The Tattooed Duchess (A Fire Beneath the Skin Book 2)

by Victor Gischler

  This would actually be a pleasant evening if I weren’t having a suitor shoved down my throat.

  Rina reminded herself that Ferris Gant was not the only reason for the king’s delegation. King Pemrod had taken an interest again in Klaar and wanted to renew relations. That could either be very good or very bad. A renewed relationship with the capital might mean more trade, better cultural exchange, and other unforeseen benefits. On the other hand, Klaar had been independent for years, part of the kingdom of Helva in name only. The people wouldn’t take it well if “renewed relations” translated into interference with how they lived their lives.

  For that matter, I wouldn’t take it well either.

  She saw that everyone had taken their places, standing next to their chairs, all eyes turned toward her at the head of the table. Time to play the gracious host.

  Rina spread her arms in a welcoming gesture. She’d rehearsed with Stasha what she might say, something bland and noncommittal, yet friendly and welcoming.

  “Lords and ladies, welcome one and all to the duchy of Klaar,” Rina began. “Our humble holding is made brighter by your presence. I’d especially like to welcome Count Becham and his retinue, who traveled all the way from Merridan as King Pemrod’s representatives.”

  Rina gestured to the count. As guest of honor, he’d been placed at the table directly to Rina’s right. A modest smattering of applause rippled along the table in appreciation of him. The count smiled and nodded in acknowledgment.

  “We look forward to a much closer relationship with our cousins in the capital,” Rina continued. “I’d also like to welcome new friends.” She nodded to the three people sitting at the complete opposite end of the long dining table.

  The three gypsies had arrived quietly while most of the castle had been in a tizzy trying to provide the best rooms in the castle for Becham and his party. The gypsies had taken the lesser accommodations offered them without complaint. As chief, Gino was ostensibly the leader of the gypsies, but the two women with him were arguably more powerful. The handsome middle-aged women with the tattoos on her face was Klarissa. The tattoos were identical to the ones on Rina’s own face. It had been Klarissa’s mother who’d put them there. Rina would need to find a quiet moment later to apologize for seating them so far down the table, but while the three gypsies were the most important people in their own tribe, they weren’t considered nobility by Helvan standards. Gypsies were generally known as thieves and swindlers, and seating them at the table at all may have offended Becham and his party.

  Then they’ll just have to be offended.

  The gypsies had been useful. When it came time to recapture Klaar, they’d shown up to help. The king hadn’t. And anyway, Rina liked Klarissa.

  That was more than she could say for the third gypsy.

  Maurizan was Klarissa’s daughter. Rina and Maurizan had little affection for each other. Mostly because they’d both set their sights on Alem. Rina had won.

  Okay, that’s petty, but I don’t care.

  It was time to wrap up her opening remarks. Rina lifted her goblet, and the guests did likewise. A traditional toast.

  “To his royal majesty, King Pemrod of Helva,” Rina said.

  “His majesty!” replied the gathering

  “Now please be seated, my friends,” Rina said, “and enjoy the feast!”

  The applause this time seemed a little more enthusiastic.

  They kept to polite and inconsequential topics through the soup and the main entrée. Brasley sat next to the count, and Rina thought his contributions to the conversation a bit perfunctory. She’d been counting on him to carry some of the weight and wondered what was wrong with the man.

  Stasha sat on Rina’s left, and next to her sat Ferris Gant. Rina had faked as much warmth as possible when they’d been introduced.

  Gant was a bit older than Rina but still short of thirty, Rina estimated. Tall, broad shoulders, wavy auburn hair, beard neatly trimmed along his jaw. Smooth skin, a bit tan from outdoor activity, probably something gentlemanly like riding or hunting. Gant’s eyes were a deep, rich brown.

  At least he’s good-looking. That helps. Or maybe it makes it worse?

  Rina startled herself with this line of thought.

  Dessert came and went, and the servants brought out the thick liqueur called musso in small glasses. Musso was expensive and imported from the Red City, and it had been Stasha’s suggestion to serve it. The liqueur signaled the end of the feast, and now was usually when additional toasts and announcements were made. Rina prepared her final words, to thank the guests for coming.

  I just want to get out of this damn corset, so I can breathe again and—

  She blinked, not sure what she’d seen. Had Count Becham just leaned over and nudged Brasley in the ribs with his elbow?

  Brasley stood slowly, tapping a spoon against his glass for everyone’s attention. All heads turned toward him, the conversation in the room falling away.

  Brasley opened his mouth to speak, and for a second he froze. He cleared his throat, mastered himself, the practiced charm returning.

  But something’s wrong with him. What’s going on?

  “Lords and ladies, I beg your attention,” Brasley said. “I have an announcement to make, and as we’ve all been served this excellent liqueur”—he paused to nod politely at Rina—“now would seem the appropriate time to share the joyous news.”

  The dinner guests were rapt. They were full of wine and food, and a surprise would be an amusing way to cap off the evening.

  “After relentless pleading, I have finally convinced our most excellent count”—he put a hand on the count’s shoulder, giving him a wink and really playing it up—“to give me his lovely daughter Fregga’s hand in marriage.”

  The dining hall erupted in applause. Everyone loved somebody else’s wedding.

  Rina shot a look at Stasha.

  The chamberlain offered a bewildered shrug as if to say, “Don’t look at me.”

  Brasley gestured with one hand for the crowd to hush, and they quieted.

  “I am happy to say that the wedding will take place in a few days as soon as my lovely fiancée arrives,” Brasley said. “Sorry, ladies, but this side of beef no longer hangs in the butcher’s window.”

  The comment instigated a good-natured round of laughter, which summoned more applause and shouts of congratulations from the guests.

  Count Becham gave Brasley a hearty pat on the back.

  Rina stared at Brasley, her mouth hanging open, stunned.

  Oh, you poor bastard.

  ***

  Rina stood in the large archway of the dining hall and offered each guest a few parting words. Her feet were killing her. The shoes were almost as bad as the corset—almost.

  And you get to do it all over again tomorrow night, you lucky duchess.

  How long were these guests staying again?

  As the final guests trickled out, Rina realized she’d actually made a useful decision by seating the gypsies at the far end of the table, because this meant they were the last to leave. Rina would be able to have a quiet moment alone with them. Well, not entirely alone. Stasha hovered in the background in case her duties as chamberlain demanded she leap into action, and guards stood unobtrusively in the corners. As duchess, Rina found that it was difficult to be truly alone anywhere in the castle these days, as there were always servants or guards or some functionary hanging about. Her office and private quarters were the only exceptions.

  Rina clasped one of Klarissa’s hands in both of hers, smiled warmly. “It’s good to see you again, Klarissa. I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to visit during the feast. It was horrible, seating you so far away like that.”

  “Nonsense, your grace,” Klarissa said. “You had a count to deal with. We understand completely, don’t we, Gino?”

  Gino bowed, a tight smile straining his face. “Of course.”

  “And you remember my daughter, Maurizan.”

  Rina faked
a smile. “Maurizan.”

  A half bow from Maurizan. The girl didn’t bother to fake a smile. “Your grace.”

  “You youngsters run along,” Klarissa said to the other gypsies. “I want to indulge in a little gossip with Duchess Veraiin. Nothing important enough to interest you, Gino.”

  The look on Gino’s face made it clear he knew he was being dismissed. He and Maurizan left. Klarissa and Rina walked slowly down the wide hallway, the chamberlain and guards following at a respectful distance so as not to intrude.

  “How are you getting along, your grace?” Klarissa asked. “Now that you’re duchess, I mean.”

  “Please, I can’t handle anyone else calling me your grace. Rina works fine. At least when we’re alone,” Rina said. “And being duchess is a huge pain in the ass. Thanks for asking.”

  Klarissa laughed. “Maybe the gypsy system isn’t so bad. I make most of the decisions, but Gino is chief. Everyone takes their problems to him.”

  “Maybe you can lend him to me,” Rina said. “I’m tired of other people’s problems. I have enough of my own.”

  “I have a feeling you’ll do just fine.”

  “What about your people?” Rina asked. “Are they ready to settle along Lake Hammish?”

  “The caravans are being prepared,” Klarissa said. “We’re waiting one more week to make sure the thaw has taken, and then we’ll bring everyone.”

  “Brasley is ostensibly lord of those lands, but he knows to leave you alone,” Rina said. “Go to him if you need anything.”

  “I’m sure we’ll get along with Baron Hammish just fine,” Klarissa said. “There’s another reason I wanted to speak with you, Rina, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course.”

  “You’ve been very kind to me and my people. I was hoping I might offer you a gift.”

  Rina braced herself. Gypsies didn’t strike bargains with friends. Rather, they offered gifts and hoped they were offered another gift in returned. It seemed like splitting hairs, and Rina suspected it was some sort of test of friendship and loyalty. If Klarissa gave her a gift, then she’d expect something in return but wouldn’t ask for it. It was up to Rina to decide whether she would return the gesture.

  “I hope I can be worthy of any gift you might give,” Rina said carefully.

  A knowing smile spread on Klarissa’s face. “It’s late, and you’ve been playing host all night. I’ll bet you’re tired. I don’t want to keep you up. May I beg some of your time tomorrow to explain more fully?”

  Rina’s day was slammed full, but for Klarissa she’d make time. “Can you join me for breakfast?”

  “Happy to.”

  “Good,” Rina said. “And welcome to Klaar. I’m glad you and your people are here.”

  Klarissa kissed Rina on the cheek. “See you at breakfast. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  Rina stood a moment and watched Klarissa go. She sensed her chamberlain coming up behind her.

  “Stasha.”

  “Your grace?”

  “What did we do with all the books and wizard paraphernalia we brought back from Weylan’s cave?”

  “Locked in the prayer tower as you instructed,” Stasha said.

  “Who knows?”

  “You and I,” Stasha said. “And the two men I handpicked to carry it all up there. They’re sworn to secrecy. I trust them.”

  “Thank you,” Rina said. “Are you turning in now?”

  “Soon enough. There’s still plenty to do. You should head off to bed. I’ll see to everything.”

  “Thank you, Stasha. I’m glad you’re here.”

  “I wouldn’t be anywhere else, your grace.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  For the first time, Rina missed having her own maid. It took longer than usual to pry herself out of the corset on her own, but she eventually managed it, and breathed deep with relief. She kicked off her formal shoes and stepped into soft slippers. She donned a heavy robe, tied it in the front. She felt human again.

  Her body ached for her feather bed, but her mind raced. She knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep, not yet.

  She was considering sending a servant for a pot of herbal tea when there was a tentative knock at the door.

  Rina took a step toward the door. “Yes?”

  “Sorry to disturb you, milady, but there’s a guest to see you.”

  The voiced sounded like one of Tosh’s women, the big redhead. What was her name again? Darshia. “At this hour?”

  “I told him, milady,” Darshia said through the door. “He’s quite insistent.”

  Rina sighed, pulled the bolt back, and opened the door. There was another woman on guard duty with Darshia, but Rina didn’t recognize her. A man stood waiting beyond the two women.

  Ferris Gant.

  Two goblets hung by the stems from the fingers of one hand. In his other hand he carried a wine pitcher.

  “Forgive the late hour, your grace.” He smiled, half charm and half apology. “But I was hoping we could share a drink. And some conversation.”

  Rina’s mouth fell open. You’ve got to be fucking joking.

  Darshia leaned toward Rina and whispered, “I don’t care whose grandnephew he is, milady. Say the word, and I’ll escort him out of here. As roughly as you like.”

  Nobody, not even King Pemrod, would be able to hold it against her if Rina sent the man away. It was rude and presumptuous to come to her private chambers in this way. On the other hand, she’d take all the goodwill she could get. It was simple enough to invite the man in, exchange some conversation, then send him on his way without hurt feelings.

  Rina stepped aside and gestured into her sitting room. “Please come in, Sir Gant.”

  “Are you sure about this, milady?” Darshia whispered.

  “Do you really think he can do anything to me?” Rina said.

  “Well, no, milady. But it’s improper,” Darshia said. “Forgive me, but I know a little something about improper.”

  “I’ll trust to your discretion,” Rina said. “And I promise that if he gets out of line, I’ll call for you to come fetch his body.”

  A grin flickered briefly across Darshia’s face. “We’ll be right outside.”

  Gant nodded at the guards as he entered. “Ladies.”

  Darshia scowled at him but said nothing.

  Rina closed the door but didn’t slide the bolt back into place.

  Gant gestured at the table with the wine pitcher. “Do you mind if I sit?”

  “Please. Be comfortable.”

  Gant sat. He set the goblets on the table in front of him and filled each. He motioned to the other chair across the table. “Join me.”

  Rina stood, back straight, hands clasped primly in front of her. “I’ve just come from the same feast as you. I’ve had quite enough wine, thank you.”

  “No you haven’t,” Gant said. “The servant filled your glass for the toast and then once more between the entrée and dessert. I watched what you were drinking. I didn’t want to pass out before we had a chance to talk, so I took it as easy as you did.”

  “By all means, say whatever you came here to say.”

  “Could you sit, please?” Gant said. “You’re making me nervous.”

  “Somehow I doubt that,” Rina said, but she took the chair across from him.

  He slid one of the goblets across the table toward her, lifted the other in a toast. “To mutual interests.”

  “And what might those interests be?”

  “Friendship, I hope. And a better relationship between Merridan and Klaar, obviously,” Gant said. “And marriage.”

  Rina didn’t reach for the goblet.

  “You’re much prettier that the last one,” Gant said. “The king has been trying to set me up for years. Some bucktoothed girl from Tul-Agnon, daughter of the Royal University chancellor. I like the tattoos around your eyes. Makes you look . . . a bit . . .”

  “Exotic,” supplied Rina. “Or so I’ve been told.”<
br />
  “Yes,” Gant agreed. “Exotic.”

  “Am I supposed to be flattered?”

  “Certainly. Why not?” Gant sipped wine. “May I be frank?”

  “Please.”

  “You’re not keen to marry me, I take it.”

  “Such talk is a bit premature, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, but we all know where this is headed,” Gant said. “The king sends me along with Count Becham to get a look at you. And if we don’t object too strongly to each other, maybe you come to the capital for a visit in the spring, and we’re seen walking together or attending a concert. Who cares? Whatever. Word gets around that there might be a wedding on the way. That’s how the king tests the water. If the nobility seem in favor, then things proceed, and a year from now we’re walking down the aisle. Events unfold slowly, but not too slowly, when the bride and groom are the future king and queen of Helva. Pemrod is getting old. His health is good, but nobody lives forever.”

  Hearing things spelled out like that made Rina’s stomach twist. She could barely tolerate being duchess. She certainly didn’t want to be queen, and she had no intention of marrying a man she’d known only a few hours. Now she did reach for the goblet and took a long drink.

  “I’m Pemrod’s heir,” Gant said. “Sooner or later I’m going to have to marry somebody. If it can’t be for love, then it might as well be a good match.”

  “Why can’t it be for love?”

  “Ah.” Gant paused to sip wine. “Again. Mutual interests. I’ll turn the question back to you. Why can’t you marry the one you love? Stable boy, isn’t it?”

  Rina’s eyes narrowed, and her voice became icy. “Excuse me?”

  “To be honest, I didn’t believe it at first,” Gant told her. “I mean, a stable boy? Really? It sounded like something from a troubadour’s bawdy tavern song.”

  Rina pushed the goblet away, face tight with anger. “Did you come here to insult me?”

  “I came here to commiserate with you,” Gant said. “You can’t marry the one you love because he’s . . . let’s say inappropriate in the eyes of society. Has it occurred to you I might be in the same fix?”