Page 6 of The Favourite

And more importantly, what affair was it of his?

He did not care so much for that last sneaking thought. It put him out of countenance. Ignoring it, he sailed into the antechamber where Vawdrey’s industrious assistant sat plying his pen.

The industrious Bryce’s face fell. “Oh—er—Lord Bardulf!” he exclaimed, clambering hastily to his feet. He knew Alisander’s habits of old and was determined to get between him and the door to the main chamber.

“Good morning, good Master Price,” Alisander greeted him, deliberately misnaming the fellow. “Your master awaits within?”

Bryce flattened himself against Oswald’s door and gestured urgently toward a neat row of seats. “If you would—sit yourself down, my lord,” he panted, “then I will enquire if Earl Vawdrey is at liberty to receive you.”

Bryce was rather out of puff, for he was a plump young man with what Alisander could only consider an execrable taste in clothes. He looked more like a friar than a clerk. With a last affronted glance at Alisander, who was now lolling in a chair, Bryce knocked smartly at the door and whisked around it, shutting it firmly behind him.

Luckily, Alisander did not have to wait long before he was ushered into Vawdrey’s office. As usual, Oswald Vawdrey sat behind his desk, dressed head to toe in his customary black. It was a credit to the presence of the man that he did not seem remotely dwarfed by either the hugeness of his desk or by the piles of paper sat awaiting his attention.

“Viscount Bardulf,” he said pleasantly. “You honor me. I do not think you have visited me anytime this past month. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Alisander ignored the chair that had been set down for his use and instead walked over to the large window, where he stood looking down at the courtyard below. “Has it really been so long?” he asked absently.

He knew, of course, exactly what he was supposed to say and do for the next quarter of an hour. They were supposed to verbally spar. He was supposed to dance around the subject, throw a few feints in Vawdrey’s direction, a bunch of misdirection here, a lot of hoodwink there, while his opponent parried and deflected.

Then, when the King’s chief advisor was least expecting it, he should deliver his real attack. Casually throw in, Oh yes, has the royal whore been delivered of her bastard yet?, in the hopes it would catch a cool devil like Vawdrey off guard. Whether to make it look like mere impudence or as though the Queen had sent him, should be Alisander’s only dilemma.

Strange to say, he just was not in the humor for it this morning. Instead, he wheeled about and gazed at Vawdrey rather hard before asking directly, “How long do you think the Lady Jane will tarry at Kinnerton?”

A look of brief surprise flickered over Vawdrey’s face. He opened his mouth as though to reply he knew nothing of the matter, then seemed to think better of it. Also breaking with convention completely, he asked curiously, “Why do you ask?”

It was his own damned fault, but he was a little jarred by Vawdrey’s directness. It was bad form. He wanted to say as much, but then the tricky bastard would retreat behind his mask again. Instead, he gave an unconvincing shrug. “She’s been gone over a week now,” he replied lamely, fiddling with the sash at Vawdrey’s curtains. He had a horrible suspicion that a little color was creeping into his cheeks. He must be feverish.

“The Queen is no doubt feeling the loss of her favorite,” Vawdrey ventured, giving him a convenient out.

He wasn’t even tempted to take it. “Armenal has plenty of substitutes for the likes of Lady Jane,” he pointed out, thinking of the awful Bartree woman.

“But you do not?” Vawdrey asked silkily. Damn him. Alisander dropped the curtain sash and glared at his opponent. Vawdrey smiled. “Dear me, this is an interesting development,” he pondered.

“Has something delayed her?” Alisander pressed on.

Vawdrey settled back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “I’m afraid it looks unlikely that her sister, the Lady Helen, will ever rise from her lying-in,” he said gravely. Alisander started. It was no more than a confirmation of his own suspicions, yet for some reason, he was still surprised by it. Helen Cecil had always been such a vibrant creature. “Lady Jane attends her now at the last,” Vawdrey concluded with gentle finality.

Alisander swore under his breath. He had been so secure in his conviction that Jane’s loyalties would never be swayed, but he had not considered such a thing as a family death. If ever there was a thing that could wipe the slate clean of resentment and estrangement, it was that. Especially with a creature as conventional as Jane. Fuck. She would be singing hymns to her martyred sister’s sainthood before the week was out!

Looking up, he found Vawdrey regarding him with a gleam of speculation in his eye. Alisander scowled. “What?” he demanded sulkily.

“Oh, nothing,” Vawdrey answered airily. “Just rearranging the pieces on my board, in the light of your clearly vested interest.”

Alisander had to bite back his instinctive retort that he had no such thing. Any vehemence at this point would be a mistake. What he should do was laugh and lament that without Jane there to torment, he was merely bored. It was the truth after all, wasn’t it? Instead, he walked over to the waiting chair and dropped into it, attempting to assume something in the line of his usual manner.

When Lord Vawdrey rose from his seat, Alisander half expected him to utter some words of dismissal, claiming he had a meeting to attend or some such, however, he merely headed for a side table and poured them both some refreshment. As usual, Oswald Vawdrey’s glass contained more water than wine. Alisander accepted his own goblet from him wordlessly.

“You do not ask about the King’s issue,” Vawdrey prompted him after rounding the desk and returning to his seat.

“What?”

“The child.”

Oh. That. “It survived?”

Vawdrey nodded. “A girl.”

Alisander pulled a face. “I’ll warrant the mother was sorely disappointed with that outcome.” He took a swig of wine. “Does the King know?”