Henry looked away in a bored manner, shaking his red head with a sigh.
Constantine continued. “You condoned the murder of my family! Patrice and Christian!”
“I did not,” Henry corrected, looking back at him. “Lady Patrice failed to cooperate.”
“Of course she wouldn’t cooperate with a maggot like Glayer Felsteppe; he wasn’t worthy to lick her shoes!” Constantine paused to take a breath. “I ask you now, my king: Has the man who killed my wife and son petitioned for my title and home or not?”
Henry stilled, looking at Constantine with an intensity that ignited a spark of hope in his soul.
“I signed the decree this afternoon. I’ll ensure you receive a copy.”
“No,” Constantine whispered. Then he rushed forward a pair of steps. “No.”
The dogs raised their heads again, and one gave a warning growl. But Henry looked to Theodora now.
“Which means your son could one day be entitled to both Thurston Hold and Benningsgate. Although I’m not at all certain how pleased your husband shall be to learn the mother of his child obviously feigned her own death. He seems rather fond of little . . . Glander, isn’t it? Odd name.”
Dori was already shaking her head, and although her posture was proud, Constantine could see the nervousness on her face. When she glanced at him, he thought he saw a hint of pure dread. She looked back at the king.
“It’s not Glander; it’s William. And Glayer Felsteppe is not his father.”
* * *
The dark-haired, almond-eyed woman ducked out of the door and scurried past Dori and Reg, attempting to cover herself as best she could with the sheer scarves of her costume. Reginald tried to shield Dori from the sight, but she couldn’t have been scandalized by anything connected to Glayer Felsteppe by that time; the more she had learned about him, the more convinced she was that she had made the correct decisions. Had her father still been alive—and in possession of sound mind—he would have been proud of her.
Glayer Felsteppe was an evil man. And, after that day, she would never have to see him again.
It made the long, long journey from her cool, verdant England to this hellish land more than worthwhile. The heat in the stifling carriage had made her nausea so much worse.
The door creaked open again, and the priest stepped aside to admit them, his slender face devoid of expression.
“Come in.”
Simon, Dori thought he was called.
Felsteppe was still fastening his belt around his leather hauberk, his wooly hair a bit disheveled, but his face still bearing a surprised smile.
“Theodora!” he exclaimed, crossing the floor. “I didn’t think it was possible when Simon said you had come.”
Reginald—dear, honorable Reg—stepped in front of Dori before Felsteppe could reach her with his outstretched hands.
“Forgive our intrusion, Lord Felsteppe,” Reg said. “But we felt the news we bore was of such import that we could only deliver it personally.”
“Good heavens,” Felsteppe said with widened eyes, the corners of his mouth turned down. “This does sound serious. Although you obviously know who I am, I don’t believe we’ve met.”
Reg gave a short bow. “Lord Reginald Calumet, Baron Amberly. I am a cousin of Lady Dori’s.”
“Ah, yes . . . LadyDori,” Felsteppe said with a slight roll of his eyes. “A pleasure, Lord Calumet. Please . . .” He gestured to a grouping of woven reed chairs at the far end of the chamber, before a wide, white-curtained doorway leading to a long veranda.
Reg led Dori to a chair and then claimed the one beside her while Felsteppe sat across from them, one heeled boot resting on his opposite knee. A servant appeared to pour a fruity-scented liquid into metal cups and left them on the low table between them.
As soon as the boy departed, Reginald opened his mouth to speak, but Dori placed a hand gently on his arm. She had to do this herself. She’d come this far.
“My father is dead,” Dori said without preamble.
Felsteppe’s surprise seemed to deepen, but he did not offer any contrived condolences. “I’ve the feeling this is not the grave news you wished to deliver in a personal fashion.”
“It is not,” Dori acknowledged. “Reg came up from Amberly for his funeral and”—she had to pause, draw a deep breath—“I cannot marry you, Lord Felsteppe.”
