“Did you know I was named after the great southern queen Diane?” Diane said.
“I have heard so,” Louisa said, pretending for the thousandth time to be educated by her mistress.
“She united the North and South so long ago. How funny it is that now I am traveling south in order to unite the Tremontaine family!”
“Very fitting, my lady,” Louisa said.
“I am going to be a wonderful duchess,” Diane said.
Louisa gritted her teeth and kept sewing.
The Present Day
The round silver tray on which the Duchess Tremontaine had laid out the duke’s daily medicinal draught was a pretty thing, engraved with the Tremontaine swan floating in a serene lake, willow branches arching over it in the shape of a heart. The tray held a pressed linen napkin and a small crystal glass full of amber liquid: brandy mixed with the proper dose of tincture and sweetened with a few drops of honey. The duchess kept the tray in her private dressing room and carried it herself to her husband. This afternoon, when she swept into his bedroom, she found the duke sprawled listlessly in the wingback chair before the fire, which was burning despite the summer heat. Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead, and Diane put the tray down on a side table and reached for a handkerchief to blot his skin.
He flinched away from her. “I don’t need that,” he hissed. “I need my—who are you?”
He fixed a feverish gaze on her, and the distrust in it was so strong she almost took a step back. But Diane did not allow herself to be cowed. “I am your wife, and you are the Duke Tremontaine. Have you forgotten again?”
He had deteriorated significantly in the last few days, and though she had expected that, his loss of memory was a startling and unsettling development. He was becoming less and less the man she had married, and she allowed herself a moment of regret that she had been forced to this juncture. She well remembered the first time she saw him, seventeen years ago, on the day of her arrival in the City. The duke had been a gangling young man of twenty-three at the time, on the cusp of growing into the handsome maturity of adulthood. The first time he had looked at her, dirty, bruised, and nearly undone by the horrible experience on the highway, she knew that he had seen through the grime to the beauty underneath. He had always been on her side, comforting her as she told the story of what had befallen her on the journey from Lullingstone, defending her to his mother when she initially pronounced that Diane was too countrified to be a proper duchess. He had even offered her the assistance of his own valet to interview new lady’s maids. He had been altogether wonderful in those early days, and she had found it quite easy to convince herself she was falling in love with him.
Perhaps it was fitting, then, to find that love ending just as quickly.
“I’m not married,” the duke now said, gazing at her with frighteningly bright eyes. “You are not my wife.”
The first time he had spoken such words had pained her, but no more. It was a consequence of his illness, and she found it increasingly irritating. “I am your wife,” she insisted. “You are sick, my love. You must drink your medicine so that you may recover.” She moved to pick up the crystal glass, but he gripped her arm with bruising force. She let out a small whimper of surprise, but he did not notice.
“Where is my love? Where is Rafe? Have you done something to him?”
She jerked her arm away from his hand. “You have no need of a secretary in your state, my lord. I have sent him away so that you may recover in peace.”
“He is not my secretary,” the duke said, his voice suddenly weakened. He sounded as if he were about to burst into tears.
Diane marched briskly to the side table and picked up his medicinal draught. “You must drink this, my love. It will make you feel better.”
He turned away from her as a sick child might. “No. I will not take anything from you.”
The flat, empty tone in his voice sounded more sane than anything he had said in days, and for a moment Diane wondered if he had guessed the truth. But that was impossible. “Very well,” she said, and set the glass back on the silver tray. “I will send up some chocolate for you, then.”
He said nothing.
She lifted the tray and exited his bedroom. In the corridor, the footman was trying his best to appear as if he had heard nothing. “Where is Duchamp?” Diane asked. “Bring him here.” When the steward arrived minutes later, Diane handed him the silver tray. “The duke refuses to take his medicine on its own. Fix him a cup of chocolate and add the medicine, then serve it to him. Take care that he drinks it.”
Duchamp took the tray from her. “Yes, my lady.”
The duchess turned away from her husband’s room, steadfastly ignoring the lump of regret that had lodged itself in her throat.
Seventeen Years Earlier
The coach had been traveling all day, and as daylight faded into the murky soup of dusk, Louisa set aside her sewing and took up her knitting needles. She had unraveled one of Diane’s old shawls and was reusing the yarn to knit herself a lacy cape, suitable for cool spring evenings. The task was simple enough that she didn’t need light to do it; her fingers fell into the steady, familiar rhythm on their own. Across from her in the coach, Diane snored lightly as she slept, the skirt of her blue silk gown taking up most of the remaining space.
That morning, Diane had insisted on wearing her new gown because she believed they would arrive in the City by the end of the day, but night was rapidly falling and there was still no sign of it. Louisa had overheard the coachman telling one of the footmen that it was unlikely they would reach the City that evening. Spring rains had washed out the road in several places over the course of their journey, and though they had now been traveling for a fortnight, they were probably at least a day behind schedule. But Diane’s eagerness to show off to her husband could not be contained by such mundane things as reality. Unfortunately for Louisa, the gown had become hopelessly crumpled in the small space of the coach, and she would have to find some means of refreshing it at the next inn or she would be blamed for Diane’s mistaken decision to put it on a full day too early.
The coach pulled to a sudden halt, causing Louisa to lurch forward and nearly drop her knitting. Loud voices from outside cut into the silence, and Diane moved, her skirts whispering as she sat up.
“Are we at Tremontaine House?” Diane asked in a sleepy voice.
“No,” Louisa said.
One of the voices they heard—a man’s voice, accented oddly to Louisa’s Northern ears—was unfamiliar to her. “If you do what I ask, it might be we have an agreement,” the man said, and then laughed. “But of course, we might not.”
“Move aside—you’re blocking the road,” the coachman called. “There is no toll here to pay.”
“Ah! No toll, not to the locals,” the stranger said, his mocking tone sending a chill down Louisa’s spine. “But a toll to me.”
“We don’t pay tolls to the likes of you,” the coachman snorted.
Louisa heard the unmistakable rasp of a sword being drawn from its scabbard, and she froze in place, her fingers clenching around her knitting needles and yarn. A highwayman. There were many stories of travelers being robbed on the road to the City, but it had never occurred to her that she might be in danger.
“Who is that?” Diane whispered, reaching out to grip her forearm.
Louisa couldn’t see much. Twilight made the nearby trees melt into darkness. The coach abruptly rocked, as if someone had jumped off the footboard.
“Move aside,” came a voice. It was one of the footmen. He was a young local man, eager to leave Lullingstone behind. “We have a right of passage on this road,” he said, but the tremble in his voice belied his words.
The highwayman chuckled. “I see you’ve a short sword. Know how to use it?”
Louisa flinched at the first smack of metal on metal. It was followed by the rough scrape of boots over the dirt ground, a breathless gasp or two, a strangled yelp, and a thud like a sack of f
lour being tossed onto the ground. Diane trembled, shrinking down in the seat beside Louisa, who continued to sit stock-still with her eyes fixed out the window. The coach began to move again, but before they had gone more than one turn of the wheels, they jerked to a stop.
“Not so fast!” the highwayman cried, and it sounded as if he was dragging the coachman off his seat, the man’s body banging against the wheels and sending the coach rocking. Louisa couldn’t see what was happening, but she heard another horrific thump, accompanied by a cracking sound as if someone’s limbs were being broken. A man screamed horribly, over and over again, until his voice cut off into an awful, gurgling sound. The coachman was dead—or at least incapacitated, and thus useless. That left them with but one more defender, the second footman.
He suddenly came into view through the window, holding a dagger in front of him. A sword was pressing him back, the blade a hard-edged shadow in the fading light, and at the hilt of the sword was a man with a mean grin on his face, as if he relished the sight of the footman retreating before him.
It was a brutal, unmatched battle. The footman had no real chance—his dagger was no defense against a sword—and before more than a few breaths had passed, the highwayman pierced the footman in the chest. He slumped forward over the blade, reaching out with weakening arms in an attempt to stab the highwayman, who shoved the dying man back and yanked his sword out of his chest. Blood dripped from the steel and the wound in the footman’s chest.
Louisa knew she should be terrified, but instead she was overcome with an awful calm, as if what was happening outside the coach had nothing to do with her at all. How could it? It was so horrific; she had never seen anything like it. She watched the footman fall to his knees, his breath emerging in a wheezing groan, and then the highwayman said almost pleasantly, “Good night.” He slashed the sword across the footman’s throat with such force that his head snapped back as if on a hinge, and the footman collapsed onto his side, his body twitching.
Louisa saw the highwayman glance at the coach. He must know that someone was cowering within. Louisa became aware of Diane’s death grip on her arm, and perhaps some of her mistress’s breathless fear infected her at last, because as the highwayman approached the door, Louisa suddenly realized what could happen: He might kill them. In fact, he probably would. At the last second, he hesitated in front of the door. His gaze sought hers in the shadows, and she shrank away, pressing back against Diane, who trembled in fright.
The highwayman turned aside and walked toward the rear of the coach.
Louisa let out her breath, and Diane gasped, “Is he leaving?”
Judging by the sounds they heard, he was pulling their trunks down and rifling through their things. He began to sing in a horrible, off-key voice. It was a song about another highwayman, one who had hanged in a town square in the midsummer sun. Louisa peeled Diane’s fingers off her arm and pulled her knitting needles free from the yarn.
“What are we going to do?” Diane whispered frantically. “He’s stealing my trousseau! My sapphire necklace is in my trunk!” She grabbed for Louisa again, causing her to drop one of the knitting needles. It clattered loudly onto the wooden floor, and the highwayman stopped singing. Louisa and Diane both stopped breathing.
Louisa hastily shoved the other knitting needle up her right sleeve and fumbled around on the floor of the coach for the dropped one, but she couldn’t find it. It must have rolled beneath the seat or into the crack between the door and the coach floor. It was so dark now she could barely see Diane beside her; she’d never be able to find the other needle. Her fruitless search came to a halt when the coach door was pulled open without warning, and standing before them was the ominous silhouette of the highwayman.
“What have we here?” he said in the same pleasant tone he’d used before slitting the footman’s throat.
Diane screamed. She screamed and screamed and screamed, her voice so piercing it made Louisa’s ears ring.
The highwayman climbed onto the coach step, his body looming over them as he leaned inside, and Louisa caught a whiff of something sour as he bypassed her entirely and dragged the screaming Lady Roehaven out of the coach. Diane’s legs kicked out futilely, only landing a few hard knocks against the coach wall, which caused her to scream even louder. The highwayman shoved her onto the ground, where she knelt in a puddle of blue skirts. The only thing Louisa could think was that now the dress would be completely ruined.
“Quiet!” the highwayman shouted, but Diane did not stop screaming. He raised his hand and cuffed her on the side of the head. It was a hard blow, and Diane crumpled inelegantly onto her side, unconscious.
The highwayman turned back to the coach and looked at Louisa. It was almost completely dark now, but she didn’t need to see the expression on his face to know that if she did not obey him, he would do the same to her. Feeling the thin, hard length of her ivory knitting needle against her right forearm, Louisa began to climb out of the coach. The highwayman actually offered her his arm as she jumped from the high step onto the dirt road.
“Down,” he said, pointing.
She knelt, her heart racing, while he went to Diane and turned her over roughly. The locket that Diane wore around her neck glinted in the last of the twilight. Lord Hemmynge had given it to her on the day of their departure; it was to be her gift to her future husband. She had been planning to take it off and deliver it directly to him as soon as she arrived at Tremontaine House. The chain slid through the highwayman’s gloved hands, and then Diane’s body jerked as the chain snapped. The highwayman bent over Diane’s motionless head, brushing aside her hair almost gently, and unclasped the earrings from her ears. He lifted Diane’s hands to examine them, tugging off the sapphire ring that had been her mother’s.
The highwayman straightened, pocketing Diane’s jewels, and turned to Louisa. She held herself very still. He came to her and squatted down, reaching out with one hand to cup her chin. His fingers were painful, digging into her throat as he turned her this way and that in the pale light of the night’s first stars. “I don’t have any jewelry,” she said, her voice squeaking out from beneath the pressure of his hand.
“You’re the maid, eh?”
“Yes.”
He held her face steady, looking into her eyes. She did not flinch; she would not.
“You’re braver than your mistress,” he said almost conversationally. “I don’t like weaklings, but you have some backbone.”
Louisa’s intake of breath was a stutter in her lungs. “She’s a fool.”
The highwayman barked a harsh laugh. “You’ve got a mouth on you. I like that in a girl. Most nobles are fools, never had to work a day in their lives, think they deserve everything. It’s not fair. That’s why I take what I want when I want it.”
Oddly, Louisa found the highwayman reassuring; he was treating her like an equal, something no one had ever done before. She wasn’t afraid anymore. She gazed back at the highwayman boldly. “Are you going to kill us?”
He seemed to consider the question. Finally he said, “I don’t kill little girls.”
Before she could ask what he did do with them, he raised his hand. “Have a nice nap, little girl.”
His fist was a crushing blow to the side of her head, and she saw nothing more.
The Present Day
“My lady, Ixkaab Balam is here and is very insistent upon speaking with you directly,” said Tilson.
The duchess raised her eyebrows. “The Kinwiinik girl is here?” This was surprising.
“Yes. I’ve put her in the east drawing room to await you,” Tilson replied. “If you’d like to see her, of course.”
Diane set down her embroidery. She had heard nothing of Ixkaab since Reynald’s mysterious disappearance, possibly while he was shadowing Ixkaab on Diane’s orders. She instantly wondered if Ixkaab’s unexpected arrival at Tremontaine House had anything to do with her missing swordsman. Or perhaps it was in relation to the agreement she had recently finaliz
ed with the girl’s family. At any rate, it was unusual enough to be notable. Diane stood. “I’ll see her. Send in some chocolate, please.”
Tilson held the door open for her as she swept through. “Yes, madam.”
The east drawing room was nearly at the opposite corner of Tremontaine House from Diane’s private aerie, and it had been one of the first rooms to receive Diane’s touch when she married William. She had been so young then, more desperate to prove herself than she liked, and she had spent weeks contemplating which paintings to hang on the walls, poring over fabrics for the upholstery. The result was a room of understated opulence: pale gold thread upon ivory silk damask, paintings of Tremontaine ancestors sporting their heirloom jewels, the finest of Tremontaine’s imported Cham porcelain displayed on the intricately carved marble fireplace mantel. It was a beautiful room, but also slightly out of style, so it was only used when unexpected guests of lower rank were visiting.
Ixkaab Balam, dressed in an amber-colored gown, was standing in front of the mantel, her head tipped up so that she could gaze at the giant landscape painting above, a bucolic scene of one of the Tremontaine country estates, including a meandering river and tiny white sheep scattered over a rolling green field.
“It’s such a lovely surprise to see you,” Diane said as she entered the room.
Kaab turned and curtsied awkwardly, clearly unaccustomed to wearing the voluminous skirts. “My lady,” she said.
“Please sit,” Diane said. “We need not stand on formalities.”
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