“Rafe! I’m so glad to see you. What a wonderful surprise.”
Will wore unfinished breeches, the lining showing and a flurry of loose threads emerging from the seams, and had on nothing but his shirtsleeves. Rafe had seen him naked before, but he was somehow more compelling in this half-dressed state, slivers of pale skin visible at his neck and wrist, the shape of his body a shadow glimpsed through the linen.
Here, deep in the heart of all Durham’s formality, there was only Will, a mortal man like Rafe, nothing more. But nothing less, either. It was more intimate than Rafe had expected, especially once Will sent away the clerk and tailor. He let Will take his hand and draw him close, then kiss him without words.
This was what Rafe needed after his fight with Micah and Kaab. Someone who understood him; the simple physical pleasure of human contact. When they parted, Rafe let his forehead sink to Will’s shoulder.
“Are you all right?” Will asked. “You seem upset, my dear.”
Rafe sighed. “It’s been a trying day. No—days. Your wife has had me writing invitations to her ball. She didn’t even let me compose them myself, but dictated every word, as though I couldn’t be trusted to address a noble.”
“She doesn’t have a secretary of her own right now. I’m sure she only meant to help.”
“No.” Rafe shrugged out of Will’s embrace and stepped away. “She was trying to irritate me—I’m certain of it. She wanted to waste my time and keep me from my real work.”
“But why would Diane do that?” Will’s expression suddenly changed. “You . . . you don’t think she knows about us, do you?”
In fact, Rafe did, but when confronted with Will’s obvious horror at the idea, he found himself unable to say so. He waved a hand as though unconcerned. “And what if she does? It’s only an affair; there’s nothing for her to be bothered by.”
“I’m not sure I see it that way,” Will said softly. “And I am certain that Diane won’t either.”
“Why shouldn’t she? I know your marriage was arranged, so you can’t tell me she considers herself in love with you! I’m glad that you two seem to have found some measure of camaraderie in your years together, but surely she understands the realities of married life by now.”
Will avoided his gaze, staring off toward the bones of a waistcoat that was folded over the back of a chair. It was made of a vivid crimson clearly intended to pair with the more muted burgundy of the half-finished breeches he was wearing. He gave no answer.
A suspicion began to grow in Rafe’s mind. “You have had affairs before, haven’t you?”
“Well, no, actually I haven’t,” Will said, still looking away. “And neither has the duchess, if you’re wondering. I am sure of her,” he added stoutly, his voice firm in support of his wife.
The last thing Rafe wanted to hear right now was his lover praising his wife. This was an unforeseen disaster. He, Rafe Fenton, saddled with an inexperienced lover and a sure to be jealous wife! And yet . . . Will was, if new to this game, not unskilled. Far from it. And there was something compelling about the idea of being his first. Well, not his first exactly, but the first of a sort. The first to seduce the steadfastly loyal Duke Tremontaine from the arms of that grasping, irritating wife of his . . .
Rafe found himself drifting back toward Will. Will’s shirt was warm and soft beneath his hands as he moved them across Will’s chest. “Never mind,” Rafe said, done with the topic. “I’m sure she suspects nothing. We’ve been very discreet.”
They kissed; Will’s mouth was hot and sweet, and Rafe couldn’t seem to get enough. “I like you in these clothes,” he said, his lips brushing Will’s jaw. “Red is a good color for you.”
Will smiled, his long fingers pulling Rafe’s hair from its queue. “Shall I buy you an outfit as well? You will need something to wear to the ball, you know.”
Rafe didn’t want to talk about the ball, so he kissed him again. Words soon grew unimportant, and they might have gone further than kissing had not the tailor bustled in, a coat in one hand and a bundle of lace in the other.
Rafe broke away from Will and fled quickly, his face hot. The tailor certainly knew now, which meant nothing, but it deepened his conviction that the duchess did too, and was far less amused.
The four of them—Micah and Kaab and Tess and the man called Applethorpe, too—left Tess’s rooms and followed her through the winding streets of Riverside. She led them to a house that looked much like her own, a large building that had been fancy once, when it had been younger and cleaner and had glass in all its windows. Now it was a bit scary and leaned crookedly over the narrow alley like a gargoyle. They entered through a back door and went up a flight of stairs with no windows or lanterns to light the way; at the top, Tess pounded on a door and waited through the click and rattle of multiple locks being undone.
But after all of that, the door swept open to reveal a shop. Micah thought it was odd to have a shop hidden up a flight of stairs with no signs marking the way. How would anyone find it? But otherwise it seemed to be normal, if a bit messy. There were racks of clothes filling most of the space, and piles of more clothes on every surface, and a few shelves displaying odds and ends like pocket watches and hatpins and jewelry. A group of girls was sitting in a circle, working with needles and thread on handkerchiefs. At first Micah thought they were doing embroidery, but a closer look showed just the opposite: They were picking out monogrammed letters to make plain, unadorned handkerchiefs. That was odd too.
The oldest of the girls—a woman, really—stood and greeted Tess with an embrace. “This is Madeline,” Tess said to Micah and Kaab. “Though her place is called Vanessa’s.”
Everyone seemed to have two names lately. Even Micah herself did now, since according to her new invitation she was Thomas Abney.
“You want some toast and cheese?” Madeline asked. “I’ll do it for you all for five, which is a better price than Jenny offers. I can also find you some wine, but it’ll be ten for a bottle of the good stuff.”
“Is this a cookshop, too?” Micah asked.
Madeline laughed. “Of course. Anything you want, duck, I’ll get it for you—at the right price. I even got beds in the back if you need a place to sleep.”
Micah shook her head. “I already have a place to stay, thank you.”
“No food for us, Madeline,” Tess said. “We’re looking for an outfit for Micah, here. Something fancy, like what a noble would wear to a ball.”
Madeline cocked her hip to one side and planted a fist on it. She was a tiny woman, shorter than Micah, even, with bright black eyes and dark hair piled in a bun high on her head. “Wellll, we’re a bit short on ladies’ finery right now, but—”
“Not a problem,” Tess said. “Micah’s a young man for this one.”
Madeline did not seem confused by this. She looked at Micah, measuring with her eyes.
“I’ll take that wine you offered,” Applethorpe said.
The small woman grinned up at him. “I knew you would, Vincent.”
That settled, Madeline began to show off clothes to Tess. Doublets, scarves and hats, breeches and trousers and shiny black boots—the two of them went through dozens of pieces, Madeline holding them up just long enough for Tess to shake her head and then tossing them aside. Some of the clothes seemed brand new, and others were so old that their dyes had faded to brown or gray. Kaab was watching closely, but it seemed to be Tess who was in charge here.
Applethorpe settled on a trunk to observe, dangling his bottle of wine loosely in one hand. No one seemed much interested in what Micah thought of the clothes, so she took a seat next to him. He offered her the bottle, but she refused; she preferred chocolate but was afraid to ask Madeline for any. She didn’t know how much it would cost, and she didn’t want to waste her money if she needed to buy clothes for the ball.
“Look at this one!” Madeline crowed, holding up a coat of emerald silk with gold piping on the seams. “I just acquired it, but I’ll sell it to y
ou, Tess. The lining’s torn, but that won’t show when your boy is wearing it.”
“No, no! That’s not right at all.” Tess began to paw through another pile of clothes. “Micah’s the younger son of a country noble. Not long in the City, and certainly not with the money for silk. Besides, it’s too fashion-forward.” She pulled out a cream-colored doublet with a pattern of diamonds in brown thread. “Now, this is what we want. Good, old-fashioned doublet his father probably wore in his first season. What do you have that matches?”
“There’s a pair of loose breeches in a lovely brown velvet somewhere in here—also out of fashion, but perhaps that’s all the better. Fine quality. I’ll let you have them both for twenty silver.”
“Silver?” Tess shouted. “I’ll give you twenty brass minnows, and that’s more than they’re worth.”
“Ten silver, then, and I’ll throw in a good linen shirt.”
“Micah already has a shirt. Three.”
Micah stopped paying attention. The numbers seemed random to her, and she didn’t understand how Tess could make them change just by arguing about it. “What do you think?” she asked Applethorpe.
He nodded thoughtfully. “Brown’s a good choice. It’ll keep you from standing out. Best way to keep anyone from noticing the holes in your story is to keep them from noticing you in the first place.” He turned to Kaab. “And what will you be wearing, Mistress Balam? You’d draw attention in any color.”
Kaab sighed and picked up a cotton petticoat that Tess had tossed aside earlier. “I don’t know. I am told that normally one has a new costume made to order, but there isn’t time for that.”
“I could fit you with a good dress,” Madeline said. She dropped a stack of clothes into Micah’s arms and showed her where she could duck between several lines of hanging clothes to try them on. “I got plenty. What color you want?”
“No,” Applethorpe said firmly. “That’ll do for Micah, but Kaab has much to lose if someone recognizes their discards from last season. Or the dress that went missing when it was supposed to be put into storage.”
“They have more clothes than they can keep track of, up on the Hill.” Madeline said, waving a red skirt. “This is good fabric. Sturdy weave, nice small stitching . . .”
“But if we wear old clothes, even good ones, won’t people notice?” Kaab asked. “We must be impressive.”
“I can make you impressive, dearie. As long as you got a good base to work with, you can do anything.”
Micah emerged clumsily from behind the hanging clothes. The doublet was so tight that she felt like she couldn’t breathe, but she liked the way the velvet felt under her fingers.
Tess came up to her and tried to tug up the vest, stopping when the seams creaked alarmingly. “Well, at least it’s the right length,” she said. “We can open the sides and add some extra fabric.”
Micah was thankful when Tess nodded and said she could change back into her old clothes. When she emerged again, once more in her old shirt, breeches, and scholar’s robe, the others were gathered around a shelf of hats and trinkets.
“What is this?” Kaab pointed to a woman’s showy four-cornered hat ornamented with an ostrich plume. “I thought you didn’t wear feathers here?”
Madeline shrugged. “They’re in one season and then out the next. Why? You got some feathers to work with?”
“Many. And our feathers are much better than this.” Kaab reached out to stroke the plume, which Micah had to admit did look rather ratty.
“Are they?” Tess drawled. “Then why not wear your wonderful feathers, but in our styles?”
“Why not . . .” Kaab laughed and hugged Tess swiftly. “You are brilliant! We have such beautiful things, we could just rearrange them: put on our jade and gold as you Locals do; wear a nose ring as a brooch, let us say. What else . . . ? Our mantles.” She sketched a large rectangle in the air. “They are woven, with bright colors and complex designs. Is there anything like that in your fashions here?”
“Sounds like a shawl to me.” Madeline dug through a nearby pile and produced a damask example, draping it around her shoulders and striking a pose.
Kaab grinned. “Excellent!” She looked to Applethorpe. “What do you think? You know these nobles better than any of us—they hire swordsmen all the time. Will this work?”
Applethorpe nodded slowly. “If you wear their clothes, they’ll think you failed because they’re not as new or stylish as the ones they wear. If you wear your own clothes, they’ll think you failed because you’re too stupid to learn our ways. But this . . . it isn’t one thing or the other.” He smiled. “Yes, I think you’ll beat them at their own game. Or maybe even make them play yours.”
Episode Seven:
The Swan Ball
Joel Derfner
Diane, Duchess Tremontaine, shining in powder-blue silk, hears with satisfaction the graceful sound of her own laughter pealing through the ballroom like cool rain falling on crystal bells. If everything were falling to wrack and ruin around her, she would nonetheless laugh in just this particular, melodious way, simply to keep up appearances, but in this case she is expressing what she genuinely feels. For Karleigh is not here.
The Duke of Karleigh has not come to the ball!
So light is her heart that, if she were a different sort of woman, she would execute a twirl.
A very different sort of woman.
Lord Asper Lindley steps over to her, a splendid concoction of self-confidence and green brocade. He deposits his plate on the table beside a magnificent pile of bright silver spoons. The plate is heaped with the tiny curved necks and heads of pastry swans, which he proceeds to nibble one by one.
“Why, Asper, can it be that my little swan pastries have found favor with your discerning tastes?”
He gives her a lazy smile. There is pastry cream in the corner of his mouth. “Yes, Madam Duchess. But how could they not? One does so enjoy disjointing swans, even the flour and cream ones.”
“Then keep eating, please, as many as you like. I’m sure dear Nicholas is too busy these days with Council matters for the possible results of your pastry consumption to bother him.” There. An instant too long to return her smile. She has struck home. He will think twice next time he wishes to comment on her gown in the manner he did at Lady Galing’s party earlier in the season.
Over his shoulder, she sees the Dragon Chancellor attempting to keep the corners of his mouth from rising, and she floats over to him. “Gregory!” She has forgotten how very handsome he is, with his deep green eyes and the dun hair falling over his brow. “Why have you not asked to lead me in the dance yet this evening?”
“Because,” says Lord Davenant with a short bow, “I’m quite certain your beauty would cause me to stumble from inattention and tread on your foot, at which point I would have to hurl myself into the river in despair.”
She places a hand on his arm. “I dare say I would be so distracted by the perfection of your features I would fail to notice.” She is not entirely dissembling. Her hand is still on his arm.
This ball, upon which so very much depends, is proving a stunning success. Very little holds the nobility’s attention like the glittering of jewels in candlelight as the women on whose necks and wrists they hang spin in the dance, the strains of the violins wafting above the crowd, adorning the air with exquisite melody, the heat and crush of the City’s finest aristocracy drinking and eating and dancing and fanning and, above all else, whispering about one another. The smoke and mirrors with which she has given the proceedings the appearance of a luxury she cannot afford have aroused none of the comments she has feared they might inspire.
And the Duke of Karleigh, thank the good gods, is at home with a head cold.
Meanwhile, another much-desired guest is making his presence known. The head of the Balam Trading family has come after all, along with many of his colorful compatriots. She wasn’t at all sure he’d accept her invitation; it wasn’t as though any of these foreigners ever so
cialized on the Hill. But he has accepted both the invitation and the challenge, and seems to be enjoying both equally.
“Duchess,” says Master Ahchuleb Balam, arriving at her side and bowing with exactly the correct degree of deference, “may I congratulate you on a spectacular evening?”
“Why, sir, if the evening is indeed a spectacular one—an assertion whose merit I am of course in no position to evaluate—then it is due entirely to your presence and that of your people.” And to the absence of the Duke of Karleigh.
Diane glows with pleasure in the light of the flames flickering around them as they exchange increasingly intricate flatteries. Finally come the words she has been so desperate to hear from him: “The manner in which I have heard my Kinwiinik colleagues remark upon your hospitality suggests to me that, when I broach the matter to them again, I will find them eager to accept your proposal.”
Diane smiles. “I leave the matter, sir, entirely in your hands. A letter from you would be a delight no matter what news it bore.”
She does not mention the fact that moments earlier she heard Lord Galing say that, having met and been thoroughly charmed by the Kinwiinik here—so picturesque!—he’s beginning to suspect the chocolate import tariffs might be the slightest bit excessive; by the end of the evening she will have no trouble persuading him to lower them. She feels as if a great weight, a dark mass of onyx that has lain heavy upon her for months, were disintegrating into so much dandelion seed and scattering on a refreshing breeze. She has dealt with the terrible threat posed by her disgusting, chiseling visitor of three weeks earlier, the disaster of the Everfair is all but behind her, and for the first time in a very long while the ease of her breath is achieved without any effort whatsoever.
The duchess turns to take in the room, the swirling couples, the reflection of candlelight in faceted precious stones, the bright hiss of silk, the sweet scent of iced cakes, and her smile is ethereal. She has secured her position once more—and Tremontaine’s—and the road ahead will be strewn with violets and lilies.
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