by Tamara Leigh
Moving his gaze from her mouth that he ought not linger over for remembrance of what he should forget, he leaned forward and clasped his hands. “Doubtless they wish to avoid being ejected from France the same as Henry ejected them.” He met her gaze. “Arblette has joined the troupe. He is with the sideshow.”
Her eyes widened and hand rose toward her mouth.
Resisting the temptation to draw more attention by capturing her hand, hoping she would understand what he commanded of her, he said, “You are my cousin, Honore. Not distressed, merely unwell.”
She stayed her hand at the level of her chest, lined her face with discomfort, and settled her arm across her midriff. “Continue, Elias. I shall not forget who you are to me.”
In time he hoped she would. He told her all Theo had learned, excepting Arblette’s threat to beat Hart and steal the babe’s breath. And from a distance she played well the cousin, only Elias able to read the face of Honore of Bairnwood, champion of foundlings.
“I fear for Theo,” she whispered. “If Finwyn recognizes him as your squire—”
“He excels at tracking and concealment. Unless Arblette gives him cause to show himself, he will not.”
“Cause?” her voice rose slightly, distress once more jeopardizing the part she played.
“Cousin Honore, should it prove necessary, Squire Theo—soon to be Sir Theo—will protect the children with his life.”
She summoned a smile, and once more he looked too close on her perfectly imperfect mouth.
“I want my Hart back,” she said softly.
Momentarily mistaking the boy’s name for that which beat in her breast, he forgot the part he played and leaned toward her.
“Cousin!” she gasped low.
He stilled, saw the space between them was barely respectable. But as he began to pull back, he heard and saw what he should have sooner—fine leather boots whose cuffs were brushed by the hem of a pale blue tunic.
“I understand we have acquired an English cousin,” a graveled voice spoke only loud enough to be heard by the two before him.
Elias set his teeth, looked up into eyes the color of his own though smaller amid folds set in a face whose brow, cheeks, and neck were grooved, as clearly revealing the man’s three score years as the silvered hair brushing broad, slightly bent shoulders.
Be Elias Cant, he told himself and stood. With enthusiasm drawn from a deep well, he said, “Father!” and embraced Otto De Morville.
Chapter 31
FORGIVE THE FOOL
Someone came for them. Not Honore as he had assured himself for months until awakening to find the floor beneath him rolling and the coast of his country growing distant. But she would send someone to get him out of the mess he had made of disobedience, and just as the others were awakened each morn by her kiss on their brows, once again he would be awakened. If she lived…
She lives, he told himself as done every day since glimpsing proof she might not, then he whispered against hands clasped to his mouth, “She will send someone.”
“Quiet, boy!”
He startled where he huddled in a corner of the covered wagon alongside the blue and white painted wooden crate where little Alice had cried herself to sleep.
Suppressing the impulse to defy the man who had lured him from Bairnwood with the promise of sweets the last day in which he had not known how happy he was, Hart met the gaze of the one Inès called Fin.
Though Hart’s existence had been one of fear and anger since becoming the property of Jake the Jack whose troupe offered a sideshow of six peculiars—now four—he had settled into it as best he could while waiting for Honore. But when Fin had followed them out of England, all had gone from tolerably bad to very bad.
No sympathy had Fin for the tiny babes gone so utterly still that six had become four on the day he appeared as they traveled to Saint-Omer, the man’s only concern the sideshow’s loss of its greatest draw. And when Hart had seen what he wore around his neck, whatever held him together throughout the twins’ passing had snapped.
Though his fists were useless against the devil, his frenzy so upset the little ones the sideshow could not be offered at that castle. Inès had been angry, blessedly more with Fin than Hart.
Now the evil one rose from a stool before the wagon’s rear door that had been tossed opened to let in fresh air and the last of day’s light. “What you looking at, boy?” He stepped forward. “Do you challenge me?”
It was as Hart longed to do, but now that Fin had discovered how best to control the oldest member of Théâtre des Abominations beyond pinches, slaps, and punches to places below a face that perverse men and women paid to look upon, Hart would behave. He must protect his little ones as Honore protected hers, be to them what she was to them—as much as his seven years would allow.
Fin’s fine boots made the floorboards creak and Jamie on his cot draw his blanket up over his head. Rayne was also awake, fearfully peering at Hart through fingers covering her face.
“Do you, boy?” Arblette halted over Hart.
“Leave him be, Fin,” whipped Inès’s mean voice that could also be softly coaxing. “If ye upset The Map so’s he canna stand to be looked upon without wetting himself, Jake gonna look to ye for lost coin.”
Hart had been ashamed the first time his bladder let loose as hands tilted his face this way and that to determine the accuracy of what they believed was the island kingdom imprinted on his face, but the few times after that had been intentional when, following hours of being treated like objects, the little ones and he could tolerate no more.
Jake and Inès had cursed him. To no avail. Cajoled him. To some avail. Better food, warmer clothing, and a few toys for the six—now four—had done wonders to control Hart’s bladder whilst he waited for Honore. And now whomever she would send to them.
“Someone,” he said again.
“What say you?” Fin demanded.
Hart tried to swallow the words rising up his throat, but they burned like vomit that needed spewing to settle one’s belly. Hoping Inès would not allow Fin to carry out his threat of a beating, Hart said, “Someone is coming for us. And you. Soon you will be dead like…” He could not speak the names he had given them, had not been able to since the tiny hands clutching his fingers went lax. “…the girls.”
“We must start for Sevier soon,” Inès warned as she moved toward them.
Ignoring her, Fin scorned, “Dead, you say?”
Hart tilted his face higher. Noting what was no longer around the man’s neck, once more he was stirred by sorrow and hatred, with which he had not been familiar until six months past. Had Fin killed Honore to take what Hart had secured beneath his sleeve after all had bathed at the pond yesterday—the loss of which had wonderfully flustered Fin?
Nay, Honore had lost it. Fin had found it. Or perhaps it was not even hers. At Bairnwood he had glimpsed upon an older novice one that looked identical to Honore’s. There could be hundreds.
Fin kicked Hart’s leg. “Say again, boy. Soon I will be dead like those devil spawns?”
Hating him more, Hart said, “Dead like a worm wishing for wings to fly to heaven when he has only a slimy wiggle to dig his way to hell.”
Hart did not see Inès was upon them until he flung himself to the side to avoid the fist aimed at his face.
“Fin!” the fiery-headed crone barked as she thrust forward, landing the two hard against the wall above Hart.
Hearing the little ones whimper, Hart rebuked himself for not cramming the words down. Close to tears, he peered up at the two overhead, only became aware of their shoes against his ribs and legs as they began to wrestle.
He scrambled from beneath them, but as he moved toward the little ones to offer comfort as Honore would do, the two slammed into him. Stumbling sideways, he saw Inès clung to Fin, slapping and punching him.
Alice was wailing now, but before he could reach her, a blow to his chest sent him sliding on his back toward the rear of the wagon. Despi
te blurred vision, he saw who strode toward him—and the rage that warned of fists that would bloody and bruise.
Regaining his feet, Hart backed away. As terror urged him to run, the flurry of color that was Inès sprang onto Fin’s back.
Hart looked to the little ones. They were out of reach, the grappling Inès and Fin between them and Hart.
Run, run! clanged fear, and he launched himself out the doorway and over the steps, bending his knees to lessen the impact, tucking his head to roll out of the fall.
Panting, he peered up at the lantern-lit wagon. No one was visible in the doorway, but above the little ones’ cries he heard Inès curse.
If he knew she would prevail, he would stay, but if Fin triumphed, Hart might very well die and be of no use to his charges.
He gathered himself up and retreated far enough to hide amid the shadows of descending night. From there he would watch, returning only if Inès called to him. If Fin sought him, he would go for help. And pray someone gave it.
Crouching in bushes whose thorns pricked, hand gripping the prayer beads through his sleeve, he watched the wagon. And nearly called to Inès when she appeared in the doorway. But she was not alone.
She yanked Fin forward, and there was enough light to see triumph on her face, defeat on his. “Find him!” She shoved him onto the narrow landing, and as he descended the three elevated steps, said, “And do you forget to whom he belongs, Jake will make a worm of you.”
Hart started to stand and show himself, but Inès slammed the door closed behind her. Shivering, he sent his gaze around the clearing to map a way past Fin that would allow him to gain the wagon without being seen by one he did not trust to take the woman’s threat seriously.
Light burst from the front of the wagon, amid it Inès, then the slam of that other door and her shadowed figure lowering to the bench behind the horses. Reins snapped, and the wagon trundled toward the castle where the troupe performed this eve.
Realizing she was leaving him alone with Fin who would mount his horse to bring The Map to ground if his efforts to find him on foot failed, Hart ran. Providing he stayed to the shadows, he would not be seen before he overtook the wagon. If he could overtake it. A sob escaped him as it picked up speed, trailing behind it the cries of those who needed him.
“Someone!” Hart gasped. “Someone!”
Not someone. Fin. As the devil took his prey to ground, he clapped a hand over Hart’s mouth, capturing death cries he would not have reach Inès.
“I did not think you so inclined, Son.” Elias’s father drew out of their embrace and set hands on his heir’s shoulders as if to look upon him with pride.
An act. Not that he was not proud of the man Elias had become over the years it was believed him a victim of foul play—especially that rare achievement evidenced by the Wulfrith dagger. But in that moment he was less proud than reproachful.
A hastily written missive of little detail had informed him his son was called to England. Though there had been no time to waste dealing with the argument sure to ensue, Elias could have revealed more. He did not fear his father’s wrath nor disinheritance. It was Otto’s disappointment he strove to avoid and that others in the path of their lord not suffer for it, especially his father’s young wife who was more familiar with her husband’s disregard than his kind regard and their daughters who were of little consequence for not being born of the sex by which a man kept alive his name.
Returning to the one before him, Elias said, “You did not think me inclined to what, Father?”
Flicking his gaze to the woman who kept her seat, Otto said low, “I am grateful you at least had the foresight to lie to save your family the humiliation of bringing into the home of our neighbor and ally a woman such as that, she who wears her hair down around her shoulders as if yet a maiden.”
No surprise Otto did not accept this English cousin. Thus, he guessed her his son’s lover—all the more believable when the respectable distance between the two had became nearly intimate.
Before Elias could correct him, Otto said, “What I do not understand is what female problem could be so pressing you could not continue on to Château des Trois Doigts. Our paths having crossed, you would be there now, this charade unnecessary.”
Elias pushed up a smile. “Now is not the time to explain. Suffice that—”
“I am Honore,” said the woman who rose beside Elias. “If you wish to continue the pretense to avoid casting shame upon your house, Lord De Morville, may I suggest you kiss my hand?” She extended it.
He stiffened, stared, and Elias could see his eyes were too low to be upon Honore’s.
Though Costain had informed him of the cousin brought to Sevier, he had not mentioned her mouth, either to avoid offending as he had done Elias or because he thought Otto knew of it. Now the older man was certainly aware—as was Honore.
She reached her hand nearer. “I can see you are unsettled, Lord De Morville, but it will have to be explained later. Now pray, save your family the humiliation you so fear.”
It taking great effort to remain light of face, Elias said, “Allow me to introduce our cousin, the fair Lady Honore recently of the convent of Bairnwood Abbey.”
His father recovered so quickly Elias would have laughed were the situation not dire. And the way in which Otto returned to life was believable, not for the first time causing Elias to acknowledge it must be from him he had learned to slip into another mind and attitude.
“Little Honore!” Otto exclaimed for all and stepped to the side and caught up her hand. “Forgive my surprise, but who would guess the duckling would become so lovely a bird?” He kissed her fingers, shook his head wonderingly. “Now I see your mother in you. Praise the Lord you outgrew the look of your father. Not that he was unsightly, but…” He jumped his shoulders. “He had not the look of a De Morville.”
She curtsied, withdrew her hand. “Certes, he did not.”
“Will you do me the honor of sitting with me at meal, Cousin?”
Elias opened his mouth to inform his father she was to return abovestairs, but she said, “As I am nearly recovered from my pains, I shall.”
Otto looked to his son. What was in his eyes in no way reflecting the show he put on for others, he gripped Elias’s arm and drew him aside. “You had best have a believable explanation.”
“I do, though you will not like it.”
Otto’s lids narrowed. “Do not forget I can yet set you aside, if not to wed to get another heir, then to pass my lands to my brother.”
Whom all knew he disliked, Elias reflected, then said as ever he did, “That is your decision. I trust you will do what is best for your family and people.”
“What is best may not be you.”
“I am well with whatever you decide.”
A long silence, then, “Within the year, you will either make good your word to ensure the family name or I am done with you.”
Though Elias’s eyes were drawn to Honore, he held them to his sire. “If you wish me to keep my word, I shall.”
His father’s lids lifted, and the hard line of his mouth eased. “Grandsons worthy of that dagger of yours. That is all I require.”
Elias had not thought it asking much, providing he did not have to wed a girl, but in that moment the burden took on weight. “As already told, I shall do my duty.”
“Then I will do my best to suffer this imposter until you set her aside.”
It tempting further argument to assert Honore and he were not lovers, Elias said, “Soon the meal will be served. Let us gain our seats.” He started toward Honore, but Otto reached her first.
“Permit me, my lady.” He took her elbow.
Honore peered at Elias who gave her a look of assurance and followed. As they neared those previously denied a clear view of her, he noted her stiffening. But she did not falter, and when they reached the high table and Elias lowered on the side of her opposite his sire, she smiled at him.
It did make her more lovely, the
scar less noticeable, but there was strain in it. And he wished Otto De Morville had rejected the invitation to attend this night’s performance. Why had he not?
Though Elias had nearly a year to gain a suitable bride, did his father seek to once more place Lady Vera on the altar of marriage? Did he hope the offense dealt the Costains had eased sufficiently they would offer her again?
With a low growl, Elias set his mind to gaining an invitation to see the sights of Théâtre des Abominations.
Observation, he determined. Watch what drew the performers to secretively approach their audience. Failing that, he would search out the sideshow himself.
Chapter 32
WHO CAST THE JEWEL
Otto De Morville was hardly his son, but his performance was worthy. Furrowing his brow, he tilted his head as if with great interest. “The abbey, hmm?”
“Oui, my lord. Bairnwood.”
“And you are of the convent.”
Honore glanced sidelong at Elias. Though he did not appear to listen, she guessed he tried over laughter, chatter, thudding goblets, and scraping knives. “Non, my lord. That was pretense.”
His only show of surprise a blink, he said, “Surely you do not say you are a nun.”
“I do not.”
“Then?”
She leaned nearer, not for the first time noted the marked resemblance between father and son. “A servant, my lord.”
The corners of his smile flexed. “As thought, the lady is also pretense.”
“The lady is.”
“And you have no right to wear your hair loose. You are a—”
“I am no harlot, nor have I ever wed. Though you find it difficult to believe a servant could be my age and yet possess virtue, I break no stricture in wearing my hair unbound.”
“But you do in playing a noblewoman when that divine blood does not course you.”
Divine, she mused. Though trying hard not to dislike the man, he made it easy. Gently, she cleared her throat. “That is open to debate, my lord. Though I cannot know for certain, it is possible I am noble at least one side of me.” She moved her gaze to the trencher he had hardly touched as if fearful he shared it with one unworthy of placing her spoon near his. “Mayhap you ought to eat whilst you think on that.”
