Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(68)

As soon as I reach Duval’s side, he takes my elbow in an iron grip. I wince as he begins walking me to the door. His face is unreadable and I have to quicken my pace lest I end up being dragged. even so, something compels me to glance back at Fran?ois. His eyes are fastened hungrily on Duval and filled with yearning.

Once Duval and I are in the hall, I pull away from him. “Have I done something wrong?”

He stops, twirls me around to face him, then backs me up against the wall. His eyes spark in fury as he leans in close. “Did you receive orders from the convent that you did not share with me?”

Before I can utter so much as a word, he gives me a little shake. “Did you?”

“No!”

“Do you swear to it? Swear on your service to Mortain, if that is what you hold most dear.”

I frown at him. “Yes, I swear it. Tell me what’s happened.”

He stares at me a long moment. “Better,” he finally says, “I will show you.”





Chapter Twenty-nine



Duval tucks my arm through his — none too gently — then leads me deep into the castle. His face is set in harsh lines and there is a grimness I have not seen for a number of days. “How long have you been in the grand salon?” he asks.

“An hour. Maybe more.”

“Has Fran?ois been with you that whole time?”

“Yes, my lord, but — ”

"What of my mother? Did you see any sign of her while you Were there?”

“No. what is amiss?”

He does not answer as we hasten through the hallways, past closed doors and empty chambers. "Why are we in such a hurry?” I ask, breathless.

“Because there isn’t much time before news begins to spread through the castle faster than the plague.”

we finally reach a closed wooden door. Duval nods at the guard posted there, who steps aside to let us enter. Duval leads me into to a well-furnished room with an outside balcony. winding steps lead from the balcony to a private courtyard. Duval points to a still, twisted body on the flagstones below. “Fedric, Duke of Nemours.”

“No!” I whisper, then lift my skirts and hurry down the staircase. I curse my sense of death, wishing to hold out hope one moment longer, but there is no mistaking that Nemours is dead.

when I reach the body, I kneel at his side. "When did this happen?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

I glance sharply back at Duval. One eyebrow is raised in a sardonic question that does nothing to mask the fury and disappointment he feels.

“You cannot think that I did this!”

“I cannot?”

“No, milord. I have received no instructions from the convent, nor has my god revealed His will to me. Are you so very certain he did not fall?”

Duval grunts. “I am not.”

Nemours’s body still holds traces of warmth. He cannot have lain here long. "Who found him?”

“I did.”

when I raise my eyebrows in inquiry, he shoves his hand through his hair. “Do not look at me so. we were to meet to review the final betrothal arrangements, but when I arrived his chamber was empty.”

“Did you question his men?”

“Yes. They confirmed he spent the morning alone and had no visitors.” He glances up at the window, two floors above us. "When I found his chamber empty, I looked out here to see if he was waiting in the courtyard and saw his crumpled form.”

Our eyes meet. “But he told no one of his true identity; he introduced himself as a wool merchant from Castile. Only the Privy Council knew who he was . . .”

“Precisely.” His lips twist in a smile that has nothing to do with humor. “After yesterday’s meeting, they all knew about Nemours, and any one of them would have had time to act.”

“So one of the duchess’s closest advisors must have been involved with this.”

Duval nods in agreement. “Although, it is not impossible that Gisors learned of Nemours’s identity through one of his many spies. Or perhaps he paid off one of the council members. Nor is it beyond the bounds of reason that d’Albret arranged this in retaliation, for I can very easily believe Madame Dinan told him of Nemours.”

“No matter which of those is correct, you still come back to the fact that someone from your Privy Council said something. To someone. with ill intent.”

Duval’s jaw clenches. “Does his soul still . . . linger?” He waves his hand awkwardly. “Can you speak with it?”

“I will try.”

I turn my face from Duval and bow my head. Do the people of Nemours worship the same gods and saints as we do in Brittany? I have no idea, but it is worth trying.

I close my eyes and allow this world to fall away until I no longer feel the hard stone beneath my knees or see the fading light of the sun against my eyelids. The faint chill of Death caresses my cheek, like a loving mother who has greatly missed her child.

when I peel away the thin veil between life and death, Nemours is there waiting. His distress at being outmaneuvered is thick and solid, a veritable wall of grief. But it is the despair he feels at leaving the duchess without a protector that touches my heart, for his last thought proves what an honorable man he was. I, too, am filled with despair. why must the honorable die when so many dishonorable live?