The Laurentine Spy (5 page)

“As you are aware, her parents died in tragic circumstances.”

Athan nodded again. The events of Lady Petra’s orphaning were well known: in the space of one night the earth had opened and the sea had risen, and the island colony of Gryff had been swallowed. The Corhonase Empire had lost its farthest outpost and Lady Petra had lost her family.

And her fortune.

Athan sat up straighter on the bench. “I understand she is penniless,” he said. “As my affairs stand—”

“A respectable dowry will be settled on her.” The Consort’s voice coolly overrode his. “Her parents died in the service of the Empire, and I am fond of her.”

An image flashed into Athan’s mind: himself drowning and grasping desperately at sticks to stay afloat. His hands flexed as he struggled not to clench them. “But—”

“The Prince agrees this is a suitable match.”

“He does?” Athan said, as the water closed over his head. A royal suggestion was tantamount to a command. He was trapped.

The woman’s sharp black eyes assessed him. “Yes.”

Athan swallowed his protest. He forced himself to relax. “Very well, I agree.”

“Good.” The Consort stood. “The betrothal will be announced as soon as Lady Petra’s mourning period is over.”

Athan rose to his feet. It was difficult to keep the movement lethargic.

“You won’t regret your decision.”

He bowed.

The Consort inclined her sleekly-coiffed head in response. Her attendants came forward. Something in the way she accepted the fawning attention reminded him of his mother.

Athan watched as the party walked down the colonnade. When they’d passed from view he sat again and stared down at the marble flagstones. They were smooth and cold, gray streaked with white.

A Corhonase wife.

He swore under his breath and squeezed his eyes tightly shut.
This can’t be happening.

CHAPTER FOUR

S
ALIEL GLANCED AROUND.
The ballroom was crowded to its farthest extent. Many of the throng were naval officers in their black and maroon uniforms. The murmur of voices rose to fill the heavy, vaulted ceiling and the musicians labored to be heard. To her Laurentine ear the melody was unexciting. But then, it always was.

She’d never attended a ball in Laurent, but she had stood in darkened hallways with other servants, listening to the music. Sometimes she’d even danced quietly, in stockinged feet, when no one could see her. In Laurent the music made a person
want
to dance—it was gayer, giddier, more infectious, quite unlike the stately and martial melodies of Corhona.

She’d peeked through partially opened doors at the dancers too, envying their gaiety. Compared to those scenes, Corhonase balls were dreary affairs. In Laurent the colors were bright, the laughter frequent, the fashions flamboyant. She’d seen dancers smile and flirt with one another. Here there was no such interaction. It was all humorless and respectful formality.

Her eyes passed over Lord Ivo—tall, black-haired—where he stood with several of his cronies. Irritation stirred in her breast. Didn’t the man know how to close his mouth? It gave him the look of an imbecile.

Saliel looked away, to where the Prince and his Consort sat upon the dais. The Prince looked bored. It was said that he found the nightly balls tedious, that he preferred the dancing of the courtesans to that of his court. The Consort sat to his side, at a lower elevation. Her round face was composed into an expression of docility and her hands were clasped demurely in her lap, but her eyes were alert as she watched the noble men and women of the court mingle. Ornate silver keys gleamed at her waist: the key to her husband’s strongbox, the keys to the properties he’d inherited, to the Citadel. There was no real power in those keys, and it was well for Laurent that her authority was limited to arranging marriages; her mind was razor-sharp.

Saliel turned her head slightly and focused on a bearded face. She studied the man.
Why are you growing a beard? And why is the officer alongside you not?

She turned to Marta. “The officers look so handsome in their uniforms. Don’t you agree?”

Marta nodded.

“There are so many of them and they all look alike. I swear, I can’t tell them apart! I can’t even make out your husband.”

Marta obligingly pointed. “There he is, standing with the Admiral.”

“Of course,” Saliel said. “How clever of you. Can you tell all the officers apart?”

Marta shook her head. “No. Only those on my husband’s ship.”

“And which ones are they?”

Saliel observed carefully as Marta indicated the men in question. Every one of them had facial hair.

S
ALIEL SMILED POLITELY
at her dance partner. “I notice that beards are becoming quite fashionable.”

The man touched his chin in a self-conscious gesture. “Yes.” The straggling whiskers on his chin were a different shade of brown to his hair.

“You shall all look like pirates soon,” Saliel said, wide-eyed.
I sound like a fool.

The officer laughed uncomfortably. “Yes.”

“Are you a Captain?” she asked, noting from his epaulettes that he was a junior officer. “Which is your ship?”

“The
Glorious Conquest
,” the man said. He didn’t correct her assumption of his rank.

She and the officer were parted by the dance. Saliel traced her way sedately through the intricate steps and halted opposite her newest partner. She looked at him with distaste.

“Noble Petra.”

She sank into a curtsey. “Lord Ivo.”

Lord Ivo bowed leisurely and held out his arm. Saliel placed her fingertips on his sleeve. The puce-colored satin was warm from his body.

“I spoke with the Consort this afternoon,” Lord Ivo said as he sauntered beside her, keeping lethargic time with the music.

“Oh.”

“I understand that you’re desirous of entering the married state.”

Saliel stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

“Perhaps I was mistaken. I confess I wasn’t paying strict attention to her words.” Lord Ivo glanced at her from beneath half-closed eyelids. “But my understanding was that we were discussing a marriage. Yours and mine.”

The dance parted them briefly. When Lord Ivo claimed her hand again she kept her eyes downcast.

“The Consort speaks highly of you,” he said.

“The Consort is most gracious.”

Lord Ivo yawned. His attention seemed to wander. “I’ve recently purchased a piglet. For racing.”

“Oh.” Saliel stared at the floor. It was paved in squares of dull red and black stone.

“Her coloring is similar to yours. I believe I shall name her Petra, in your honor.”

She glanced at him sharply. “There’s no need to do so, my lord.”

“But she reminds me of you.” Lord Ivo’s smile was amiable, foolish.

A
THAN WATCHED
L
ADY
Petra out of the corner of his eye. She danced with one of the officers of the Fleet, moving sedately through the sequence of steps. Her hair was bright above the gray of her gown.

He’d almost decided that it wouldn’t be terrible to marry her. Certainly, she was docile and biddable—which were synonyms for boring—but she had the wit to dislike him. Perhaps it was perverse, but he enjoyed the spark of irritation in her eyes when she looked at him and the careful, disdainful politeness in her voice. True, her figure and coloring were unfashionable, but her slimness gave her an undeniable grace and the red-gold hair coiled so neatly on top of her head was quite striking.

Athan allowed himself to imagine for a moment that Lady Petra was his wife. He imagined unbinding that fascinating hair and watching it tumble down her back, rich against her pale skin. And then he imagined her lying in the marriage bed, shrinking from his touch and wishing the act over with.

No, he didn’t want a Corhonase wife. A woman should enjoy sex with her husband, not endure it.

But if I teach her
—

No, that way lay disaster. Lady Petra would be shocked if he suggested sex could be agreeable. And she’d be suspicious. A lady’s value lay in her virtue. No nobleman would encourage his wife to enjoy the physical pleasures of the marriage bed. To do so would be insulting in the extreme. Lust, passion, desire, sexual gratification...such things were the realm of courtesans.

And courtesans didn’t become pregnant. They ate herbs that rendered them barren. If he visited Lady Petra’s bed—as he must do if they married—then he would likely sire a child with her.

A Corhonase child.

Athan’s throat became dry at the thought. He reached out and plucked a wine glass from a tray. How to avoid this marriage?

S
ALIEL WAS PLEASED
that she was the first to arrive. The chamber was empty save for the Guardian and herself. Shadows sidled across the floor and the far walls were lost in darkness.

“I’m to be wed.”

“What?”

“The betrothal will be announced when my mourning period is over.” She sat on one of the stone urns and folded her hands in her lap. “But I’ll be gone by then, won’t I?”
I sound like Two: anxious.

“I’ve already begun preparations for your departure.”

Saliel’s tension eased. “Will I be replaced?”

“I hope so. It’s been useful having a spy in the ladies’ court.”

Saliel nodded. There were always two spies in the Citadel: One, a nobleman, and Two, a servant. She was the first Three.

“Who’s your betrothed?”

She said the name with distaste: “Lord Ivo.”

“You don’t like him?”

“The man’s an ass.”

The Guardian coughed and cleared his throat. He began to pace. “Lord Ivo... This could be useful.”

“Useful? How?”

“A reason for your departure.” The Guardian leaned against one of the stone tables. He stood at the edge of the dim circle of candlelight. The hem of his black cloak melted into the darkness. “They’ll be less likely to investigate if they think you’re fleeing an unwelcome marriage.”

Saliel chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip. “It will be unusual.”

“But not unprecedented.”

Saliel nodded. He was correct. “The Consort is aware of my disinclination to marry Lord Ivo.”

“Good. I’d like you to make your feelings evident to others in the court. Subtly, of course.”

Saliel nodded again.

“Excellent,” the Guardian said. He straightened and rubbed his hands together. “Your disappearance will be unexpected, but not without reason. Excellent.”

“I
SAW ONE
ring around the moon tonight,” Athan said.

“I saw none.” The black figure stood aside for him to pass.

“Guardian, I must speak with you privately.”

“Very well,” the man said. “Afterwards.”

Tonight Athan was the last to arrive; the others were already seated. He looked at Three as he crossed the floor. The bulky cloak disguised her very effectively. She could be any one of a number of young noblewomen.
I wish the Consort had chosen you to be my bride.

There was no chance of that. Whoever Three was in court, she was unmarriageable. Laurent would never ask that of her: to share her bed with a Corhonase nobleman, to bear Corhonase children.

Athan looked at her with renewed interest. Did she play a widow? A wife whose husband was stationed half a world away?

“Good evening,” he said, as he sat on an urn beside her.

“Good evening.”

“There’s a lot of activity at the docks.” The Guardian’s voice was terse. “Our sources suggest a squadron will sail shortly.” He sat. “What have you learned, Three?”

“The squadron leaves at the end of the month.”

“Where?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“One? Two?”

Athan shook his head as well, but Two spoke, “The Oceanides.”

“The Oceanides?” The Guardian’s head jerked around. “Are you certain?”

Two lifted his shoulders diffidently. “The Admiral’s valet is looking forward to the voyage. He says they’re going someplace where the women...” He cast a quick glance at Three.

Athan grunted. He knew what the women of the Oceanides were famed for. Three clearly didn’t. He saw curiosity in the angle of her head.

“The Oceanides. It makes sense,” the Guardian said. “We’re the closest naval port, but...”

But it
didn’t
make sense. The island chain was crucial to trade routes—and as such had negotiated treaties of independence with both Laurent and Corhona. To take the Oceanides by force would be an act of warfare that Laurent couldn’t ignore.
And ours is the superior fleet.