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Brennan didn’t buy Maedoc’s treason. Richard’s disappointment was so sharp he could taste it. He buried it, in the same deep place he buried his guilt and memories. Nothing could show on his face. He had hoped to spare Charlotte from getting involved, but Brennan was too logical and too cautious. She would have to implement her part of the plan. Damn it.
Brennan took a deep gulp of the tea. “No, this matter is a lot more complicated. The mind that conceived the raid is likely the same mind that would cash in on the ripples it would cause. That person would seek to utilize my weakness to his or her advantage. We know that this person is deceitful and sly. This person would have considered the possibility of failure and would take precautions to point the finger at someone other than themselves. Therefore, the culprit can’t be Maedoc. It’s simply too obvious, even for him. No, it’s one of you—Rene, Angelia, or perhaps even you, my friend.”
Richard sat the glass down. “What are you implying?”
Brennan grinned, another charming smile. “Oh, relax, Casside. You’re at the very bottom of my suspect list. I don’t believe platitudes or assurances of loyalty, but I do believe that tremor in your hand. You simply don’t have the guts for it. You wouldn’t have put your own life in danger.”
“I’m inclined to take that as an insult.” Richard stood up from his chair.
Brennan sighed. “Oh, do sit down. You’re brave enough. I’m not impugning your courage. You can’t help the simple biological reaction of your body. The point is, we have a traitor in our midst. I intend to find them out.”
He smiled.
“This is so much fun, Casside. And here I was planning to be bored.”
“I will take boredom instead of this, thank you. Are you tired? You’re welcome to stay the night.”
Brennan waved his hand. “No. I need night, wind, life. A woman. Perhaps I’ll pay Angelia a visit although she really is too much trouble. She enjoys being coaxed, and I’m not inclined to bother. Do you ever go slumming?”
“No.”
“You should.” Brennan’s face took on a dreamy quality. “It’s good for the body and occasionally the soul. There is a wonderful place down in the Lower Quarter. They call it the Palace of Delights. Ask for Miranda.”
“Let my people take you home. Head wounds sometimes have hidden consequences. Robert, don’t gamble with your health. We don’t know how many of them there are. Perhaps there is another group . . .”
“Fine, fine.” Brennan waved his hand. “Ruin all my fun.”
Richard rose. “I’ll tell them to have the phaeton ready.”
“Casside?”
“Yes.”
“I won’t forget what you’ve done for me today,” Brennan said.
“What would you have me do?” Richard asked.
“Act normal. Nothing out of the ordinary. I’ll call on you when I’m ready. This promises to be a brilliant game, and I intend to enjoy every moment of it.”
FOURTEEN
CHARLOTTE sat across from Angelia Ermine and watched the other woman attempt to ignore the burning itching under her lacy Sud-style tunic. They sat on a verandah of Lady Olivia’s city house, at a delicate table carved out of a solid piece of crystal. The table bore a dozen desserts and three different teas, which the six other women present at the gathering seemed to be enjoying. What Angelia would’ve enjoyed most of all would be a good scratch, possibly with some fine-grade sandpaper. Unfortunately for her, Her Grace was telling a charming story from her past, and the half dozen other attendees hung on her every word. Excusing herself wasn’t an option.
“And then I told him that if he was going to stoop to that level of rudeness, I would be forced to retaliate . . .” Her Grace appeared completely engrossed in her anecdote, except for the occasional brief glance in Charlotte’s direction.
The itching must’ve reached torturous levels, because Angelia gave up on maintaining an attentive facade and locked her teeth. Sweat broke out on her forehead. Her disease had reached its peak, and Charlotte had been quietly spurring it on. Any other woman would’ve sent her apologies and stayed home, but Angelia was too much of a social climber. She was a minor blueblood, her bloodline undistinguished, her achievements mediocre, and a tea with the Duchess of the Southern Provinces was a lure she couldn’t ignore.
Charlotte sipped tea from her cup. The refined taste, tinted with a drop of lemon and a hint of mint, was uniquely refreshing. She’d have to beg Lady Olivia for the recipe.
“And then I slapped him,” Her Grace announced.
The women around the table gasped, some genuinely surprised, some, like Charlotte, out of a sense of duty.
“Excuse me,” Angelia squeezed out. She jumped to her feet and ran from the table.
A shocked silence claimed the gathering.
“Well,” Lady Olivia said.
“With your permission, Your Grace, I should check on her,” Charlotte folded her napkin.
“Yes, of course, my dear.”
Charlotte stood up and headed toward the washroom. Behind her, Lady Olivia inquired, “Where was I?”
“You slapped him,” Sophie helpfully suggested.
“Ah yes . . .”
Charlotte left the verandah, crossed the sunroom, and stopped by the washroom. Hysterical sobs echoed through the door. Perfect.
Charlotte slid a key from the inside of her sleeve, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. Angelia froze. She stood before the mirror, her tunic thrown carelessly to the floor. Bright red blisters covered her body, some as big as a thumbnail, surrounded by smaller ulcers, like some sickening constellations. Some had broken open, weeping pus.
“Oh my goodness,” Charlotte murmured, and shut the door behind herself.
Emotions cascaded across Angelia’s face: shock, indignant outrage, fury, shame, contemplation . . . She hovered between them, trying to choose the right one, the one most to her advantage. It lasted only a few seconds, but Charlotte saw it clearly. Angelia Ermine’s sweet and often vacant face hid a strategist’s mind. Charlotte would have to be exceptionally careful.
Angelia clamped her hands to her face and cried. Appropriate emotion, sure to gain sympathy. Charlotte squeezed the key in her fist. Angelia had stripped motherhood from dozens of women. If only she could kill her. Oh, if only.
“Shhh, shhh.” Charlotte forced soothing calm into her voice. “It’s all right.”
Angelia bent over the sink, weeping like a hysterical dove. “Oh, Lady al-te Ran. Look at me.”
Very dramatic. “Do you know what illness this is?” Charlotte asked.
The woman sobbed. “Look, it’s on my neck now. Everyone will see.”
Nice misdirect, my dear. It won’t work. “You’re wearing lace with raw silk fibers. Raw silk tends to aggravate Dock Rot.”
Angelia choked on her tears.
That’s right, I know exactly why you’re bearing these sores. She was sleeping with Brennan, who was by all indications possessive. Likely he was her only current lover, but she wasn’t his only entertainment. Brennan had visited a professional and brought back this disease as a present for Angelia.
“It’s all right.” Charlotte feigned hesitation. “Look, this is your secret. I have my own secret, too. I will help you with yours if you promise to keep mine to yourself. Will you do that, Angelia?”
The woman nodded.
Charlotte reached over and touched her, fighting revulsion. Helping Angelia turned her stomach. Charlotte let her magic seep into the afflicted body. She found the disease and forced it into dormancy, spurning the skin cells into regeneration. The blisters burst, dried, and healed, turning into faint red stains.
“Oh my gods,” Angelia whispered, for a moment forgetting about putting on a show.
Charlotte looked at the two of them in mirror, standing close to each other. “Feel better?”
“You’re a healer!”
“And you can’t tell anyone, Angelia. No one. Healers are not safe outside of their colleges. We’re forbidden to do harm, and we’re easy targets. Do I have your promise?”
“Of course. Anything.”
Charlotte picked up Angelia’s tunic. “Here, put this on.”
The younger woman slipped into the tunic. Charlotte straightened her hair. “As beautiful as ever.”
Angelia sniffed. It was an adorable sniff. It would’ve worked even better if she weren’t a monster.
“After today, you must call on me. Healing you completely will take a much longer session, and we don’t have time. Chin up.”
“What will we tell them?”
“We’ll tell them you had an attack of food allergies. It will be fine. The duchess knows about me, and she trusts my judgment.” Charlotte opened the door and held it. “Do you know who’s responsible for exposing you to this atrocity?”
“Yes.” Angelia’s face turned grim.
“I don’t know who he is, and it isn’t my place to ask, but you should know that this disease is easily preventable. He didn’t use a sleeve, probably letting you shoulder the burden for preventing a pregnancy, but potions and pills do not prevent the spread of diseases.”
“It was very selfish of him,” Angelia said. If her voice had substance, it would’ve cut. “But then, that’s what men are—selfish pigs.”
“Well, I’m outraged on your behalf. Not only is he being unfaithful, but he is forcing you to suffer the consequences of his infidelity. I hope you let him have a taste of his own medicine.”
The younger woman turned to her, her face puzzled. “What exactly do you propose?”
Charlotte shrugged, scorn dripping from her. “He is cheating on you. Perhaps you should show some interest in a mutual acquaintance he considers beneath him. Someone masculine.”
“Someone who may threaten his ego,” the other woman said.
“Indeed.”
“I know just the man.” Angelia smiled.
