Flametouched Page 21

  Davon nodded, wondering what she and her parents could find to argue about. If her family knew of her troubles and of the attack, surely they would rally to her support. “May I see her, or can you ask her for a convenient time for me to visit?”

  “Please go see her,” Missa begged. “Please. I took her some wine moments ago. Just knock before you enter.”

  Nervously, Davon rapped at the door and cracked it. “Lady Hightower? It is Mr. Harper. May I see you for a moment?”

  “If you wish,” she said, voice subdued. He entered quietly, leaving the door open for propriety’s sake. As Missa had indicated, Arianne sat on a divan near a window, legs pulled up to her chest and hair down.

  The window revealed an overcast and stormy sky, and the weak light grayed Arianne’s beautiful face. A fitful rain pecked lightly on the window, her head leaning against the wall and a glass half full of red wine resting untouched on the sill. She wore a plain, white dress and didn’t turn to look at him as he neared and placed the letter on the desk next to the jewelry he had carved for her. He pulled the chair out and sat down.

  “The Queen asked me to deliver this letter to you and to see how you fared. I was sorry to hear you were unwell, and I am resolved not to make the situation worse by apologizing for anything.” The edges of her lips turned up ever so slightly and she wiped one of her eyes, gaze remaining upon the storm outside. He continued, “I know I am not entitled to know of your concerns, Lady Hightower, but if I can help you in any way, I would be pleased to do so.”

  She hardly moved for many moments, and Davon listened to the pattering of rain on the window pane until she sighed and straightened a little. Her gaze she kept fixed out the window.

  “When I was nearly eight and Elaine was just a baby,” she said, “I remember sitting around the dinner table one evening when a servant pouring wine mishandled the bottle and sent my Father’s glass rolling off onto the floor, spilling wine all over the white tablecloth. I thought it was funny and started to laugh, but my Father backhanded the servant, his ring cutting the poor man’s cheek almost to the bone. He swore at him, beat him, and threw him out of the room. My two older brothers found this amusing. I was horrified. I had heard my father and mother yell at the servants, but had never before witnessed anything approaching that kind of violence.

  “I came to understand that my parents believe in the ‘proper order of humanity’ as they call it, and even as children we were treated little better than the servants until we were married. Well, you know what my mother is like. I found out last night that since I am an unmarried woman, apparently I have regressed in my status.” At last she turned her tear-stung eyes fully toward him, her left cheek marred by a dark bruise.

  Davon’s chair squealed as he rose in shock. Who would dare strike someone so good and lovely? He approached her, inspecting the purple mark on her cheek. Gently he took her face in his hands and probed the cheekbone, her eyes cast down. “I am very sorry, Lady Hightower,” he consoled, a steady rage building within him. “Does it hurt when you talk or when I press the bone?”

  “No,” she answered quietly.

  He stalked out of the room and found Missa. “I need you to go to the infirmary and ask Dr. Otis if he has any Banded Elver Leaf. Under no circumstances tell him what it is for, only that a noble lady requires it. Then bring me cold water.”

  “But I should not leave you two alone,” she objected.

  “Propriety be damned, girl. Please do as I say,” he ordered.

  She nodded and left quickly, and he returned to sit with Arianne, who continued her vigil out the window. For the first time since leaving his noble title behind he wished he could take it up again, find her father, Viscount Hale, and force him onto the field of challenge. While he doubted Arianne would thank him for killing both her husband and her father, the latter certainly deserved it.

  “What are you up to, Mr. Harper?” she asked, voice colorless.

  He pushed his violent feelings aside and softened the look on his face; now was a time for healing. “Fortunately, I happen to know a few remedies for the common bruise. We’ll have it cleared up in no time, Lady Hightower. I don’t wish to pry, but what inspired such violence?”

  She turned toward him, eyes flinty. “I found out three day ago that I was betrothed to the Earl of Longford, Duke Longford’s son.”

  “The Hero of Harrickshire?” he asked, realizing now why the two had been alone in the Elder Wood that day.

  She smirked. “We both know he’s not the Hero of Harrickshire, Mr. Harper. You are. Yes, I know.”

  Davon opened his mouth but no words came out. He had thought that she had remained out of view in the wrinkle of the Elder Tree. It took several moments to compose himself. He wanted to interrogate her more, but realized that there were more pressing matters than credit for Harrickshire.

  “So,” he pressed, “you weren’t betrothed then? How could your own betrothal be a mystery to you?”

  She turned back to the window. “He did indeed drop to a knee, but he never finished his proposal before the shooting began. I suppose he figured that I couldn’t refuse such an illustrious person. So with a mountain of ego and presumption and a mound of sense, we have Earl Uticus Longford prepared to announce our nuptials to the world. This marriage is the fondest wish of my parents, and when I informed them that I had not consented to marry him and had no mind to in the near future, this was the result.”

  “Your Father’s behavior is unconscionable, Lady Hightower. They may be unhappy with your decision, but to lay a hand on you? I am deeply angered. What will you do?”

  “What can I do?” she returned. “Despite these events, I don’t wish to disappoint my family or cause them any shame. Connection to a duke’s family is my parents’ deepest ambition. They could have a grandson as a duke one day, have access and influence they can only dream of now. And I am at the center of these expectations. How can I refuse?”

  It suddenly struck him what Lady Hightower reminded him of: Emile after she had married him. In idle moments of pain in his own marriage, he often practiced what he would have said to his wife had he known her true feelings for him before the marriage. That unexpressed advice was what the good Lady Hightower needed now.

  “Forgive me if I overstep my bounds,” he said, “but you told me when we were together in Hightower that your previous marriage was arranged and that there was little love. Speaking as a clerk, Lady Hightower, the math is quite simple: if you must be at the expense of two marriages, then at least one of them should profit you.

  “Trust me when I tell you that if you marry the Earl against your feelings you will spend many days as you are now, staring out the window with lifeless eyes and a heart robbed of joy. For the first few months you will force yourself to smile at him and be pleasant, but soon the pretending will give way to a loathing of the one you should love but can’t. The red dress you look so fetching in will rot in the closet and you will take to wearing anything drab enough not to attract the attention or the touch of the stranger you married for someone else’s sake.

  “Your parents you can hide from until their wrath fades. A husband you can’t love will find you unprepared for his company every day. As for your Father, you remind him that you are the Viscountess of Bittermarch and will not be treated like a dog. And if need be, you tell him that the real Hero of Harrickshire can drop a deer from two hundred yards in a stiff wind.”

  The door banged open and Missa entered, water and Elver Leaf in hand. Davon asked for a small dish and mashed the leaf into a watery paste. Removing his handkerchief, he put the wad of paste inside, just as Saunders had done many times for him. After a quick soak in the water, he approached the Lady Hightower, finding her cheeks tear soaked, but her eyes alive with some new spark.

  “I know this smells unflattering,” he said, “but it will help. Missa, come here, please, and pay attention. I’ll need you to do this for the Lady when I am gone.” He took the back of Arianne’s head and da
ubed her cheek with the handkerchief, her eyes closing as he worked. “Do this to the bruise for a few minutes every hour for the rest of the day,” he instructed. “When done, just leave the handkerchief to soak in the water. You can throw it all out tomorrow. The bruise should fade very quickly over the next couple of days. Now if you could fetch her some food, something light, and a little more wine.”

  “Yes, Mr. Harper,” she said, leaving them alone again. Davon completed his ministrations, and without thinking he kissed Lady Hightower’s head as he might when comforting a child. As he returned the handkerchief to its bowl he noticed the rosebud pendant on the desk and picked it up.

  “I was wondering if I might paint this for you. It’s a new skill I’ve suddenly acquired.”

  He found her regarding him softly. “Leave it, Mr. Harper. I like it just as you gave it to me that day in Hightower.”

  He nodded in understanding. “Very well,” he said. “Eat all the food and get some sleep. I will leave you now, but if I can be of any further use, please send word to the Clerk’s office. Remember what I said about your dilemma. And don’t forget the Queen’s letter.”

  And if anyone hurt her again, they would regret it.

  “You have been a great help, Mr. Harper. I feel much better. Won’t you stay a while longer?”

  “For your reputation’s sake, I had best be gone.” He bowed. “Good day, Lady Hightower.”

  “Good day, Lord Carver,” she said quietly after the door had shut. “And thank you.” Davon Carver. Had there ever been such a man as he? How had so few minutes with him banished days-worth of despair? Everything she had to do fell into an orderly line before her as he spoke, the wisdom from his own disastrous marriage breaking her heart and bolstering her courage in equal measure.

  And he kissed me!

  While just a modest peck on the head, it was entirely inappropriate and wholeheartedly appreciated.

  She rose from her divan by the window and stretched, willing life and energy back into her limbs. Her gaze fell upon the desk where the Queen’s letter waited. Hoping for news of the investigation, she opened it, finding that the entire missive consisted of two simple words. “You’re welcome.”

  For the first time in three days, she smiled. She would disobey Davon and forgo the sleep. It was time to write some letters of her own. She reaffixed her rosebud pendant and blooming vine bracelet; she needed to keep Davon close in her thoughts to lend her strength for what she must do.

  Chapter 23

  By Davon’s reckoning, balls were redundant and tedious affairs for the vain and the bored. The same cows and the same bulls were herded into the same pastures to chew the same cud year after year. He had once expressed the thought to Emile who considered it the most scandalous thing he had ever said and had spent the entire afternoon expounding the virtues of balls and assemblies. Opportunities for news. Opportunities for alliances. Opportunities to woo. Davon always searched for opportunities to escape. The peerage had shunned him during his difficulties, only warming to him when prosperity had returned to Frostbourne. He considered most of them self-serving and without compassion and could hardly stand their shallow conversation.

  Now that he was a clerk hiding from a wife and noble acquaintances who thought him dead, an opportunity to escape had inflated to a need rather than a desire. The first part of his plan had worked: arrive early enough so that he could avoid being announced. Under no circumstances would he have the herald bellow to the crowd, “Mr. David Harper, Underclerk” to provide amusement or disdain to a preening, proud audience. If he would have had the company of Mr. Lambert, perhaps he could have endured it. Unsurprisingly, Mr. Lambert embarked on a voluminous vomiting spell that afternoon and was excused from the proceedings; Davon’s firm constitution deprived him of so easy an escape.

  He supposed he could have lied, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it, surprising himself with his own confused scruples. His very identity was a lie of epic proportions, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to fake an illness? He’d even been shot not three weeks before and could have claimed a relapse, though with Mr. Lambert’s absence, Davon thought the Queen would look at another health related excuse from the accounting office with a little suspicion and perhaps some displeasure.

  He had to admit, however, that there were two things he hoped to accomplish at the ball. First, he wanted to see Emile, though from a distance. It was a perverse and dangerous wish, but he had to know if she was happy, even if it cost him some pain. He also wanted to see if he could get news about Lady Hightower’s situation. Nearly a week had passed since he had ministered to her, and he had not seen her since or heard more about the ledgers. He had felt it too forward to visit her apartments without an invitation or without the Queen’s order. Those two purposes accomplished, he would make sure the Queen saw him once and then he would dive out the door as if the building were engulfed in flames.

  The ball was not held in the Palace, but rather in the Lord’s Assembly Hall nearby. It was brightly lit with white walls lined with paintings, statues, and leafy plants. A half orchestra played at one end, a large table with foods at the other, while side rooms—as Emile would have pointed out—provided opportunities to get news, to form alliances, and to woo. Not to mention to get drunk and make a fool of oneself. It was in one of those rooms that he had issued his deadly challenge to Arianne’s late husband, Lord Cornton of Hightower.

  Depressingly, the dung shovelers in the drive had dressed more ornately than he was. No one would mistake him for a servant; they would likely think him some impertinent intruder and attempt to evict him. The safest place to escape scrutiny was to the side of a tall plant near the orchestra. No one mingled there because it was simply too inconvenient to talk over the music. Emile and Lady Hightower had not yet arrived, so he spent his time in observation.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Harper?”

  Davon turned to find the most effeminate man he had ever seen addressing him. He wore white pants and a jacket ornately embroidered with golden thread. A powdered wig and vanity dot on his cheek conspired to make him ridiculous. His accent was Creetisian, and despite the frippery, the man’s eyes were those of a hunter.

  “Yes?” Davon answered.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Melchor Raines, attaché to the honorable Ambassador Horace Clout of Creetis. I am, you see, a bit like yourself. I fear the ladies will simply ignore me all evening. Has the plant offered you any conversation or perhaps asked you to dance?”

  Davon understood the attempt at humor, but the nagging sense of wrongness in his mind prevented him from feeling any mirth whatsoever.

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. Raines,” he answered, “though you may find the conversation with the plants more rewarding than the conversation with the people.”

  Mr. Raines laughed politely, an affected levity worthy of the nobles he was apparently trying to imitate. “You are naughty, Mr. Harper. But that does remind me that there was a matter I wished to speak with you about. Weren’t you the one who discovered the nobles were being duped by some society or some such?”

  “Yes, though I hardly think it would be of any interest to Creetis. Nobles are notoriously careless with their money. It comes from having too much of it.”

  “Yes, yes, quite,” Melchor said. “Ambassador Clout comments about that particularly often. My interest is in how you were rewarded. You were made a clerk, correct?”

  Davon wondered where this was going. “An underclerk, yes.”

  “But still a commoner?”

  “Yes. I simply have a more pleasant work environment and better pay,” he explained.

  “Interesting,” Mr. Raines said, screwing his face up into a thoughtful expression. “Are you a good shot, Mr. Harper?”

  Now Davon was thoroughly confused. “Better than some, worse than others.”

  “I recently heard someone comment on your shooting skill, I believe. Said you could hit a man between the eyes at one hundred yards. I was wondering i
f you could do the same if a man were galloping away on a horse.”

  “Like the Earl of Longford, you mean?” Davon returned, fearful of what this attaché knew.

  “Was he the one?” Mr. Raines asked, acting as if he was thinking hard. “I’ve always had such a hard time remembering all the names of your nobility. But yes, like him. I was so surprised to hear the tale. The attack came at least four hours into the outing. Most Lords are good and drunk by then and couldn’t have shot a horse that had its hoof on their boot.”

  Davon shrugged. “Some men shoot better when they are a little drunk. The liquor calms their nerves and bolsters their enthusiasm.”

  Mr. Raines laughed again. “You are a delight, Mr. Harper. And quite right. Well, I suppose I shall leave you to your plant. Your name just keeps popping up, and I thought I might come take the measure of you. If I get bored, I think I shall take a few drinks and try shooting birds in the dark. You could join me.”

  He walked off, practically mincing as he went, humming to the tune of the music. The warning voice in Davon’s head blared. Something wasn’t right about that man. How would an attaché know anything about the shooting that had occurred in the clearing when fleeing to Bellshire with the old ledgers, and how could he know that he had shot the men on horseback down in Harrickshire? Was word getting out? Did Creetis have spies everywhere?

  Maybe all this lying and pretending is making me paranoid, he thought.

  “Lady Arianne Cornton of Hightower!” the herald announced. Davon glanced up and smiled. She wore the red dress and the curled hair just as she had done the day he had annoyed her so during his convalescence. She appeared vibrant, practically glowing, and a low hum of gossip filled the room. How much had her troubles circulated among her peers? Servants were notorious for spreading secrets, and Missa knew a great deal about the business of Lady Arianne Hightower.