Courting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 4)

* * *

When I close the chamber door behind me, every move is controlled, precise. I calmly fold my hands before me and keep my face arranged in pleasant lines as I move toward the crowd in the main salon. The regent has made it clear—?she is no friend to the duchess, but her enemy.

Is the king complicit in this or oblivious? I cannot fathom the doting man who paid court to the duchess, nor even the reserved chivalrous king I saw tonight, countenancing these humiliations, but perhaps he is far more skilled at subterfuge than he looks. Or more fully under his sister’s influence.

My stomach churns at how foul a place men have made the world—?aided by the women who blindly adhere to their rules. The regent has more power than any woman in France. It would be so easy for her to soften the way for others. That she does not feels like the rankest of betrayals.

My steps bring me to the Breton contingent, gathered among themselves and talking quietly together. As I approach, they look up. Chancellor Montauban sees something in my face and takes a tiny step back. “Did you know?” I demand, my fists clenched.

He wisely refrains from asking, Know what? “I am not surprised that they have decided upon this,” he says carefully, “but no, I did not have prior knowledge of it.”

I turn to glower at the Prince of Orange. “And you?”

To his credit, he meets my gaze, even though it fair scalds him. “I never assumed it would be otherwise. It is precisely the reason the French were able to have the proxy marriage to the emperor annulled. With so much at stake, I never doubted the consummation would be a public affair.”

“Then why did you not bother to warn your cousin, dear Prince? For she had no inkling this was coming. It was you who should have been there as she prepared for this public spectacle so you could find the words to ease her embarrassment and humiliation.” He looks somewhat taken aback, ashamed even, and a warm glow of satisfaction erupts in my belly.

I step away. “The saints damn you all,” I hiss at them. “If you cannot protect your own duchess from these indignities, what earthly good are any of you?” Someone reaches for my hand. There is only a split second to decide whether to punch them or pull away. I am—?only just—?able to restrain myself, and am glad when I see that it is Father Effram.

He grimaces apologetically. “As odious as it is, my dear, it is truly for the best, and you know I have no love of these customs. But in the end, it will protect our duchess and ensure that the pope agrees with his bishops and approves the marriage.”

The fact that he is right does not make it easier to bear. Without another word, I turn on my heel and storm away.

* * *

My steps take me out of the grand salon to the main foyer, then out the door to the courtyard. Outside, the celebration continues. Rivers of wine are poured at every corner. Flutes and trumpets, tambourines and raucous cheers echo throughout the night air. I step around a procession of merrymakers and keep walking until I reach the stables. It is quieter here. It is also where the off-duty queen’s guard can be found. I want to drink and fight and let my anger spill out into the night until I am naught but an emptied husk.

I do not look for Beast. He will only try to talk me out of it, and I am in no mood for reason. Reason is sitting patiently outside the king’s bedchamber, listening carefully for every little grunt or murmur and eagerly awaiting the sight of virgin blood. I will have none of it.

I find the lot of them lounging by the far side of the garrison, drinking wine and talking amongst themselves. When I am spotted, elbows nudge and they sit up straighter.

By the time I reach them, the jug of wine has mysteriously disappeared.

“Good evening, my lady,” Sir Roscoff says.

“Good evening, Sir Roscoff.” I turn to the others. “Where did the wine go?”

“Wine, my lady?” He turns to the others. “I saw no wine—?did you?”

Ignoring him, I hold out my hand and waggle my fingers. “Hand over the jug now, or suffer the consequences. Oh, and a fresh cup.” Reluctantly—?no doubt concerned about Beast’s response—?they comply with my request, and the jug reappears. With a look of resignation, Roscoff pours me some wine and hands it to me with an elaborate bow. “Your refreshment, my lady.”

I toss it back in one gulp. It barely masks the taste of bitterness and futility that sits so heavy on my tongue. I hold out the cup. “Another.”

Feigning concentration to hide his raised eyebrows, Roscoff does as I order. I drink again—?this time more slowly—?until it is gone. “And one more.”

Roscoff cannot contain himself any longer. “My lady? Are you sure this is the best course of action? Perhaps I should find Sir Waroch.”

I study him archly. “I did not realize that Beast’s handpicked soldiers were the sort to run tattling to their mothers.”

Roscoff nearly bobbles the jug, and I hear a stifled snicker from one of the others. Sipping my newly poured wine, I study the men. “What game are we playing, gentlemen?”

One of them shrugs. “Dice, for all the good it’s done us. Fortuna is not shining on any of us tonight.”

“I believe she has taken the night off,” I mutter darkly. “Besides, dice is for green young men afraid to wager anything of importance.”

Someone with a beakish nose and a protruding Adam’s apple answers. “I have two months’ wages that beg to disagree.”

I study him. “What is your name?” I ask.

“Poulet, my lady.”

I smile in delight, for indeed, he looks much like a chicken. “Truly?”

He bows with a charming flourish.

“Well, Sir Poulet. Let us play a different game—?one for higher stakes that will not suck your purse dry,” I suggest.

“By all means, my lady. That is the sort

of wagering I could warm up to.”

“Excellent. Gentlemen”—?I set down my cup and retrieve my knives from their sheaths—?“how good are you with your daggers?”

Chapter 41

nly Sir Gaultier, who has fought by my side in the past and knows my skill, refuses to play. But the others are eager enough. It does not take long for me to beat all but two of them at a dagger toss. “That was too easy,” I complain. “Who is up for something more challenging?”

Poulet, to his credit, is willing once I explain the new game to him, and cheerfully takes up position against the barn wall. As I raise my knife, the only sign of his nervousness is the occasional bobbing of his Adam’s apple.

“My lady,” Sir Roscoff begins, “I do not think this is wise.”

I arch one brow at him. “Do you doubt my skill?”

“No. I doubt my good health should Beast learn I have allowed you to use his men for target practice.”

“And you would be right,” a deep rumbling voice says behind me. Dammit. Usually I am well aware of Beast’s approach. Either the game or the drink has dulled my senses. I turn to face him with my cockiest grin. “You know I’ll not miss. They will survive intact.”

He takes the knife from my hand. “Their bodies, yes, but not their pride.”

“You are ruining all my fun.” I try to keep my words playful, but they have a whiff of desperation to them. There is nowhere else I can be right now. If I cannot stand here, losing myself in the taste of cheap wine and the precision of throwing sharp things, there will be nothing to do but think of the duchess, and that way lies madness. Or something truly reckless.

Much like a parent adjusting a child’s cloak, Beast gently slips my knife into its sheath. “The hour is late, and your duties call.”

“My duties?” I scoff. “Did you not hear? I have been released for the night.”