Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(50)
“You know well that there are few to trust in the duchess’s court. If word of my liege lord’s identity were to fall into the wrong hands, it would put many people in jeopardy.”
“You cannot expect me to gallop off to a rendezvous with your mystery lord when it could so easily be a trap.”
“You may choose the time and place of the meeting, one to your own advantage. But my liege has a plan, a proposal” — his voice sounds like he is smiling — “that he thinks you’ll find most intriguing.”
There is a long pause as Duval considers, weighing the risks. My ears are firmly fixed on the room beyond, but my eyes search the courtyard below. My fingers and toes have grown numb in the bitter chill of the morning, but I will not leave my post before I hear Duval’s answer.
"Why me?” he finally asks. "Why has your liege sent you to me rather than to the chancellor or one of the duchess’s guardians?”
“Because blood is thicker than any chain of office. My liege believes that you more than anyone care for the young duchess’s well-being.”
Interesting that the mysterious lord would think such a thing. Is it empty flattery? Or does the man have personal knowledge of Duval?
The room is quiet as both men weigh and measure each other, and I nearly dance with impatience — I’m desperate to hear Duval’s answer and nearly as desperate to be gone from this place before I am discovered.
“Very well,” Duval says at last. “I will speak to this liege of yours and hear what he has to offer. Tell me where you are staying and I will have word sent as to when and where we shall meet.”
Satisfied that the main thrust of the meeting is over, I peel my fingers away from the window, flexing them to get the blood flowing again. Slowly, for fear of missing a step with my nearly numb feet, I begin inching back to the adjoining room. Stiff with cold, I half fall, half climb back into the chamber, then silently close the shutter. I grab my cloak and rub my arms, trying to get warm again, but only for a moment. I need to be well away from here before Duval concludes his meeting.
I hurry to the door, open it a crack, and peer out into the hallway, then nearly gasp in surprise when I spot Madame Hivern lurking outside Duval’s door. Hopefully, the door presented as thick an obstacle to her as it did to me.
I know Duval wanted this meeting to remain secret, but it is my own suspicion of the woman that propels me into the hall. I arrange my face in a flustered look, then step out of the office. “Madame Hivern?” I say, making my voice young and just a bit tremulous.
Startled, she whirls around. “Demoiselle Rienne? what are you doing here?” Her lovely face is wary.
I glance about, confused. “I was looking for milord Duval’s chambers. One of the footmen told me they were in this corridor, but I must have miscounted the doors.”
Her face relaxes and a smile that is pure condescension appears on her face. “Come, my dear.” She reaches out, tucks my arm in hers, and begins leading me down the hall, away from both doors. “Surely you know that the best way to lose a man is to chase him down?” She pats my hand. “Let me share with you the secrets of our trade.”
It is all I can do to keep from correcting her disturbing assumption. Nor do I trust this sudden charity of hers. “Madame is too kind.” I am pleased that I keep any whiff of irony from my words. In truth, the last thing I want is advice from Duval’s mother on how to be a good mistress. However, perhaps I can turn it to my advantage and use the opportunity to learn more about Duval.
The memory of his stricken face the night they argued flits through my mind, and I feel sick at my own deception, as if I am probing a gaping wound. Nevertheless, it is why I am here, and I know just what the reverend mother would think of such misplaced scruples.
Ignoring the nobles and courtiers gathered in clusters in the grand salon, Madame Hivern settles us in a corner away from the others. when we are alone, she turns considering eyes on me. “So.” She sets her graceful hands in her lap. "Where are you from, my dear, and how did you meet Gavriel?”
I lower my eyes — a young country miss would be nervous, would she not? — and begin twisting my hands in my lap. “My family is of modest means, madame, and would not be known to you.”
She tilts her head daintily, but the smile on her face is brittle as glass. “Then how did you come to meet?”
Stick close to the truth to give weight to the lie is what the convent drilled into our heads. “In a tavern, near Brest.” I do not fully trust Duval, but I trust his mother even less and will not serve up his secrets on a platter before her.
Her face blanches and she rears back a little, as if she has just been struck. “Please tell me you were not the serving wench.”
“No,” I say, careful not to smile. “I was passing through on my family’s business.”
I watch as she mentally combs through the coastal area of Brest, trying to determine what business Duval was up to. After another moment, her lovely mask falls back into place. “You must forgive me,” she says, “but my son has kept so completely to himself until now, I scarcely know how to credit your presence.”
I make my eyes wide and innocent. “But madame, clearly the two of you are estranged, so perhaps he has simply not mentioned such relationships to you.”
Her mouth grows ugly and flat at this blatant reminder, but she bites back her retort as a servant places a tray of spiced wine in front of us. By the time the servant leaves, she has composed herself. I pick up a wine goblet, and she leans forward, changing the subject. “Not all men are the same, you know. with someone such as Gavriel, I would suggest appearing aloof, not chasing too much. He might see that as suffocating rather than charming.” Her words are sharp, but her voice is sweet, like honey on the edge of a blade, and meant to be cutting. I comfort myself with the knowledge that if Duval ever feels smothered by me, it will be because I am holding a pillow over his face and commending his soul to Mortain.