The Countess and the Frog

by Kenley Davidson

  “Of course it wasn’t me,” Caspar heard the older of the boys insist earnestly. “I know how important that sword is to Father. Besides, I was with Del and Wyn, and Dorian followed us around all evening.”

  “Prince Ramsey?” The captain turned to the younger boy with a frown.

  “No, sir.”

  Caspar barely heard Prince Ramsey’s denial so quietly was it uttered. It sounded as though there could be trouble between the two princes. Not surprising, really, as there wasn’t much for children of their age to do in the palace. But Caspar really had no desire to eavesdrop, so he turned down a different hall that would take him to the gardens by a slightly more roundabout way.

  The young princes’ relationship had always troubled him, in a way he didn’t quite understand. The older boy was charming and charismatic and handsome and loved by everyone at court. He had a gaggle of friends, mostly the sons of other noblemen, and together they got into the usual trouble one might expect of boys their age. The younger prince, however, was very much his brother’s opposite whenever they were together—careful, silent, and still, and often standing by himself.

  Ramsey was not a bad-looking boy, and he was both articulate and intelligent on the few occasions Caspar had conversed with him. But in company with his brother, Ramsey was reduced to a shadow of himself and that set Caspar on edge.

  But as he couldn’t say why and no one else at court could find anything bad to say about the heir to the throne, Caspar kept his opinions to himself.

  It was late morning when he entered the gardens, an hour at which the more frivolous members of the court were usually occupied with other things. Such as breakfast. Strolling about, even decorously, was generally considered too strenuous for any time before luncheon, after which one might have sufficient energy to be seen and admired.

  So it was with great annoyance that Caspar realized the gardens were not empty. A group of young women—dressed in costumes far too elaborate for exercise—stood giggling at the entrance to the maze.

  Not that they would pay attention to him anyway, but it was better to be safe. Caspar gave them a wide berth and was just passing under the branches of an oak along the margin of the garden when he was unexpectedly assaulted.

  Something struck him on the head—hard enough to make him throw up a hand in defense and stagger backwards. When no further missiles were forthcoming, he leaned down to pick up the sharp-cornered projectile that had so nearly felled him—a book.

  Books did not, as a general rule, simply fall from the sky. And it wasn’t just any book either, but one of his favorites: Tales From a Voyage Around the World by Captain Dyerthorn. The title triggered a memory, and without thinking, he looked up into the branches, where he encountered the startled and clearly embarrassed gaze of a young woman.

  “Don’t look at me!” she hissed.

  Caspar lifted the book in her direction. “Is this yours?” he asked, with a slight smile.

  “Shhh!” She made a violent shushing motion.

  He was at a bit of a loss, until he realized that even his brief half of the conversation had caught the attention of the garden’s other occupants. To his horror, the cluster of giggling young women had ceased to mill about at the entrance to the maze and was headed his way.

  So that was it. The young woman in the tree had been hiding from them too. A brief surge of sympathy was all too soon overwhelmed by the need for a plan. How was he to get rid of the lot before they realized that one of their number was hovering over their heads? Whatever the young woman’s name or position, he doubted her reputation would survive the encounter.

  His own reputation was already tarnished enough. He was scholarly rather than dashing and considered past the age of gallantries. Even if he didn’t feel any older than he had at twenty-five, there wasn’t much point in pretending otherwise. Resisting the urge to laugh at himself, Caspar simply sat down on the mossy turf, put his back to the tree, and opened the book.

  There was a brief spluttering sound from above him but he ignored it.

  By the time the leader of the pack of females reached him, his spectacles were back on his nose and the book was mere inches from his face.

  “My dear Count,” the debutante simpered, probably just for the practice, “would you be so kind as to help us? We all wanted so much to discover the secrets of the maze, but we are too afraid of getting lost. Surely you know the way.” She smiled fetchingly.

  The six other girls followed her lead and Caspar found that he was feeling annoyed. On an ordinary day, they wouldn’t have so much as spoken to him, despite his title. A count was good enough, perhaps, for some, but an elderly one with only average looks would normally be ignored unless there was no bigger game to be had. No doubt the girl thought him desperate for the attention and wanted someone to practice on. At least, he thought wryly, there was some benefit to be had from aging. He was no longer in any danger of being taken in by such ruses.

  “I would, of course, Miss Quidsleigh,” he assured her, in the creakiest sounding voice he could manage. “But I have just now started this book, you see. And now that I am sitting here, it would take me some time to get back up again. Rheumatism, you know. Hard on the joints. Much better if I sit here and rest. Perhaps some other time? I could ask your mother’s permission to call on you and we could decipher the maze together?”

  The debutante’s face went rather white. “Oh no! That is…” She giggled nervously. “I’m sure I would not wish to disturb your rest, Count Norelle. Perhaps we will find the way after all. And my mother is terribly busy you know. As you say, perhaps another time.”

  She fled, followed by the others, whose giggling did not resume until the lot of them had swept into the maze together. The echoes of their mockery floated out of the shrubbery just as a loud snort sounded from over his head.

  “Rheumatism?”

  There was a light thud to his right as a young woman landed on her feet with surprising agility for one swathed in so many skirts. She was of average height, with gray eyes, and warm brown hair worn in a neat knot rather than an elaborate coiffeur.

  “My father is a good bit older than you and even he doesn’t have rheumatism,” she announced matter-of-factly. “But as you have saved me from a great deal of embarrassment, I shan’t stoop to quibbling with your methods. I thank you, sir.” She curtsied neatly. “You have rescued me yet again.”

  Again? Caspar looked closer and, before he could stop it, his mouth dropped open. “Lizbet?”

  “Miss Lizbet Vanholm, yes,” she responded, somewhat tartly. “Clearly your advanced age has not yet affected your memory.”

  “No,” he said. “Not yet at any rate. At least not more than average. I only forget my own name on occasion, and not at all once I’ve had a good breakfast.”

  “Then you are to be congratulated,” Lizbet replied. “I find that I forget mine regularly after a day spent in the company of over-energetic children.”

  “Oh,” he found himself saying. “You are married then?” Why ever had he asked that? Wouldn’t he have known if she had married? Wouldn’t he have noticed?

  She laughed, though it didn’t sound as though she were amused. “No, Count Norelle, I am not. The energetic children are not actually mine. I am their… keeper, I suppose.”

  Oh, yes. Now he remembered. Lizbet had been the one to take her nephews in hand after the queen’s death. Perhaps she had not had many opportunities for marriage, sequestered as she must be with the princes at Tremontaine House for much of the year. It wasn’t as though she would be unattractive to young men seeking matrimony. She was handsome, still quite young, intelligent, and related to the royal family. And, which seemed more important to him, she appreciated a good book.

  “I see you are still fond of Captain Dyerthorn,” Caspar said with a smile, closing the book that was still in his hand. To his surprise, Lizbet turned slightly pink.

  “I… Yes,” she admitted. “I suppose I am. Fond of reading in general. Perhap
s I should consider myself too old for that sort of book, but I find it… comforting. Like an old friend. I read other things, of course, but there is nothing like a familiar story, especially after a hard day.”

  Caspar thought she must be speaking of the princes. “I can’t imagine it’s easy, looking after boys, especially at their age.” He felt as though he could sympathize. He’d been a terrible trial to his own mother from ten to twenty. And perhaps still was.

  “Oh, it’s not the age,” Lizbet responded promptly, surprising him. “It’s the boys. Those two…” Her eyes darted to his face. “I’m sorry,” she said, clasping her hands and dropping her gaze. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Please forgive me. It’s almost time for me to meet with their tailor and I probably ought to be going. If I could just have my book I’ll be on my way.”

  Caspar almost handed it back, but then he thought better of it. “You know,” he said, “I seem to recall that when I rescued you before, you bestowed a favor.”

  “What?” She appeared scandalized, then rolled her eyes and brushed a wisp of hair behind her ear. “Oh that. I am hardly a child anymore, Count Norelle.”

  No, she was not. And for the first time in many years Caspar Norelle found himself wishing…

  “Then may I call on you, Miss Vanholm?”

  Her eyes went wide. It was clear that he had shocked her, and Caspar instantly regretted his unplanned words. What had he been thinking? Not thinking at all, more like. But the impulse had been undeniable. He wanted to know more about her. Though she was probably even now wondering how to turn down the old man without hurting his feelings.

  “Why?” she blurted out.

  Caspar was about to rescind the question and save himself from further humiliation when the sound of laughter wafted from the entrance to the maze. The party of debutantes had clearly not progressed very far and was possibly retracing their footsteps. He turned to Lizbet, who now appeared even more anxious to escape.

  “Miss Vanholm,” he began, but she interrupted him, her eyes darting towards the maze and back to him.

  “Yes, I suppose, but please give me my book. I really need to be going.”

  She had no desire to be seen with him, any more than she had wanted the other girls to catch her climbing trees. With a stab of disappointment, Caspar simply handed her the book.

  “Thank you,” she called back over her shoulder as she left the garden with as much haste as decorum would allow.

  Much as the last time, she was too far away to hear when Caspar Norelle began to laugh at himself.

  Clasping her book to her chest, Lizbet rushed through the corridor, praying she would not be late for the boys’ fittings. They had nearly outgrown the last of their formal jackets and she had ordered several sets of court clothes for both of them. In reality, they were of an age where they needed valets of their own to deal with such details, but who would oversee the hiring? Certainly not their father. Hollin was a good king (though some days she had to remind herself of that fact), yet he had all but avoided the boys in the past few years. And he certainly had no time to bestow on such a mundane matter as the hiring of servants.

  But who else could she ask? For some reason her thoughts returned to the man in the garden. Caspar Norelle. As irksome as she found it to require rescuing, she had to admit he had been inventive enough to manage the task handily. He had not leered or ogled or flirted, but perhaps that was his age. He had to be thirty-five or even forty by now.

  So why the devil had he asked to call on her? Even worse, why had she said yes? He couldn’t possibly mean to court her. Surely he had been jesting.

  Perhaps he felt sorry for her. Old as she was and still unmarried. Unsought. Forgotten. At least that was how she felt. Ever since she had agreed to be a companion for the boys, it was as though no one remembered that she was still alive. Still a woman. That she still had dreams of her own.

  It had been seven years. At first, having someone to care for had made her feel needed. Five-year-old Ramsey had clung to her desperately, and Rowan, though he had already begun to show signs of trying too hard to grow up, had entered into their games with enthusiasm.

  At least for a while. But by the age of eight, Rowan began to reject her attempts at mothering and she’d had no choice but to let him. She’d been only sixteen, and more an older sister than anything, so she’d allowed him to go his way and hoped one of the men in his life would notice him enough to guide him. Ramsey, however, had remained close to her, which suited Lizbet perfectly. She wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, but the younger prince was by far her favorite. They might be only ten years apart, but she felt much as she imagined a mother would whenever she had a moment to admire his person or his accomplishments.

  She would have liked to have children of her own. But, as she had once overheard her mother say, plain girls with more learning than dowry could expect little in the way of matrimonial chances. No chances so long as she fulfilled her mother’s expectations and married within her own class. No courtier wanted a woman who was more educated than he and thirsted to prove it.

  Except perhaps one far past his prime.

  Lizbet entered the receiving room that led to the princes’ individual suites and knew in a moment that there was something wrong. The tailor stood in one corner with his assistant, his arms full of half-finished suitings, his face turning red with what was probably impatience. A footman and a chambermaid stood in another corner, looking at the floor and trying not to be noticed. At the center of the room, looking thunderous, was Brawley, the captain of the princes’ guard. And seated just in front of him were the two boys, wearing quite different expressions.

  “My apologies, Captain.” She greeted Brawley with a wave and a breezy confidence she didn’t feel. “Apparently I am far later than I realized. I assumed Their Highnesses were still at their lessons for the afternoon.”

  “Apologies are unnecessary, my lady,” the captain rumbled, not taking his eyes off his charges. “I fetched them from their lessons early at His Majesty’s request.”

  “I see.” Lizbet eyed them both. Rowan, at fourteen, was beginning to show promise of height, and at the rate he had been growing, should have appeared gawky and uncomfortable. Instead, he sprawled at his ease on a velvet chaise lounge, golden hair artfully tousled, blue eyes fixed on nothing with a lazy smile on his lips.

  Ramsey, by contrast, sat bolt upright on the edge of a wingback chair, feet together, hands clasped so hard his knuckles were white. Not a single brown hair was out of place and his lips were pinched tightly together. His gray eyes were trained resolutely on the floor.

  Not again. As hard as she tried, Lizbet was not their mother. Could never be their mother. And she hated more than anything when the two of them were at odds. Which seemed to be more often the older they got.

  “Would anyone care to share the events that have brought us all to this lovely little meeting?” Lizbet demanded. “Or is this a matter between yourselves and the captain that would be the worse for my involvement?”

  “No,” Brawley admitted, “I’m afraid your involvement will be required, my lady. His Majesty has requested that I discover the whereabouts of his ceremonial sword. Their Highnesses and some of their friends were admiring it only yesterday and as of this morning, the blade is nowhere to be found. Both deny any knowledge of it, but the guards have stated that no other than Their Highnesses and their friends have been in or out of the Treasury Hall since yesterday.”

  “And as the boys were assumed to be with me last evening, I should be aware of their activities. Is that it, Captain?”

  Brawley shrugged, but his meaning was clear enough.

  Lizbet stifled a groan. “As it happens, they requested permission to spend time with their friends after the gates were closed, and, as their guards were with them, I did not see the harm. Of late I have felt they might be better served by a little independence from my oversight, but perhaps I was wrong.” She fixed them both with a glare that would hav
e done her old governess justice.

  “Aunt Lizbet, I would like to assure you that I am grateful for the opportunity to conduct myself more as a man than a boy,” Rowan announced, sitting up and assuming an expression of becoming gravity. “And I would never do anything to cause you alarm. My friends and I were looking for hidden passages, that is all. And Dorian was with us the entire time. You can ask him.”

  “I intend to,” Lizbet returned, not as impressed by the speech as he might have hoped. Rowan was good with words. Too good. But she had learned her lesson long ago and never made judgments based on his word alone. “And may I ask where your brother was during all of this?”

  Rowan shot a glance at Ramsey, who still hadn’t looked up from his knees. “I…” The older prince paused and glanced down at his own folded hands. “I cannot really say. None of us saw him after the first hour.”

  “Ramsey?” Lizbet prompted him gently. She tried not to make her partiality clear and knew for both boys’ sake that she must strive to treat them equally. But it was hard, especially at times like this. Ramsey hated being put on the spot, and his shyness often made him appear guilty when he wasn’t.

  “Aunt Lizbet,” he said in a low voice, looking up briefly to meet her eyes. “I don’t have it. It isn’t mine, and I don’t steal.”

  Lizbet knew her nephews very well. Ramsey was telling the truth. He was honorable to the bone, but something was clearly wrong. She needed time to think.

  “As there is obviously more to this story than anyone is willing to tell, I believe we need more time to discuss it than we have at present,” she told them, arms folded in disapproval. “You will both go to your rooms and await your fittings. As soon as the tailor is finished and I have had a chance to speak to Dorian, we will resume this conversation.”