by C. E. Murphy
She kept her hands relaxed at her sides, against the impulse to curl them. The card she played was a dangerous one, using simple words and an unexpected truthfulness to ally herself with Eliza. The more—or less; she was as yet uncertain as to which it was—subtle manipulation of emotion lay within her capabilities, but Belinda found herself unwilling to indulge in that game. Alliances forged with words were better-known to her, more trustworthy, and would leave no mark of molding on Eliza’s mind. Whether that was even a risk worth considering, Belinda didn’t know, but better to avoid it if she could.
Besides, she admitted in a rare moment of honesty, she simply wanted the dark-haired beauty to like her. Friends were a luxury she was unaccustomed to indulging in, and a hazardous one at that, but Beatrice felt the lack more than Belinda ever allowed herself to.
“And will I have to share him with you?” Eliza’s voice was still careful, her body still held in statuesque quietude. Belinda coughed out a derisive breath.
“A Lanyarchan provincial? His fascination for me is fleeting, Eliza. You’ll have to share him with someone, but it won’t be me. My sights aren’t set that high.”
“He’s never shown even so much fascination for me.” Strain cracked Eliza’s voice now, making her sound more youthful than she was. Belinda finally dared move, taking herself to stand before Eliza and offer her a hand.
“There are four of you, and none of those men are your brothers. Giving yourself to any one of them changes the balance. Gives weight to that couple’s desires over the other two. Javier is a prince. Royalty does not afford friends easily. It may be easier, and wiser, to refuse to see you, than to risk the only friendships that go back so far as to withstand the test of sovereignty. You were children,” Belinda whispered. “Parents might care for the rank of person their children associate with, but children care nothing for it. You, I would think, most of all, more than Sacha or Marius, even, would stand that test. All you wanted was some pears.” Her smile was fleeting and sad.
“How do you know us so well?” Eliza didn’t take Belinda’s hand, but her question lacked accusation, filled instead with resignation. Belinda lowered her eyes to the floor, self-same smile turning wry.
“Envy, perhaps,” she replied, discomfited to find a degree of truth in that. Only a degree; the larger part was in needing to know, to see clearly, for her own survival. For the survival of her queen. “That, and I’ve been made a satellite around a body that works. Perhaps it’s easier to see you from the outside, looking in.”
Eliza sighed, turning her gaze away, and after long moments swore under her breath. “Have you ever had to grow your hair out from this length, Beatrice? It looks and feels horrible.”
Belinda’s mouth quirked, eyes bright. “We’ll just have to find someone skilled enough with scissors to make it bearable. Or buy you a sheerly impossible number of wigs.”
“With Javier’s money.” A note of bitterness sounded in that and Belinda, despite the earlier rebuff, deliberately reached for and caught Eliza’s hand.
“Not if you don’t want to. I have money of my own.”
“I don’t.”
Belinda tilted her head, curious; Javier had accused Eliza of stealing more than a palmful of coin off him, and Eliza had claimed to him that she had cash. But that might have been a fob to make a prince cease worrying; there was no reason to suppose the cheapside beauty still had the money. “Well, then. We’d better set about doing something about that, hadn’t we?”
“You’ve taken her under your wing more fully than I’d expected, Bea.” Javier lay sprawled on a divan in Belinda’s sunroom, one long leg kicked over its edge, the other knocked up rakishly so his free hand could dangle over his knee. Belinda sat tucked into a chair beside him, allowing him her fingertips to pluck and drop idly as he watched her household run.
In ten days her home had been transformed. Eliza, given her head and a budget, had stalked through the Lutetian streets to make tightfisted deals with merchants bewildered by the stacks of coin she left even when they insisted a friend of the prince couldn’t possibly be expected to pay for the wares she bought. She purchased cloth, bejewelments, threads, all manner of sewing material, and before the first day was out a quiet young woman appeared at Belinda’s door, jaw set with determination. She would not, she explained hastily, be able to come back for the gown herself, but she would send her serving-maid. As it was, her mother believed her to be on the way to visit a friend, but rumour had sparked in the streets and she had seen for herself the gowns that Eliza wore. She wanted to be the first outside the prince’s intimate circle to wear a fashion made by Eliza, and was willing to risk her mother’s angry hand to have that first gown.
Eliza, irrationally offended at the link to Javier, had opened her mouth to refuse and Belinda had stepped on her toes with a solid heel, accepting the commission while Eliza’s full mouth whitened with annoyance and pain.
“Don’t be absurd,” Belinda told her acerbically, once the girl was measured and gone again. “You’ve taken a loan out from me. I have no intention of letting you welsh on it through foolish pride. Now, unless you intend to sew every gown yourself, I’d suggest you turn some thought to hiring a seamstress or two, and if you’ve any sense you’ll take one from your old address.”
Eliza had spluttered, railed, and ultimately acquiesced. By morning she had three seamstresses, all from her old quarters, and Belinda had kept Nina running all morning to bathe the three more thoroughly than they’d ever known in their lives. Eliza’s mouth had tightened, but she hadn’t argued; there was no profit in staining expensive fabric with dirty hands, or holding it against bodies smelling of refuse and shit when there were baths to be had. One of the women nearly refused the hot water, until Eliza reminded her of the pay she’d be earning for a little cleanliness. Muttering about it being against God’s will, the woman had climbed into the tub and emerged forty minutes later looking a decade younger than she had going in. She’d asked twice for a bath since then.
“It’s not my wing,” Belinda said mildly. “It’s the chance unshadowed by your wings, my lord. I’m glad to help.” She was privately delighted at how true that was; watching tautness fade from Eliza’s stance as it became clear she could succeed on her own was worth the disruption to the household.
“Unshadowed,” Javier murmured. Belinda shrugged.
“Close enough for her pride. They come to her now because of your friendship, but in six months’ time they’ll come for her creations, and in five years most of them won’t remember she was your friend first.”
“Will she make something for you?”
Belinda arched an eyebrow. “If I pay her, but if you’d like another gown to ruin on your garden floor, my lord, I’d as soon wear a muslin shift that can be replaced more easily.”
“No.” Humour curved Javier’s mouth momentarily. “I want something to present you to my mother in.”
“Your mother.” Belinda’s heart gave a sudden uncharacteristic thump, filling her throat. A note of panic cut through that fullness, Beatrice’s shock at the idea of meeting the regent briefly overwhelming Belinda’s own tense delight, though as seconds passed her own emotions conquered those of the role she played. She ached to meet Sandalia; after months in Gallin’s capital city, waiting on the queen’s return, she would finally have something to report to her “dearest Jayne.” There had been no sudden move against Aulun in the months she’d spent in Lutetia; indeed, if a plot was moving at all, Belinda half felt it was she who lay at the heart of it. Perhaps Robert’s intelligence was overblown.
Or perhaps the plotting of a queen’s murder was a slow and careful thing. Belinda felt the prickle of hairs wanting to stand on her arms, and refused her body that tiny show of emotion. “I had not thought…” The protest was token, a whisper, something to ease the amusement on Javier’s face.
“You can’t go skulking about the back halls of the palace forever, and,” he lowered his voice, “I have no intention of put
ting you aside just yet, for reasons you know well. Better you meet her,” he said more briskly. “Become a part of the court. Perhaps you’ll even find yourself a better match than Marius.”
“Would you take me from him, then?” Belinda asked, allowing the question to distract her for a moment. “It’s cruel enough what you’ve done. Would your friendship survive handing me to another noble?”
“Even if it were Sacha,” Javier said with arrogant confidence. “Marius’s heart would break, and in a week he’d find a new love. He’s my man, Beatrice, and his soul is a true one.”
“All the more reason to treat it well.”
Javier sat up, copper hair falling into his eyes. “Beatrice, are you telling me you’re in love with Marius? Do I keep you from your heart’s match?” Teasing and jealousy both tinged the question, Javier’s will flexing unconsciously toward her, as if to bend her to the answers he wanted to hear.
“No,” Belinda said, neither influenced by his extended power nor lying. “But a loyal man should be treated well, not used callously for his good heart.” As she’d used him, she reminded herself without rancor. His visits now were a paroxysm of discomfort, the merchant youth barely able to keep his eyes from Nina, nor willing to allow himself to look at her. Belinda’s work on the serving girl’s memory seemed to have held, and she showed no discomfort or interest in Marius’s presence than was dictated by their classes. Belinda lifted a shoulder and offered Javier a smile, letting thoughts of Marius slip away. “No matter. I would be honoured to meet your mother, my lord prince. Is she…is she like you?” Belinda drew her fingers over his, the question light and cautious. He chuckled.
“Flat-chested and redheaded, you mean? No.” A judicious pause. “She’s a brunette.”
Belinda laughed aloud, taken entirely by surprise. “I’ve seen paintings. She’s not flat-chested, either. You know what I mean, Jav.” Her voice lowered. “The witchpower.” There was no more vital piece of information. She’d come to Gallin expecting the challenge of—Better not to think it, not when her own gifts could pluck thoughts from the air around someone she touched. She withdrew her hand from his, knowing Javier might keep a similar secret close to his own heart.
“Is your mother?”
Belinda thought of Lorraine, slender and elegant on her throne. She was fond of pearls, their creaminess playing up her pale skin. Belinda shook off the image as surely as she’d forbidden herself thoughts of her duties in Lutetia. “My mother died when I was born.”
Javier shrugged, languid motion of dismissal. “Then there’s no comparison to be made there. You and I are what we are, Beatrice. We won’t worry about others, except in the impression you’re to make on them. Have Eliza make you something innocent, Bea. Mother will know better, but she likes the illusion that the women I keep are nothing more than youthful playmates.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
There was nothing innocent to the gown’s cut.
In a decade of learning to dress to hide herself, to please men, to make herself beautiful or plain, she had rarely worn something that made her feel as unrestrained as Eliza’s design did. It was not that it was overly immodest, or lacking in underlayers; the gown Belinda and Javier had ruined had been more daring in that respect.
Part of it was the sleeves. Capped and ruffled, they followed the curve of her shoulder, just covering it, and left her arms bare. Belinda had objected: it was October, and the palace was often cold. Eliza sniffed without sympathy and handed her a cape.
Even that enhanced the gown. The cloak’s ties, stretched across Belinda’s collarbones, made the round scooped collar’s dip seem all the more extravagant. Her breasts were shelved high, a new corset tucked beneath them, and a broad ribbon made a waist of the dress immediately beneath her bosom. It flowed loose from gathers below that, and above offered a shocking expanse of bared skin before a lace ruffle that scraped her nipples made a nod toward propriety.
Most extraordinarily, it was pink. Belinda had gaped at the fabric when it was brought in, unable to stop herself even as smugness played at Eliza’s mouth. “I thought you were putting away mannish things,” Belinda’d managed to protest, and earned Eliza’s laughter for it.
“Who says only men can wear pink? Or would you pretend that you’re too weak for the color, as they say women are?”
Beatrice might have stood her ground, but Belinda knew better than to fall for the taunt. She found herself eyeing the fabric more covetously despite herself, and had ignored Eliza’s triumph. It was frothy muslin, so light it would take layer after layer to give it a decent weight. That, Eliza had agreed with, though the final dress still all but floated, and with the afternoon sun behind her Belinda knew full well her figure would be visible through the gown’s layers. It was not at all innocent.
And yet, looking at herself in the mirror, her hair piled into ringlets that fell around her shoulders, even feeling lush and sensual, Belinda’s reflection to her own eyes looked virginal and soft. Pure. The costume was so far from fashionable it would very possibly horrify Sandalia, but if its outrageousness passed muster, the effect was exactly as Javier had asked.
“What I want to know is what’s beneath all that diaphanous material.” Javier spoke from her bedroom door, his reflection appearing in her mirror only after his voice wrapped around her. Belinda tilted her head toward his image, smiling.
“I thought you were waiting for me at the palace.”
“I thought I’d better investigate Eliza’s creation, to make sure we weren’t both to be humiliated.” He came into the room, drawing the knot free from her cloak and catching it as it fell. “My mother may have a stroke, Beatrice.”
“You said innocent,” Belinda said lightly. “Would Eliza deliberately humiliate me in front of the queen?”
“No,” Javier said so steadily Belinda believed him. “Mother likes Eliza, so far as she grasps her existence at all.” He dropped a curious kiss on Belinda’s bare shoulder. “Perhaps I should warn her you’ve been dressed by my friend. It might alleviate her shock somewhat.”
“I have other, more ordinary gowns, Javier,” Belinda murmured. “If you disapprove—”
“On the contrary. I approve enough that I’d prefer to keep you here and discover what’s beneath that dress.”
“I am, my lord.” Belinda turned around with an impish smile and stood on her toes to brush her mouth against his ear. “Nothing you’re unfamiliar with.”
“You’re a woman, Bea. It’s a woman’s gift to be eternally mysterious.”
Belinda laughed aloud and kissed Javier a second time before threading her arm through his. “Your mother’s taught you well. Shall we not keep her waiting, my lord prince? I do not,” and for once Belinda spoke with all honesty, “want to make a bad impression.”
“You won’t,” Javier promised, and with the murmured words, escorted her to the Gallic queen’s court.
Sandalia, Essandian princess, queen of Lanyarch and regent of Gallin, was not a tall woman. Javier had done her a disservice with his teasing about her figure; even in the straitlaced corsets that were fashionable, her petite curves were hinted at. Nut-brown hair, richer than Belinda’s, was neither dyed nor powdered to hide signs of aging; unlike Lorraine, Sandalia had years yet before age began to catch her. She’d borne Javier as little more than a child bride, her husband lost to battle within weeks of Javier’s conception, and she had ruled Gallin in her son’s name and with her brother Rodrigo’s support for more than two decades.
Belinda was surprised to find her heart beating rapidly as she approached the throne. The assembly was far from the formal audience at which she’d met her own mother ten years earlier, but her own anticipation of the event was far more acute. Then, she had been preparing to kill a man for the first time, with no idea that meeting the Titian-haired queen would bring understanding to a vivid memory from the first moments of her life. Today she met another target, much higher in rank than the unfortunate Rodney du Roz had been.
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Du Roz. Of the rose. A startling clarity and question fell over Belinda even as she heard Javier murmur her name, even as she curtsied deeply and kept her eyes lowered, waiting for Sandalia to assess her. In nearly all her guises she called herself Rose, or some variation thereof, stealing her father’s pet name for her in deliberate deference to him, and making a purposeful connection to the girl she’d once been.
How much of it, she wondered for the first time, was an homage to the first man who’s life she’d taken? Surprise burned her cheeks and she reached for stillness, then let it fade again: the flush might do her good under Sandalia’s watchful eye. Let the Gallic queen think her a Lanyarchan provincial, shy and overwhelmed at meeting the woman who was arguably the rightful ruler of Belinda’s homeland.
“Rise.” Sandalia’s voice was sweeter than Lorraine’s, a soprano of operatic quality, if it could be trained to sing. Belinda straightened from her curtsey, daring to lift her eyes to the queen’s for an instant, then dropping her gaze again as benefited her station. “We presume our son’s little friend designed your gown, Lady Irvine.”
Irritation flared in Javier’s eyes, as open to Belinda as the impulse for a hard look that she doubted he would dare lay on his mother. A sting of sympathy went through her; Belinda, in Eliza’s place, wouldn’t care for the condescension in Sandalia’s tone, either. That Javier felt outrage spoke better of him as a man than Belinda might have thought, and for an instant her heart softened toward him. There was nothing he could say, certainly not in public, that would not make him look the fool and insult his mother. One might be rude to street urchins, even, or especially, when they weren’t present, but offending the queen was a mistake no one would dare.
