These were all grave thoughts, but then he tightened his arms around her, and she had no more cause or ability to consider them.
“Well, you have made the acquaintance of Sir Quent,” he said, his voice gruff once more. “Now it is my turn to be introduced to Lady Quent.”
She agreed it was past time for such a meeting. They went upstairs to their bedchamber, and there the introduction proceeded very well, so that they were soon acquainted with each other in the most intimate manner.
THE VERY NEXT lumenal, the house was swarming with twice the men as it had on the previous day, and there was not a room in any wing on any floor where the furor of the reconstruction could be escaped. Soon Lily was beside herself, being unable to read or play the pianoforte. Then Miss Mew, upset by all the clamor, scratched Rose’s arm when she was trying to hold the little cat, upon which Rose burst into tears.
Before that lumenal was half-done, Ivy knew they could not remain in the house while work proceeded at this new pace. Mr. Quent concurred, and that afternoon they removed themselves to The Seventh Swan, the inn near the Halls of Assembly where they had stayed when the house was first being opened and made habitable.
This at once improved their situation. Rose had a quiet place to sit and sew with Miss Mew curled up beside her, while Lily found great entertainment in looking out the window at the passers-by on the street below—though Ivy had to remind her it was not tactful to lean out the window and wave to any of them, no matter how good-looking or well-dressed they might be.
“What if I see Mr. Rafferdy go by?” Lily complained. “Should I not wave to him? We are acquainted, so I am sure it would be very rude if I did not. He would be upset if we did not call him in to take tea with us.”
“If you see Mr. Rafferdy, it means he is on his way to Assembly, in which case he would have little time for tea.”
“Not if he’s walking from Assembly rather than toward it.”
Lily may not have inherited their father’s scientific demeanor, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t clever, and Ivy had to concede the point. She agreed that Lily could wave to Mr. Rafferdy—in a discreet fashion, so as not to make a scene—if she ever saw him walking away from Assembly.
Indeed, if Ivy saw him walking so, she was sure she would wave herself. She wanted very much to hear what he thought of being in the Hall of Magnates, and she knew Mr. Quent would be pleased to see him as well. The two had met just once, not long after Mr. Rafferdy had warned his father of the plot to harm Lord Rafferdy and Mr. Quent.
For that Mr. Quent had thanked him, though Mr. Rafferdy had claimed that he had done nothing more than to pass on news that had come to him from an anonymous source. This apparent wish to take no credit for himself had made an impression upon Mr. Quent, who later remarked that he thought Mr. Rafferdy to be a very sensible and modest young man.
Ivy found great amusement in that statement, and replied that while she was exceedingly fond of Mr. Rafferdy, she thought perhaps Mr. Quent would need to meet him again to form a more accurate assessment.
WHILE THE AGITATION of her sisters was reduced by their removal to The Seventh Swan, Ivy’s was soon increased, for the very next lumenal came their meeting with the king.
“How I wish there had been more time to prepare myself!” she exclaimed as she descended the stairs of the inn. “I should have bought a gown in the current mode and devised some new way to arrange my hair. Instead, I look just as I always have.”
Mr. Quent took her hand as she reached the foot of the steps. “If your intent was to alter yourself, then I am glad you did not have more time. It is best if we do not appear too suddenly changed. If our look is somewhat plain, then it is only as it should be.”
“That is easy for you to say, for you look very smart.”
He wore the blue coat she had bought him not long after their arrival in Invarel, and he had polished his boots to a gloss. His hair was oiled and his beard trimmed. In fact, he looked exceedingly good.
“Besides,” she went on, “is that not precisely why our house is being redone—to better effect the air of a baronet? Well, you should have refurbished your lady as well as your house.”
He regarded her seriously. “I am sure it is possible that your gown might be judged in a disparaging manner by the ladies of the court. Yet I am equally sure no man will take notice of any deficit of fashionability it might display. Indeed, I had best keep a tight hold on you, Mrs. Quent, for it is said no king can see a beautiful jewel without coveting it for his own.”
Despite his solemn expression, she was sure he was making a jest at her expense. Nor could she claim she did not deserve it. To worry about her appearance when her husband was to receive a weighty honor was a vanity she might have expected of Lily rather than herself. As if, with a hero of the realm present, any eyes would be upon her!
All the same, rather than admit her error, she affected a haughty tone. “Pardon me, but that’s Lady Quent.”
Then she was laughing at the absurdity of it all, and even he grinned as they walked out the door into the brilliant morning.
By the time the carriage halted before the Citadel, however, their mirth had subsided. Neither of them was very suited for such an affair. In her life she had only ever had the occasion to meet three magnates—Lord Rafferdy and his cousins, Lady Marsdel and Lord Baydon—and now she was to meet a king. That her experiences had left her unprepared for such a duty was an understatement of the severest degree!
As for Mr. Quent, he looked more steady than she felt. Yet he seemed to approach the event with the same sort of grim resolve he might display if he were setting off to investigate a Rising.
A redcrest helped them out of the carriage and they were ushered into the keep, where they found they were far from the only ones waiting to see the king that day. For some reason, Ivy had envisioned that His Majesty would be sitting on his throne, and that they would be forced to proceed down the long length of the echoing and empty hall to kneel before him.
Instead, there was neither monarch nor throne in view, and the main hall of the Citadel was anything but empty, being filled with dozens of other petitioners of every possible station and appearance. If anyone thought ill of Ivy’s gown, they did not show it. Indeed, there were many who were clad far more poorly than she.
Mr. Quent took her arm, and to pass the time while they waited for their audience they toured around the hall. Ivy had been in here once as a girl, when the Citadel was open for a public day. Then she had imagined the rows of thick columns to be a forest of trees, and she had run merrily among them, hiding from Mr. Lockwell behind one, then dashing to another once her father caught sight of her.
Now as she gazed at the columns she saw not trees but cold stones; and their massiveness, rather than reassuring her of their strength, only served to remind her of the vast weight of the structure pressing down.
“I must say, you watch the ceiling with a rather wary eye. I trust that you’ll let the rest of us know if you see something up there we should be alarmed about.”
Startled, Ivy lowered her gaze, to see a woman before her. Mr. Quent stood a short way off, his expression somber as he looked out a window. Ivy must have been wandering as she stared at the vaults above; and she had been so preoccupied that, had the other not spoken, Ivy would have walked right into her.
The woman smiled. “I admit, the arches do have something of a precarious look about them. To stand beneath so many tons of stone is disconcerting when one pauses to consider it. Yet I’m sure you needn’t worry. Kings always assume that they’ll rule forever, and so they tend to build their fortresses to last just as long.”
She was a little older than Ivy, a great deal taller, and was strikingly beautiful. Her chestnut hair was styled into coils and ringlets that spilled over her shoulders. Her brows formed elegant arches above violet eyes, her nose was small and refined, and her teeth were very good.
Ivy realized she was staring again, only this time not at the ceiling.
“It is absurd to worry about it falling,” she said with some chagrin. “I have read that the Citadel was built upon the remains of an old Tharosian keep, which itself was constructed upon the site of a fort erected by the first people to inhabit Altania. That a thing that has stood for so many eons should choose to collapse just at the moment I enter is a conceit I cannot allow.”
The woman laughed—a sound that was not trilling or sharp like the laughter of some women, but rather low and warm. “But you are very wise! I have been in the Citadel a hundred times and never thought a thing about how it came to be here. Only I wonder why I haven’t. I will consider these old stones with far more interest now.”
The woman’s mirth was catching, and Ivy could not help smiling in return. She noted that the other’s dress was exceedingly rich, crafted of pale apricot silk, its bodice sewn with tiny pearls.
Ivy looked about. “Do you think there is anyone who might be able to acquaint us? My husband comes to the Citadel at times to … on his business. Do you think there is someone here who is known to both of us?”
The other gave a wave of a gloved hand. “Oh, I am sure of it. I know far more people in this hall than I care to.” Again she smiled at Ivy. “Yet not so many as I wish to. Nor do I hew to that decrepit maxim that two people, though they are sure they would find each other agreeable, must not speak to each other, and must each pretend the other does not exist, until they can dredge up some mutual acquaintance—however distant or detestable—to link them together in an introduction.”
Ivy could only concede the other’s point. “I admit, it is something of a peculiar custom. Yet imagine if as you walked down the street any person might accost you in order to introduce themselves.”
“All manner of rude and horrible people already do. It is only the finer people who adhere to the rules of proper society and restrain themselves. Which means that manners cannot protect me from the legions of the ill-behaved; rather, they can only serve to prevent the people with whom I wish to speak from speaking to me. Therefore I will have none of it, and I will be the rude person who accosts you.” She held out her hand. “You must now, whether you wish it or not, consider yourself acquainted with Lady Crayford of Armount Street.”
Ivy listened to this last speech with great amusement—until the other’s final utterance. A lady was introducing herself to her! And not merely any lady, for Ivy had heard the name on several occasions as Lily read about famous parties in The Comet or The Messenger. This was a viscountess and, according to Lily, one of the most fashionable beings in all of Invarel.
Ivy nearly faltered, her head abuzz; but she had come to meet a king today, so she must consider a viscountess, however beautiful and renowned, to be an object of less dread. She took the other’s hand and made a curtsy, though Lady Crayford, with the gentlest pressure, pulled her upward before she could sink very low.
“I am Mrs. Quent,” Ivy remembered to say at last.
“There, it is done,” Lady Crayford said with a pleased look. “We have introduced ourselves, and neither the Citadel nor the edifice of society has come tumbling down upon us. I presume that is Mr. Quent over there?”
Ivy followed her gaze. Mr. Quent had turned away from the window and was now speaking with someone she did not know—a striking man with gray at the temples, clad all in black.
“Yes, that is him in the blue coat,” she said.
“I suppose he is not from Invarel.”
Ivy could only smile. “He is from County Westmorain.”
“A country gentleman—I had thought as much. He looks as if he could toss three lords at once with his bare hands. Men in the city have all become such fine things. They are exceedingly nice to look at, I grant you, yet it seems these days they wear more lace and powder than I do.” She looked again at Mr. Quent. “I imagine he has never worn a bit of lace since infanthood. How you must admire him!”
Ivy was not one to display an overt pride, but all the same a warmth filled her. “I do admire him. Though I am sure you will never see him toss a single lord, let alone three.”
Lady Crayford sighed. “How unfortunate. I’m sure some lords in the city could do with a little tossing. Speaking of which, I see that Lord Valhaine is monopolizing your husband. Come, let us take a turn about the hall while you wait for your audience.”
Ivy glanced back at the tall, imposing man her husband was speaking to; his dark eyes were intent upon Mr. Quent. So that was Lord Valhaine! Ivy supposed she should not be shocked that the two men were acquainted. It was public knowledge that Lord Valhaine was concerned with all possible threats against the Crown, so he could only be well aware of the work of the inquirers. Still, it startled her to realize Mr. Quent was familiar with men such as the king’s notorious Black Dog.
As Mr. Quent indeed appeared occupied with Lord Valhaine, Ivy could find no cause to deny Lady Crayford’s request, so she allowed the viscountess to lead her in a tour about the hall. As they went, Ivy’s companion pointed out the various objects of art all around. Despite her professed ignorance of the Citadel’s architecture, she could utter the title of every painting and statue, as well as who created them and what they symbolized.
“You are an expert on the subject of art,” Ivy said, both astonished and delighted at Lady Crayford’s knowledge.
The other gave a small shrug. “I am audacious enough to consider myself something of a painter. I’m dreadful, of course, but like most amateurs I find great amusement in expounding upon the works of others, as if I could have done any better.”
“I am sure your works are not dreadful at all,” Ivy said. “A painting made by one possessed of such insight must have something of interest to behold in it, no matter the level of skill with which it was wrought.”
Again Lady Crayford laughed. “Where have you been hiding yourself all this time, Mrs. Quent? I would that I had made your acquaintance ages ago! I will repeat your words to my husband the next time he wonders why I waste so much time daubing a brush against canvas.”
With that she took Ivy’s arm, as if they had been friends for the longest time, and continued to lead her about the hall. So flustered and thrilled was Ivy that she could only follow along, like some charmed creature, listening to her companion’s interesting and amusing expressions.
A man in black attire passed them, and as he did his eyes lingered upon Ivy, to the point that she became painfully aware of herself and was forced to look away. It was, she realized with a start, Lord Valhaine.
“Do not be concerned about the looks of others,” Lady Crayford said softly. “You are sure to get many stares today.”
“I cannot imagine why I should receive many looks, unless it is because I appear odd in some way. I am sure I am nobody important.”
“On the contrary, you are exceedingly famous,” the viscountess said, and her violet eyes sparkled. “Indeed, I can conceal it no longer, and must confess my horrible crime. You see, I did not encounter you by chance today. Rather, I sought you out, knowing you would be here, and then inflicted myself upon you. Do you see how awful I am? My husband assures me that I scheme in the most devious ways, and now I am revealed to you in all my villainy.”
Ivy’s astonishment brought her to a halt. To think she had been the object of a viscountess’s plans was beyond her comprehension.
“There, you are repulsed!” Lady Crayford said triumphantly. “I cannot blame you. Yet how could I not concoct a means of encountering the heroic Mr. Quent, savior of the realm in its recent time of troubles, as well as his new wife, Mrs. Quent, whose beauty is said to be exceptional, and which I have now discovered far exceeds any rumors? Though in a moment you will be Mr. and Mrs. no longer, but rather Sir and Lady.”
At last Ivy reacted, and it was not out of repulsion, but rather great discomfort. “How presumptuous you must think us! You must believe that we aspired to this, that we somehow sought out such a reward.”
Lady Crayford tightened her hold on Ivy’s arm. “No,
I detect that you are far too sensible, Mrs. Quent, to want something so silly as to be made a lady. Also, because I am an artist and can detect such things in a profile, I can see Mr. Quent is too noble in his character to ever want for a noble title. Thus it is perfectly clear it has all been forced upon you.”
She turned to face Ivy, taking Ivy’s hand in her own. “How amusing it will be for all of those who so desperately cling to their titles to witness someone receiving one he would no doubt willingly give up. Yet that is not possible, for it is to be bestowed upon him whether he wishes it or not, and upon you. And here comes the steward for you now, I see. Farewell, Mrs. Quent. When I see you next, I shall call you Lady Quent!”
Ivy had only time for the most hurried farewell. Then Mr. Quent was there beside her, along with a man who was introduced to her as Lord Malhew, the king’s steward. Having just become acquainted with a viscountess, Ivy could only take her meeting with a lord in stride. Nor was there much time to form a proper reaction to anything, for in moments they were taken to an antechamber off the hall, and there, before she hardly had time to draw a breath or formulate a thought, they were presented to His Most Glorious Majesty, Rothard, King of Altania.
Perhaps it was the smallness of the room that made the king look small in turn. Or perhaps it was that his garb, while fine, was too large for him—or rather, it had been cut for a larger man. He did not so much sit on his chair as he was crumpled upon it. He wore no crown, but only a silk hat as if he was cold. A few courtiers sat about the perimeters of the room, but their gazes were not derisive as Ivy had feared, merely bored.
The king did not look at them as they approached and paid their obeisance with a bow and a curtsy. However, as the steward read from a proclamation—declaring that Mr. Alasdare Eulysius Quent of County Westmorain was to be granted the Baronetcy of Cairnbridge and all of its holdings and incomes in return for remarkable service rendered to the Crown in containing the recent Risings in Torland—the king raised his head. While his shoulders remained hunched, and a tremor could be detected in the motions of his hands, his eyes were a keen gray.
The House on Durrow Street Page 15
