The princes rose.
“Aunt Lizbet.” Rowan swept her a courtly bow and a cheeky grin before disappearing into his rooms.
Ramsey kept his eyes on the floor, but his hands were clenched as he marched past her like a man on his way to the gallows.
As soon as they were safely in their rooms, Lizbet directed the tailor and his assistant to Rowan’s dressing room, dismissed the footman and the maid, and collapsed into the chair Ramsey had vacated.
“All right, tell me the worst of it, Captain.”
“Would that I had more to tell you, my lady,” the captain answered, one hand on his sword hilt and the other stroking his jaw. “The guards at the Treasury Hall were clear that the four boys were in there, last night, and that they were admiring the sword.”
“Which one?” Lizbet asked, as if she would know the difference.
“The biggest one, of course,” the captain returned dryly. “The one His Majesty wears for ceremonies with foreign dignitaries. Gold hilt, with emeralds.”
“Ah.” Lizbet thought she remembered seeing it. “And this morning that same sword turned up missing?”
“Aye.” Brawley looked as disgruntled as she felt. “I’ve questioned the servants and nearly all of the guards who were on duty last night and no one recalled seeing it, or mentioned anything out of place.”
“But my nephews are never out of place around here, are they?” she said wearily. “Tell me, did Dorian happen to mention whether they actually found any of the hidden passages?”
“He says they never went anywhere near them.”
Lizbet’s eyes narrowed. “Nowhere near them, eh?”
“You have a clue, my lady?” Brawley folded his arms and rocked back on his heels.
“Possibly,” she said. “But if you don’t mind, I would like to think it over. You are satisfied that Dorian was, in fact, with the boys all last evening?”
“He confirmed it.”
“And they were at their lessons as usual this morning?”
Brawley frowned. “Now that you mention it, perhaps I should question Ellison.”
“Excellent idea,” Lizbet agreed. “If you are in agreement with this as well, I should like to leave the boys to stew in their rooms for a while. Perhaps dinner alone. Give them a day to wonder what we are going to do. Tomorrow, after lessons, I would like to question them separately.”
“Seems sound enough,” Brawley replied.
“And if it isn’t too much trouble, I would also like to ensure that they have no opportunity to be alone together in the meantime.”
Brawley shot her a sideways glance. “I’ll see to it they have separate details. And post a guard here tonight.”
“Thank you.” Lizbet smiled wearily at him. “It does seem rather like being a parent some days, doesn’t it?”
Brawley grunted, but it wasn’t a denial. “You’ll speak to them, then?”
“Yes,” she said, without much enthusiasm. “I’ll be the bearer of bad news.”
The princes received the news of their punishment with what grace could be expected at their respective ages. Rowan merely answered with a cool, imperious stare, and Ramsey looked as though he’d already been whipped.
As she was no longer needed, and had a great deal of thinking to do, Lizbet decided on a whim to visit her parents at their townhouse. They were always begging her to come, and she hadn’t seen either of them in weeks. Perhaps she would even stay the night. Have breakfast in her old room. Wonder what her life might have been like had her sister lived. Or even have another argument with her mother about what her life had actually turned out to be.
Or perhaps she would simply enjoy the change of scenery. Lizbet firmly set aside all thoughts of ceremonial swords, dropped books, and missed chances and went to pack what she would need for a night away.
Once past the usual round of questions that always accompanied her infrequent visits home, Lizbet retreated to her room to recover and change for dinner. Yes, the boys were well. No, His Majesty had not yet shown any partiality for another woman. Yes, the court was lovely. No, she had not yet formed an eligible attachment.
Her mother always asked that last with an air of studied nonchalance, as though she didn’t care a whit what Lizbet’s answer might be, but Lizbet could hear the sigh that followed her inevitable negative response. Her mother simply didn’t understand why no one at court seemed interested in her youngest daughter. The others had all married well. Perhaps Lizbet did not quite have their fashionable coloring, and she may have read a few too many books, but really, she had already proven she would make an excellent mother, and who could do better than a woman so nearly connected to the crown.
As no one but herself was expected to join the family for dinner, Lizbet took her time about changing and did not put any special care into her appearance. By the time her mother’s maid appeared to assist her with anything she might need, Lizbet had already whisked her brown hair up into a neat twist. She had also done all but the last two buttons of her brown silk and donned her most comfortable slippers. The maid may have sniffed her disapproval when Lizbet’s back was turned, but really, what need had she of ornament? There was no one there to notice.
She had just reached the foot of the stairs when her mother came bustling towards her from the direction of the drawing room, eyes wide with an expression Lizbet could not name.
“My dear, why did you not tell us?”
“Oh bother.” Must be something to do with the boys. “Who is it now? Did Brawley send word? Am I needed back already?”
Her mother drew herself up in confusion. “No, dear, it’s not a message. It’s a man.”
“A man? Did Brawley come himself then?” Lizbet had already turned towards the drawing room when her mother spoke again.
“Lizbet, this is nothing to do with your nephews. It’s a man who’s come to call on you.”
Slowly—oh, so slowly—Lizbet turned to face her mother and felt the heat rush to her face. “Did he… Did he give his name?”
“Count Norelle.” Her mother pronounced the title in hushed tones, as though afraid anything louder might make this unlooked-for bounty disappear on the spot. “He’s a count, Lizbet! And he says you gave him permission to call.”
“I never…” Lizbet cut herself off before she inadvertently told what was technically a lie. She had, hadn’t she? Right before she’d run headlong out of the garden like a child afraid of punishment. Just as she had run the first time they met. But in truth, she had never expected him to show his face.
She knew very little about Count Norelle, except that he was quiet and studious and a longtime friend of King Hollin. He was one of the king’s nearest advisors, but was not popular with the court, probably because he was not particularly handsome and never drew attention to himself. Also, he was old. Not as old as the king, but old enough that those ridiculous debutantes had never questioned his claim to rheumatism.
Why had he come? He didn’t… He couldn’t possibly intend to court her. Could he?
“Mother, please, I never thought he would actually come! You must have seen how old he is. Can’t you just… send him away?”
“Lizbet Elenore Vanholm, I never thought I would see the day that you shamed me!” Her mother’s gray eyes sparked with anger. “If you gave a man permission to call, then you will show him the same courtesy as any other suitor. The courtesy of your time and polite attention. No daughter of mine will turn flirt or jilt a worthy man for no better reason than a few extra years.”
Lizbet stared. Her mother had never, in her recollection, showed so much emotion about anything. She might sigh, express disappointment, or weep politely, but she was never, ever angry. Unfortunately, she was not only angry, she was also right. Lizbet owed the count an explanation, at the very least. As awkward and uncomfortable as it might be.
“Yes, mother,” she agreed soberly, stepping forward to kiss her mother lightly on the cheek. “You are right. I am sorry. I promise I will find a
polite way to get rid of him.”
“You will do no such thing!” her mother snapped. “You will go in there and you will be charming and you will invite him to dine with us.”
Lizbet’s eyes went wide. “Mother! Then he will think that I…”
Her mother’s face was as uncompromising as her tone. “You should have thought of that before you issued the invitation, dear.”
Caspar Norelle wasn’t quite certain how he had ended up in the Vanholms’ drawing room. He had meant nothing more than to assure Lizbet that he had no intention of forcing his attentions on a clearly unwilling recipient. His reception, by Sybile Vanholm, had been nothing short of alarming. He rather thought she had almost cried when he asked for Lizbet and then had almost immediately left him to seek her daughter out, which did nothing for Caspar’s nerves. Though why he should be nervous he had no idea. He had conferenced with kings and never felt a moment’s uneasiness.
When the door finally opened again, it admitted a much more demure young woman than he remembered. Lizbet seemed nothing if not chastised and kept her eyes firmly on the floor as she approached.
He rose from his chair to accept her offered hand. “I believe,” he said conversationally, “I may have inadvertently set off a bit of a kerfuffle.”
She looked up at him curiously. Her eyes were much like her mother’s, he realized. Wide and gray and measuring.
“How so?”
“I believe your mother is convinced that I am here to save you from a terrible fate,” he announced solemnly. “She looked at me as though I was the answer to all her dreams, when, in truth, I simply came to assure you that you needn’t fear my attentions. I have never pressed my suit on a woman who seemed unwilling to entertain it and will certainly not begin with someone I respect as well as I do you, Miss Vanholm. Allow me to apologize for causing you distress.”
And now she was looking at him as though he had grown a second head.
“Well, that’s taken my feet out from under me, hasn’t it now?” Her shoulders seemed to slump, releasing a tension he hadn’t realized she was carrying, as she moved to a chair and dropped into it with a small groan of defeat. “Is that truly what you came here to say?”
“Yes, truly,” he told her ruefully. “It was quite evident in the garden that you viewed me with distaste and I wanted to ensure that you did not think me the sort of man who would forge ahead in spite of your obvious feelings against me.”
She sat up and looked at him sharply. “I don’t dislike you,” she said. “I barely know you. And I wasn’t running from you.”
“More from being seen with me, perhaps?” he asked bluntly, hoping she would do him the honor of being honest.
“If you thought me so shallow as to wish not to be seen with you, I wonder you bothered coming here at all,” Lizbet retorted. “I was running from Miss Quidsleigh, if you must know. Attempting to carry on a conversation with her exhausts me. And…” she paused, as if wondering whether she ought to go on.
“You might as well say it.” Caspar found himself smiling a little. “As long as we are being honest with each other.”
She heaved an enormous sigh. “Men don’t often notice me at all, let alone in that way. I couldn’t imagine why you would want to call. It made me uneasy.”
“That and my advanced age?”
A flush crept over her cheeks as she stared at him. “I…”
“The door is rather thin,” he stated, as apologetically as possible.
“Count Norelle, I find I owe you a most abject apology,” Lizbet said quietly. “It was never my intention to cause you pain. Please forgive my careless words, and those of my mother.”
“Nothing to forgive,” he said, though the words were not the easiest he had ever uttered.
“Yes,” she said, “there is. I have been thoughtless with my words and heedless of your feelings, and those are behaviors I have tried so hard to discourage in the boys—Their Highnesses,” she corrected herself. “I hope you will consent to join my parents and I for dinner, in spite of our general familial rudeness.”
He hesitated. There was little joy in staying in a place where he was not wanted.
“Please?” she said, and there was no mistaking that it was a heartfelt plea. “Even if we are not suited to a courtship, could we perhaps be friends? You have been honest and kind and I have not made many friends in my present position. It is so hard to know whom to trust.”
Caspar could choose bitterness, that she saw him as merely trustworthy, or he could choose hope. Hope that she might someday consider him something more than a friend. And, despite her initial rejection, he found that he was not yet ready to lose that hope. Lizbet Vanholm was not just the only woman he had ever met who had offered him friendship, she was also the only woman who had ever made him think it was possible.
And besides, she was right. Her position at present was unenviable at best. How could she hope to determine who wanted to get close to her only because of her position?
“I am yours to command, Miss Vanholm,” he told her solemnly. “So long as I am not expected to dance. It’s my rheumatism, you see…”
He could see the beginnings of a glare form on her face, but at the last second, give way to a startled, half-formed laugh. When he feigned a hurt expression in response, it became full-throated laughter that ended with her chucking a cushion in his direction.
“Do friends throw cushions?” he enquired, feeling rather delighted. He did not know if he had ever heard her laugh before and the sound was lovely.
“They do when provoked,” she retorted, rising from her seat. “I suppose I should inform my mother that her fondest wish has come true and we are having another guest for dinner. And,” she threw back over her shoulder, “I shall be sure to tell her to hold the custard. We wouldn’t want to worsen your condition.”
Caspar grinned as she closed the door behind her. Perhaps he was still an old man to her. But he was also her friend. And that was enough to reassure him that hope had been the right choice after all.
Lizbet could not really help surreptitiously studying their guest as the four of them ate and engaged in the usual meaningless small talk. How old was he really? She couldn’t recall hearing any particular gossip on that subject, nor on the topic of why he had never married. He had a title after all, and was an only child. Perhaps his inheritance was not so large as his title implied.
He wasn’t terrible-looking, spectacles or no. There was some gray in his dark hair, and a few lines around his dark brown eyes, but he was certainly not so ugly as to discourage all female attention. Surely there must be an older woman somewhere who had not yet married and would find a settled, intelligent and kind older gentleman to be an acceptable object of her romantic fantasies.
As for Lizbet herself… well, she didn’t really have any romantic fantasies. Did she? At the moment she was mostly fantasizing about tossing her nephews into a nice muddy pond until one of them fessed up. And really, what sort of wife could she be, with a life like that? Already more or less a mother to a pair of adolescent boys.
“Of course, you know that dear Lizbet has been caring for our grandsons, Prince Ramsey and Prince Rowan,” her mother was saying. “It’s been a great deal of responsibility for the past seven years, but she has always done her duty. And the boys are growing up so very handsome, would you not agree?”
Lizbet wished she was close enough to kick her mother under the table. She had not thought her parent so desperate as to trot out all of her daughter’s potentially admirable qualities, in hopes of encouraging the only suitor Lizbet had attracted in… Well, she’d never really had a suitor. And really, what was so admirable about doing her duty? And how could Lizbet possibly have had anything to do with the princes’ looks? Perhaps she should consider herself fortunate that her father was focused on his dinner and had not chosen to add to her mother’s efforts.
“I’m sure Their Highnesses are very much as most other boys their age,” Caspar replied
to her mother’s sally with a rueful look. “More inclined to argue with one another and seek trouble than actually pay attention to their lessons. But they are handsome boys. And a credit to both their grandparents and their caretaker, no doubt.”
Lizbet narrowed her eyes at him, but there was nothing in his expression but genial agreement. “You are correct.” She spoke up before her mother could say anything else that might embarrass her beyond endurance. “They are at least as much trouble as any other boys, except in their case there is so much more scope for catastrophe. When the two of them are displeased with one another, I frequently feel compelled to run away.”
Her mother looked appalled, but Caspar did not seem to notice.
“Is that why I find you here, instead of at the palace?” he enquired, pushing his spectacles higher onto his nose.
“I…” Suddenly Lizbet wondered whether she ought not make so free with family business. The king might trust Caspar Norelle with secrets of state, but that didn’t mean he would approve of Lizbet’s gossiping with the man.
“It is only that I happened upon the princes in the hall this morning,” Caspar assured her, as if he had read the panic in her eyes. “There seemed to be some sort of discord between them, over the matter of a sword, I believe.”
He knew? “Gods above,” she expostulated, without thinking much about the company. “Does everyone in the palace know the sword is missing?”
“I doubt it,” Caspar answered, eyes twinkling behind his spectacles. “I only gossip on Firstday. And then only between breakfast and luncheon.”
Sybile Vanholm’s gaze seemed to dart between the two of them with the speed of minnows, but she kept her composure. “I’m sure that’s most admirable, Count Norelle. And I’ve no doubt that the sword will turn up sooner or later. My grandsons are far too responsible to have lost something of so much importance.”
Lizbet snorted before she could stop herself. “They are twelve and fourteen,” she reminded her mother. “Responsibility is not to be even hoped for until they gain five to ten more years. Though, I must admit, Ramsey shows great promise in that respect. Sometimes he’s so serious it makes me rather nervous.”
The Countess and the Frog Page 3
