Lord Hasselthorpe turned, and even Melisande could see his confusion. But Vale held out his hand, and the other man was forced to take it, eyeing him warily. Hasselthorpe was a nondescript man of medium height with heavy-lidded eyes and deep lines incising his cheeks about his mouth. His habitual expression was grave as befitted a leading member of Parliament. Beside him was the Duke of Lister, a tall, heavyset man in a gray wig. Hovering several paces away was a beautiful blond woman, Lister’s longtime mistress, Mrs. Fitzwilliam. She didn’t look to be enjoying the ball, standing all by herself.
“Vale,” Hasselthorpe said slowly. “And is this your lovely wife?”
“Indeed,” Vale said. “I believe you met my viscountess at your house party last fall?”
Hasselthorpe murmured an assent as he bowed over Melisande’s hand. He hadn’t taken his eyes from Vale’s face, and indeed she might not’ve been there at all. She looked at Vale as well and saw that he wasn’t smiling. There was an undercurrent of something here that she couldn’t quite place, but she knew one thing—it was masculine business.
Melisande smiled and placed her hand on Vale’s sleeve. “I fear I’ve grown weary, my lord. Will you be terribly disappointed if I retire home early?”
He turned and she could see the conflict in his face, but then he darted a look at Lord Hasselthorpe and his expression smoothed. He bowed over her hand. “Terribly, terribly disappointed, my heart, but I shall not detain you.”
“Good night, then, my lord.” She curtsied to the gentlemen. “Your grace. My lord.”
The gentlemen bowed, murmuring their farewells.
She stood on tiptoe and whispered in Vale’s ear, “Remember, my lord: one more night.”
Then she turned away. But as she made her way through the crowd, she heard two words from the group of huddled men behind her.
Spinner’s Falls.
Chapter Eight
Well, you can imagine what happened upon the king’s proclamation. Suitors began arriving in the little kingdom, traveling from the four corners of the world. Some were princes, high and low, with caravans of guards and courtiers and lackeys. Some were dispossessed knights, seeking their fortune, their armor battered from many tournaments. And a few even traveled on foot, beggars and thieves without much hope. But they all had one thing in common: they each believed they were the one who would win the trials and marry a beautiful princess royal. . . .
—from LAUGHING JACK
For a mistress of the night, his wife certainly rose early in the morning. Standing outside the newly appointed breakfast room, Jasper tried to shake the sleep from his frame. She’d left the ball early the night before, but it’d still been nearly an hour past midnight. How, then, could she be awake and, from the sound of it, already breaking her fast? He, in contrast, had stayed another hour or so, futilely trying to get Lord Hasselt Fhe horpe to listen. Hasselthorpe had found the whole idea of his brother’s regiment being betrayed by a French spy preposterous, and he’d been loud in his denial. Jasper had decided to wait several days before attempting to talk to the man again.
Now he widened his eyes in a last desperate attempt at seeming awake and entered the breakfast room. There she sat, her back ramrod straight, every hair carefully controlled into a simple knot at the crown of her head, her light brown eyes cool and composed.
He bowed. “Good morning, my lady wife.”
Watching her this morning, one would never guess at the mysterious woman in the purple domino from the night before. Perhaps he’d dreamed that seductive vision. How else to explain the dichotomy of the two women living in one body?
She glanced at him, and he thought he saw a fleeting glimpse of his midnight mistress, lurking somewhere behind her serene gaze. She nodded. “Good morning.”
Her little dog came out from beneath her skirts to cast a jaundiced eye on him. Jasper stared the animal down, and it retreated again under her chair. The dog obviously loathed him, but at least they’d established which of them was master in this house.
“Did you sleep well?” Jasper asked as he strolled to the side table.
“Yes,” she replied from behind him. “And you?”
He stared blindly at the plate of fish staring blindly back at him and thought of his rude little pallet on the floor of his dressing room. “Like the dead.”
Which was correct, assuming the dead slept with a knife under their pillow and tossed all night long. He stabbed a fish and transferred it to the dish in his hand.
He smiled at Melisande as he neared the table. “Do you have plans for the day?”
Her eyes narrowed at him. “Yes, but none that would interest you.”
This statement had the natural effect of piquing his interest. He sat opposite her. “Oh, indeed?”
She nodded as she poured him a cup of tea. “Some shopping with my maid.”
“Splendid!”
She peered at him skeptically. Perhaps his enthusiasm was overdone.