With a pleasant “Good morning, demoiselle” she sets a ewer of water on the stand and lays a fresh chemise on my bed. As she moves to the garderobe to collect my gown, I slip quickly out of bed, eager to get into my chemise while she is not looking. when she returns with my gown, she blinks in surprise but says nothing. The woman is well trained.
I step into my skirt and she moves behind me to fasten it. “The viscount is in his study,” she says, lacing up the back of my gown. “He asked that you join him when you are ready.”
“Very well.” I hope she does not hear the reluctance in my voice.
The door opens again and I flinch slightly at this intrusion, but it is only the serving girl Agnez bringing me a tray so that I may break my fast. Once I am fully dressed and brushed, and after I assure them — twice — that I can manage my breakfast unattended, they finally take their leave. I close my eyes and allow myself to savor the solitude, even just for a moment. But the knowledge that Duval is waiting robs me of whatever peace it might bring. I tear a corner from the loaf of bread on the breakfast tray and nibble at it, hoping it will calm the roiling nerves in my gut.
Feeling restless and awkward, I pace as I nibble, unable to stand still. It is as if sometime during the night I have outgrown my own skin. Duval’s presence still lingers, like the faintest trace of perfume, and my ankle still bears the memory of that touch. I find myself wishing for a great throbbing bruise instead. That I would know how to deal with better than this.
Agitated, I go to the window and throw open the shutters, welcoming the chill morning into the room. Closing my eyes, I breathe in, pulling the sharp cold air deep into my lungs. I will it to clear my addled wits and am pleased when it does. But even with my wits restored, I cannot discern Duval’s strategy.
He could easily have made me his mistress in truth last night. with the spell he cast over me, I am not even sure I would have fought very hard. And yet he did not. Is he that honorable? Or is it but one more way to keep me unbalanced, to keep me wondering what his next move will be?
with a grimace of disgust, I toss the remaining bread out into the courtyard below and turn from the casement. It is a strategy, I tell myself. And an excellent one at that. But I will not let myself be lulled into a false sense of accord between us. I cross the room to the bed, then withdraw my blades and sheaths from where I have hidden them under the mattress. Only when I have strapped them firmly in place do I go to find Duval.
He is in his study behind a large desk. Gone is the travelstained man I journeyed across the country with. In his place is a finely dressed courtier in a doublet of dark blue. He has shaved the whiskery stubble that lent such a dark and dangerous air to his face. A pot of ink and half a dozen quills are on one side of him, stacks of parchment on the other, and his fingers wield a quill with quick, bold strokes.
when he looks up, I am sorely vexed to be caught staring, so I step inside the room, holding my head high and fighting the shyness that plucks at me. “Good morning.” My voice is cool and remote.
“I will be with you in a moment,” he says, returning his attention to the letter in front of him.
Torn between annoyance and relief, I saunter to the two trestle tables that have been set up to hold the overflow of papers and maps from his desk. A map of Brittany is spread out, and small, colored pebbles are scattered across it. I squint my eyes and see a shape and pattern to the pebbles. The dark ones mark the towns and villages that France took easily during the Mad war. Is he trying to determine where the French will attack if they do not get their way? A shadow passes over my heart. Sweet Mortain, not another war.
Duval finishes his letter and sets it aside before looking up at me. “How did you sleep last night?” There is a gleam of amusement in his eyes — eyes that are very nearly blue from the reflected color of his doublet — that I do not care for.
“Poorly, I am afraid, milord. My sleep was much disturbed.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” he says, even though he knows full well he is the cause. Before I can point that out to him, he holds up his hand. “Peace,” he says. "We have much to discuss this morning before I leave and very little time.”
It costs me to let him have the last word, but I nod in agreement nevertheless.
Duval tosses his quill on the desk and leans back in his chair. “I was correct. Someone has called the meeting of the estates without the duchess’s knowledge or consent, and she is most aggrieved. All the barons of the realm are now gathered here in Guérande like eager vultures. even worse, the French envoy will no doubt witness the entire spectacle and report back to the French regent.”
“Perhaps he will bear a marque,” I say with hope. “Then I can kill him before he carries tales back to the French.”
Duval grimaces. “By all means, if you see a marque on the French ambassador, kill him with my blessing along with Mortain’s. However, if you think that will stop the leak of information from our court to France, you are more naive than you appear.”
I bristle at his words, wanting to argue that I am not naive, but it has become clear that the convent has woefully underprepared me for this assignment.
Or perhaps it is the convent that is underprepared. It is a most unsettling thought, and I push it away. “Did you learn anything further from the footpad who attacked us?”
A grimace of embarrassment crosses his face. “No.” He rises to his feet and stalks to the window. “I’m afraid I clouted him a bit too soundly. He has yet to wake up.”
“Did you search through his belongings? was there nothing that hinted at who they were or why they were there?”
“No, they had no standard or signed note of instruction stuffed neatly in their purses.” His mocking tone prods me to my feet as well.
“Of course not. But had they been paid? what coin did they carry? were their cloaks of Flemish wool, or their boots of Italian leather? we can learn much from these details.”
Duval’s brows lift in respectful surprise. “They carried French coin, but that tells us little, as half the coinage in the realm is French. Their cloaks were of cheap make, but their boots were of the finest leather, so they made some attempt at concealing their origins.”
I try not to look smug, but before I can enjoy my small victory, he changes the subject.
“I have a number of meetings today. As you can imagine, the duchess has much to sort out with these newest developments, and I would be there to offer her guidance.”