The Privilege of the Sword (56 page)

“No, I’m not. Not this time.”

“Yes, you are, Marcus. Katherine’s staying, so you’re staying. It’s all on the desk over there, signed and sealed. Make sure she opens it as soon as I’ve gone. That’s important. Don’t look right now—just find me my penknife—I know I put it down there somewhere, and it’s gone.”

“You’re Marcus?” St Vier said. “Why didn’t you say so? I thought you were younger.”

“He was,” said the duke. “They grow.”

“So where are we going, anyway?”

“Somewhere nice. Somewhere with bees, and sun, and lots and lots of thyme.”

S
HE SAT IN HER WINDOW SEAT, WATCHING THE SHADOWS
shoot up against the walls of the courtyard as people with torches scurried about with horses and baggage. There was no light in her room. She sat with her knees hugged in her arms, her face pressed to the glass, just tilted so that her breath didn’t mist it. It was a play, she thought; it was some kind of play, and when it was over someone would come and tell her what it meant, and what her part would be.

Then she saw him, or thought she did—the man who used to live here and said he’d never come back. He was standing in the courtyard, against a pillar near the well, just standing there looking at it all.

“Master!” Her breath fogged the glass. She struggled with the casement catch. “Master!” He didn’t look up. “Master St Vier!” she shouted into the courtyard.

The man turned his head. She couldn’t hear what he said. “Wait!” she cried. She bolted down the stairs, around the corridor, around another and out the door.

“It’s you!” Katherine called. “Oh my god, it’s really you!” She didn’t think about whether or not he wanted to be touched; she just flung herself into his arms, and smelt the woodsmoke as he folded her in his cloak.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes,” she gasped. “I’m different, but I’m all right.”

“Good.” Carefully he unwrapped her from the embrace, and set her before him. “I can’t stay,” he said. “Your uncle’s finally killed someone.”

“Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes.”

“Are you going to—”

“No. Not this time. I can’t stay.”

“Please,” she said; “I’ve got things to show you, things to tell you….”

“Let’s go inside,” he said. “I think that there are things to tell you, too.”

I
N THE HOUR BEFORE DAWN, THERE WAS A GREAT POUNDING
on the doors of Tremontaine’s Riverside house. City guard, some adorned with moldy vegetables that had been flung by Riversiders who resented their incursion on their turf, escorted an officer of the Court of Honor of the Noble Council of Lords bearing a warrant heavy with seals that had taken most of the night to get fixed and approved, summoning the Duke Tremontaine before the Court.

A sleepy watchman opened the door. Like most of the household, he’d only just gotten to bed.

“What in the Seven Hells do you want?” he asked.

“By order of the—”

“Do you know what
time
it is?”

“None of your cheek,” the officer barked. “Just fetch Tremontaine, and be quick about it.”

He wasn’t invited in, but he stepped over the threshold anyway, as did as many of his guard as would fit in the tiny old hallway. He wondered if he would find the Mad Duke wild and bloodstained, or in his cups, or draped with boys and unmentionables.

A young girl appeared on the stairs above them. She had wrapped a velvet cloak of green and gold over her nightgown, and her long brown hair was plaited for the night.

“Yes?” she said.

“Young lady, I am here for Tremontaine. If you could just—”

“I am the Duchess Tremontaine,” she said. “What is it you want?”

H
AVING DEFEATED HER SWORDMASTER IN A SERIOUS
bout that morning, and being in the process of acquiring a new dress that afternoon, the young Duchess Tremontaine was in excellent spirits. She stood in a sunny room overlooking the gardens of Tremontaine House encouraging her chief secretary, a balding young man named Arthur Ghent, to read her correspondence to her. The duchess’s personal aide was ensconced in the window seat going over her farm books, eating oranges and lobbing bits of orange peel at her when he thought no one was looking, as she simultaneously tried to avoid them and to hold still for the modiste who was fitting the gown, while her maid begged her not to stand there making a half-naked spectacle of herself in front of everyone.

“I’m perfectly covered up, Betty,” the duchess said, trying not to tug at the bodice, which pinched. “I’ve got yards of sarcenet over quite a lot of petticoat and corset, and a very modest fichu—ouch!”

“A thousand pardons, my lady,” the modiste said, “but your grace’s waist has gotten smaller since our last fitting, and it must be taken in.”

“It pinches,” Katherine fretted. “And the sleeves—they’re so tight, I can hardly move my arms. Can’t you open up this seam here?”

“It is not the mode, madam.”

“Well,
make
it the mode, why don’t you? Attach some ribbons right across here—”

“Very seductive,” the duchess’s personal aide piped up from the window seat.

“Oh, honestly, Marcus. It’s just my arm.”

The modiste consulted with her assistant. “If my lady will permit us to remove the upper half of the garment, we will see what can be done.”

The duchess sighed. “Close your eyes, Arthur. Betty, hand me my jacket. There, is everyone happy? Now, please! Lydia is coming to take chocolate soon, and then Lord Armand and the Godwins are joining us for dinner before we go to the concert—oh, hush, Marcus, it’s very lofty and elevated music, not
tweedle tweedle,
Lydia says so—and then Mother’s arriving tomorrow, but who knows when she’ll really get here—oh, Betty, make sure they haven’t forgotten the flowers for her room—and I promised Arthur I would get this business done before then, so now really is the only time. Go on, Arthur.”

Arthur Ghent picked up a stack of colorful butterfly papers. “These are next month’s invitations—but as time is short today, they can wait ’til last. Let’s start with business.” He unfolded a plain note from another pile. “The Duke of Hartsholt says you can have his daughter’s mare at the price agreed, but only if you confirm it today.”

“Tell him yes, then.”

“You’ll fall off,” said Marcus dourly. “You’ll fall and break your neck.”

“I certainly won’t. I grew up riding all over the countryside. This is nothing. But—it does seem a lot for a single horse. Can we honestly afford it?”

Marcus pretended to consult his calculations. “Hmm. Can we afford it? Only if you give up brandy.”

“I don’t drink brandy.”

“Well, then. Get a horse. Get ten if you like—they don’t eat much, do they?”

“Ahem,” said Arthur Ghent, shuffling papers. “This should interest you. The Trevelyn divorce. Speaking of things you can afford. The lady has produced a written statement of cause for petition, and the lawyers have found an obscure law protecting it from any public scrutiny until the matter has been privately settled—that ought to give the family pause.”

“Excellent. What about Perry’s pension?”

Arthur extracted another letter. “Lord Lucius sends a note of thanks. He and Lady—Miss, ah, Grey are resident in Teverington. He writes that he is walking greater distances, and hopes soon to be rid of his cane.”

“Oh, good! Put it on the stack for me to read later. What about my play?”

“Now as to that…” Arthur Ghent glanced at the door to the room. But the play, if he expected it to materialize, was not there.

“My lady?” The modiste and her assistant eased the duchess back into the top half of her new gown. Ribbons crisscrossed the seam below her upper arm. The duchess flexed her arm, trying a full extend and a riposte, while the modiste stifled a protest that gowns were not made to fight in and she truly hoped the duchess would not so tax her creation—

“This is such lovely fabric,” the duchess said. “It moves very nicely, now. Do you think you could do me a pair of summer trousers in it, as well?”

“Oh. My. God.” Artemisia Fitz-Levi stood in the doorway, a fat leather-bound tome in the crook of her arm. Her hair fell in perfect ringlets as always, but there was a smudge of dust on her forehead, and her apron, worn to protect a striped silk gown, was dusty, too. Nonetheless, Arthur Ghent straightened his jacket and ran his hand over what was left of his hair and bowed to her. “Katherine.” She stared at the gown. “That is—that is beyond—Oh, Katherine, every girl in town is going to want those sleeves!”

The modiste permitted herself a smile of relief. In matters of fashion, Lady Artemisia was seldom mistaken.

“Do you think so?” Katherine said shyly. “I don’t want to look silly.”

“You won’t.” Her friend kissed her cheek.

“I’m doing papers with Arthur, and we’re almost done.” Artemisia stood back against the wall, the image of a useful person staying out of the way. “Go on, Arthur.” The secretary handed the duchess two finished letters to approve, which she read standing. “Nothing from my uncle?”

“Nothing new. As far as we know, he and Master St Vier reached the sea and sailed as planned. The next letter may not reach us for some time.”

“If he writes at all.”

“He’ll write,” Marcus said. “When he runs out of money. Or books.”

“Well, then. Is that it?”

“That’s it for now, except for next month’s invitations—”

“Invitations?” Artemisia butted in. “For next month? But my dear, no one will be in the city next month! No one who matters. Everyone goes to the country. Here, you’d better give me those.” She held out her hand to Arthur Ghent, who delivered the invitations to her with a deep bow. “I’ll just see if there’s anything worthwhile, though I’m sure there’s not.” She shoved them in her apron pocket. “You won’t want to stay here either, Duchess. Now, I’ve already gotten a list of your country houses, and I’ve noted the five most suitable for you to choose from. I can fetch my notes if you’d like.”

“Not just yet.” Katherine was still a prisoner of laces and pins. “Have you got
History of the Council, Book Four
there? I think we can get a bit more in while they finish my fitting.”

Artemisia waved the book in the air, and a wad of paper fell out. “Oops! More invitations—”

But Katherine had seen the plain and heavy sheets. “It is not! It’s my play, you wretch—it’s the first act, isn’t it? She’s sent it!”

Artemisia and the secretary exchanged glances; hers was roguish, his helpless. “I was saving it,” Artemisia said primly, “until we got to the end of the chapter on jurisdiction reform.”

“Are you mad? My first commission? Read it. Now!”

“Yes, Your Grace.” With a rustle of skirts, Artemisia seated herself in a sunny spot by the window, aware of all eyes upon her. She carefully unfolded the heavy sheets, thick with writing in a clear black hand, and began:

“‘
The Swordswoman’s Triumph
. By a Lady of Quality.’”