staring at me as if I am a five-legged calf?”
I blush furiously, for I had thought them all so involved in their conversations and plots that they wouldn’t notice my scrutiny.
Duval tosses me a glance, as if to show he is bearing my presence with little grace. “Forgive her, madame. She was raised in the country and is no doubt struck dumb by your beauty and elegance.”
“As are we all,” Baron Geffoy adds, completely missing the deep irony in Duval’s voice. Lady Katerine, however, does not.
“Is she what caused you to stray so far from your young duchess’s side?” Hivern smirks.
Duval lifts his goblet and takes a sip of wine. “I did not stray anywhere. I had business to attend to on behalf of the duchess.”
Madame Hivern looks sharply at me. "Where did you say you were from?”
“She didn’t,” says Duval, and while I do not like that he is speaking for me, I cannot even pretend to understand what is going on between them.
“Have you news of the French?” Baron Geffoy asks. He is no longer jovial but tense and bristly, and for the first time since meeting him, I think I would not want to face him in pitched battle. “There have been rumors of their troops amassing in the north.”
Duval gives a firm shake of his head. “No. There have been no troop sightings or even signs of scouting parties. Your information is mistaken. The duchess has the matter well in hand.”
Madame Hivern leans forward, eyes glittering. “Does she, Gavriel? Does she truly? For it does not appear that way from where I sit.”
Across the table their eyes meet. “That is because you choose not to see it, madame.” His words are tight and hard, like stones from a catapult. “As always, you see precisely what you want to see and no more.” He casts his unflinching regard toward the head of the table, where Baron Geffoy pays careful attention to the slices of pheasant on his plate. Duval stares at him for a long moment before returning his attention to Hivern. “Beware, madame,” he says softly. “Politics can be far more dangerous than you know.” It takes me a full beat to recognize that this is no general advice but a very specific warning. But of what?
She, too, appears puzzled by his words, but before she can speak, Duval turns to me. I barely keep from recoiling at the simmering fury in his gaze. “Since we leave at first light, it would be wise to retire early.” He rises and holds his arm out to me and I quickly get to my feet, thank Lady Katerine for her hospitality, and let Duval lead me away.