Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(64)

Because I am a coward, that is why.

But surely Crunard is correct in where my duties lie, and the abbess would want me to create every opportunity to determine if d’Albret bears a marque anywhere on his body.

A strike to the head is not the only way to kill a man.



*



Unwilling to face her fractious barons that evening, the duchess decides to dine in her chambers with her sister. I cannot help but wonder if it is also to hide the smile she now wears. Truly, she and Nemours are well matched, and his suit is a gift from both God and the saints. even better, if there is no formal court tonight, it will be easier for me to go in search of some answers.

My brief meeting with Chancellor Crunard and an afternoon of prayer have convinced me that I have made a grave error in assuming Mortain would marque d’Albret in plain sight. As the abbess is so fond of reminding me, that is not how our saint works. Indeed, the man may well have been marqued for days — someplace where I cannot see it.

I glance around the dim hallway, trying to get my bearings in the east wing of the castle, the section assigned to d’Albret. A pair of doors stand wide open. Raised voices and laughter spill out into the hall along with the candlelight. The laughter has an unpleasant edge to it, a faint tinge of cruelty that makes my heart beat faster and my hands long to reach for the knives at my wrists. Instead, I force them down to my sides, where they grip the heavy velvet of my gown.

I have given much thought as to how I will extricate myself should d’Albret not bear a marque but have yet to come up with a satisfactory plan. I would like to believe I can just turn and walk away, but I fear it will not be that easy. The boys in the village had ugly names and taunts for girls who promised kisses but never delivered them. even so, I take a deep breath and slip silently into the chamber.

The room is full of noblemen and their retainers, and half the nobles sprawl in chairs drinking wine. D’Albret himself sits in the middle, arrogance apparent in every line of his body, from the way he lounges in his chair to the disdainful gaze with which he surveys the room.

Even as anticipation surges through me, my mind whirs. I know I cannot just glide up to him and ask that he unlace his doublet so that I might peer at his chest. Once again I curse my awkward, graceless nature. Sybella and even Annith would know what to do.

And then it comes to me. I have only to pretend I am Sybella. She would find an excuse to approach her target, then she would wrap her delicate web of seduction around him. I glance at the room, pleased when I spy a half-full flagon of wine on one of the chests. I pick it up and make my way toward d’Albret.

Feeling more sure of myself now, I slip around the knot of men so that I can approach d’Albret from behind. The fact that he and his men have eyes only for their own magnificence makes this easier than it should be. I take a deep breath and remember Sybella’s throaty laugh, the way her lip curls delicately so that you cannot be certain who she is laughing at, the tilt of her head and the slant of her eyes as she peers at you, trying to decide if you are worth her efforts.

At my approach, the man on d’Albret’s left looks up. Having been spotted, I can delay no longer. even though my fingers are desperate to pull away, I force them to rest lightly on d’Albret’s shoulder. He smells of wine and sweat and the braised venison he had for dinner. I curl my lip in a knowing smile and lower my voice. “My lord,” I purr. “May I refill your wine cup?”

He lifts his head and somehow manages to look down his haughty nose at me even though I stand over him. He holds up his goblet, and his eyes narrow in recognition. “Ah, what do we have here?”

As I pour his wine — slowly — my eyes inspect every inch of exposed flesh, looking for the faintest hint of Mortain’s dark shadow. There is none. Merde. That means I must take this even farther. when his goblet is full, I clutch the flagon to my chest and cast my eyes downward. “It is just as you said, my lord. I fear I am left alone far more than I would like.” I glance up from under my lashes in time to see a triumphant smile spread across his thick lips. My heart skips a beat and I look down once more so he will not see how badly I wish to strike that smile from his face.

“Leave us,” he tells the others abruptly. There is a moment of surprised silence, then, with knowing winks and a bold comment or two, the other men file out of the chamber. The last one to leave shuts the door behind him.

I can feel d’Albret’s eyes on me, as cold and hard as winter hail. “Now it is just us, demoiselle.”

I carefully set the flagon down, and my mind scrambles for the best way to get him out of his shirt and doublet as quickly as possible. However, before I can say anything, d’Albret rises to his feet and reaches for me. As his thick, coarse hand clamps down on my arm, I am nearly overcome with fear and loathing.

“Jumpy, demoiselle?” His voice is mocking.

As I start to answer, the door behind me bursts open. D’Albret’s head snaps up and his eyes narrow. Before I can turn around, there is an iron grip on my other arm.

It is Duval, tight-lipped and glaring at me, and I am ashamed at how glad I am to see him, how relieved I am to be kept from completing this task I have set for myself.

The count’s expression shifts when he sees who it is. "Eh, Duval? Have you lost something?” I do not know why d’Albret’s good humor returns. Does he take that much pleasure in taunting Duval? “Perhaps we can make a little trade, you and I,” d’Albret says, letting go of my arm. “I will return your mistress to you if you will give me your sister.”