Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(39)

My heart thuds painfully in my chest as Duval returns to his chair. He knows. He knows the abbess has sent me to spy on him. Has probably always known. It was only I who thought we were fooling anybody.

Duval settles back and studies me, as if I am some complicated knot he must untangle. I try not to fidget.

“So why are you here?” I cling stubbornly to that question. “Your abbess was correct. It does not matter what we call

You—people are drawing their own conclusions. when I arrived at court this evening, two nobles congratulated me on my new mistress. It is stupid to fight this.”

“Perhaps my wits are addled from sleep, but I still do not understand why you’re here.”

Duval sighs. “So my attendants will note I visited your bedchamber tonight and draw their base conclusions.”

“Surely we don’t need to continue the charade under your own roof?” I say, glad to have something concrete to argue over. “Surely you are not willing to risk your life or our duchess’s future on everyone in my household being completely loyal?”

“I cannot believe you do not trust your own household,” I say, but it is a lie. I am not surprised.

Duval leans forward and places his elbows on his knees. “The French have bought any number of Breton nobles, Ismae. It is only a matter of who and how much. If I were the French spymaster, I would certainly make an effort to place a spy or two in the house of every one of Anne’s trusted advisors.”

“Then surely they would all bear the marques of Mortain for their treachery.”

“And yet, they do not. As I have said, I suspect your saint is more complex than your convent would have you believe.” Anger, prickly and welcome, flares inside me. “How can you know they do not bear the marques? They are not visible to you.” He smiles then, a genuine smile. “That is why I am presenting you at court tomorrow. It will prove most amusing, I’m sure.

However, I recommend that you consult with the duchess before you begin assassinating her courtiers with abandon. Now, go back to sleep,” he says. “I will sit here for another hour, then return to my own chamber.”

It is clear he will not budge until he is good and ready. I settle back down under the covers, too aware of his presence, of the lack of space between us. Of only the thin linen of my nightshift covering me. I clear my throat. “Did you learn anything of our attackers?” I ask.

“Sleep now, Ismae. we will talk more in the morning.” His voice is low, naught but a faint rumble in the night air. I am certain I will never fall back to sleep, and yet I do. And when I awake in the morning, he is gone. It is as if he was never there at all.

When Louyse comes to help me dress, I am unable to meet her eye. Does she know that Duval spent a good portion of the night in my room? If so, she gives no indication. She is either remarkably discreet or truly unaware.

With a pleasant “Good morning, demoiselle” she sets a ewer of water on the stand and lays a fresh chemise on my bed. As she moves to the garderobe to collect my gown, I slip quickly out of bed, eager to get into my chemise while she is not looking. when she returns with my gown, she blinks in surprise but says nothing. The woman is well trained.

I step into my skirt and she moves behind me to fasten it. “The viscount is in his study,” she says, lacing up the back of my gown. “He asked that you join him when you are ready.”

“Very well.” I hope she does not hear the reluctance in my voice.

The door opens again and I flinch slightly at this intrusion, but it is only the serving girl Agnez bringing me a tray so that I may break my fast. Once I am fully dressed and brushed, and after I assure them — twice — that I can manage my breakfast unattended, they finally take their leave. I close my eyes and allow myself to savor the solitude, even just for a moment. But the knowledge that Duval is waiting robs me of whatever peace it might bring. I tear a corner from the loaf of bread on the breakfast tray and nibble at it, hoping it will calm the roiling nerves in my gut.

Feeling restless and awkward, I pace as I nibble, unable to stand still. It is as if sometime during the night I have outgrown my own skin. Duval’s presence still lingers, like the faintest trace of perfume, and my ankle still bears the memory of that touch. I find myself wishing for a great throbbing bruise instead. That I would know how to deal with better than this.

Agitated, I go to the window and throw open the shutters, welcoming the chill morning into the room. Closing my eyes, I breathe in, pulling the sharp cold air deep into my lungs. I will it to clear my addled wits and am pleased when it does. But even with my wits restored, I cannot discern Duval’s strategy.

He could easily have made me his mistress in truth last night. with the spell he cast over me, I am not even sure I would have fought very hard. And yet he did not. Is he that honorable? Or is it but one more way to keep me unbalanced, to keep me wondering what his next move will be?

with a grimace of disgust, I toss the remaining bread out into the courtyard below and turn from the casement. It is a strategy, I tell myself. And an excellent one at that. But I will not let myself be lulled into a false sense of accord between us. I cross the room to the bed, then withdraw my blades and sheaths from where I have hidden them under the mattress. Only when I have strapped them firmly in place do I go to find Duval.

He is in his study behind a large desk. Gone is the travelstained man I journeyed across the country with. In his place is a finely dressed courtier in a doublet of dark blue. He has shaved the whiskery stubble that lent such a dark and dangerous air to his face. A pot of ink and half a dozen quills are on one side of him, stacks of parchment on the other, and his fingers wield a quill with quick, bold strokes.