The Queen's Bastard

by C. E. Murphy

  “Desperately curious,” he answered. “Beatrice Irvine, a widow—” His smile faltered, eyes lowered for a few seconds. “I am sorry to hear of your loss, lady.”

  “He was old when we were wed.” The note she strove for was a narrow one, simple fact mingled with small regret and a degree of both strength and relief. Marius lifted his eyes to meet hers, and in them she saw that all the things she had meant her voice to say in place of her words had been heard as clearly as she hoped. Her husband had been old, but she was young and vital; an old man could not have hoped to satisfy her, and she was a woman who wanted satisfaction. Colour warmed Marius’s cheeks again. Belinda allowed herself another smile, mild and edging on regret that neither she nor her persona truly felt for the death of an imaginary husband. Society dictated that she must put on a show. Marius knew as well as she that she put on as little as possible, laying truth between them in the silence after her words.

  “Widowed without children,” Marius went on, his voice lower and huskier. “A crueler fate than a gentle woman deserves.”

  Whatever, then, Belinda wondered, did she deserve? But she lowered her own gaze briefly, acknowledgment before she looked up again. “But God has granted me health, and I am still young enough,” she murmured. “Perhaps there is meant to be more to my life than a widow’s lonely years.”

  Triumph and hope blended together in Marius’s voice to lighten it again. “Perhaps, Lady Irvine, you would be so good as to join me for supper tomorrow evening? I would be delighted to introduce you to a few of my friends, so you might not be so alone in a strange new city. Lutetia must be very different from Lanyarch.” Through hope came strain, his words so careful as to be forced. Such shyness was beyond her expectations of him, and Belinda dimpled, tightening her fingers around his arm.

  “I would be delighted. One of the only kindnesses of widowhood, sir, is that as a widow a woman is thought respectable, and permitted to attend to her own duties and pleasures without a chaperone. I would enjoy dining with you very much.”

  “At seven, then?” Marius asked, voice still tight with strain, newly tempered with pleasure. “I should be glad to send my carriage for you, if you would tell me your address.”

  Teasing sprang into Belinda’s words. “Are you telling me that you don’t already know it?”

  To her utter delight, deeper red than before rushed to Marius’s cheekbones. He cleared his throat and pushed his lips out, staring firmly at a child across the street. The girl caught his gaze and darted toward him, holding her box of summer flowers out. “Buy a peony for the lady, sir!” she caroled. “A lady likes nothin’ better than a pansy! Won’t you buy a flower for a penny, sir?”

  Marius released Belinda’s hand to dig in a belt pouch for a coin, handing it to the waif as he plucked a bouquet of bright pink and yellow flowers from her box. Belinda stood back, her own concentration caught up in a struggle between letting a pure, full smile come through and the reticence she had long since built into herself wanting to forbid it. Instead of the forceful smile, she felt tremendous amusement twitching her lips as Marius turned to her, offering the bouquet. “Forgive me,” he said, grinning openly. The flower girl’s interruption had given him time to regain equilibrium, and he was able to laugh at himself now. “I do know your address, and if you will be so good as to take these beautiful—”

  “Weeds,” Belinda interrupted, unwilling to push down her own laughter any longer. Marius looked at his handful of flowers in dismay. “Weeds,” Belinda repeated. “Dandelions, these,” she fingered the yellow flowers, “and red clover.”

  “I had thought to do you better than a handful of common weeds,” Marius said dolefully. Belinda laughed aloud, half startled at the sound of it, and stepped forward to take the flowers from his hand.

  “The right sort of woman might take them as a compliment, M’sieur Poulin. They have their own beauty, if perhaps a little coarse, and they are pernicious. A weed need not be nurtured and coaxed along. Instead it springs up when and where it will, to show its colors brilliantly and without fear. Even the most stubborn gardener of all,” and she lifted her eyes, looking up at him through her lashes, “must root and dig and force himself upon them, to have a chance at the upper hand.”

  Marius blanched, then reddened again. He cleared his throat, glancing at Belinda’s handful of flowers, then made himself meet her eyes. “I shall endeavor to be the sort of gardener who encourages weeds, then,” he said, voice gone rough and soft again. “A woman who appreciates the beauty in such things must be worth cultivating for.”

  Belinda pressed her fingertips against her throat, smiling. “You honour me.” She stepped forward again, close enough to sway her hips and brush them against Marius’s. “I am sure,” she murmured, “that being cultivated will be an experience all of its own.” She swallowed back laughter—this Beatrice she wore laughed far too easily and Belinda was not at all certain she approved of her chosen persona’s gaiety—as Marius swallowed and tried not to let his gaze rest too obviously on her bosom.

  “Tomorrow night,” Belinda said brightly, “at seven. I look forward to it, M’sieur Poulin. Good afternoon.” This time, as she left him dumbfounded in the street, she threw a smile back over her shoulder, and lifted the flowers to find a scent in them as she walked home.

  “Good Lord, Marius has brought a woman among us.” Rich sounds for all the nasal inflection of the Gallic language—nobility, then. Another voice, less cultured but still well-schooled, something familiar in its depth, answered:

  “Not gaudy enough to be a whore—”

  “—unless she’s a damned expensive one.” A third voice, laughing. A woman’s voice, with rougher tones and perhaps an edge of jealousy.

  “Marius can’t afford that. How’d he get her through the front door?” The second voice again, cheerful in its near-recognizable growl, before the first interrupted with, “Hush. They’re here.”

  Belinda doubted her escort had heard the exchange; through the constant low noise of the Lutetian club, she was surprised she had. But then, it was necessary for her to pick out even the faintest comments concerning her. There were times her life depended on it.

  This was not such a time—not yet—but even so, the place in which Belinda found herself was not one she was accustomed to. A gentleman’s club, where women were not meant to be allowed at all, though prostitutes were of sufficient use that a blind eye was usually turned to them. A decent woman, certainly, would never find herself here, escorted by a courting gentleman or not. She had hesitated outside the door, drawing on Marius’s arm to ask, “Are you certain, m’sieur? You will do damage to my reputation.”

  Marius had looked down at her, and she saw his intent clear in his eyes. Her reputation was safe: he intended to marry her. Even, perhaps, to make her an equal partner in his marriage, in his business. Bringing her into his club was a risk, but one he was prepared to take in order to lay himself before her as a man who trusted a woman’s strength and intellect. Belinda admired him as much as she thought him foolish. “Very well,” she murmured. “I look forward to this adventure.”

  Marius’s smile had been tempered by a wink. He and Belinda had held their heads high, Belinda’s gaze haughty and direct as the doorman began a strangled protest. He had faltered before her confidence and lowered his own eyes, allowing them passage into the club.

  And now they came the last steps through smoky air, to the table Marius’s friends had claimed. The club itself was extravagant, booths built against the walls and cushioned with red-dyed leather. Each booth stretched to the club ceiling, heavy velvet hangings muffling the overall noise and making the booths into private spaces. Lattice-worked windows behind mesh lace broke the monotony of velvet, but thick silk cords hung low into the booths, ready to close soft walls over the windows.

  Manservants, well-dressed and discreet, carried bottles of expensive wine and crystal glasses to the patrons. Those who wished less privacy sat in closely placed chairs, some surrou
nding the fire, others scattered in small groups throughout the main floor of the club. Everyone had paused in conversation to watch Marius escort Belinda by; it was part of how she had heard his friends’ commentary. Once she was past, talk struck up again, most often about her, the former topics forgotten. A smile played at Belinda’s mouth. She had hoped for recognition in the Lutetian social circles. This was not exactly how she had intended to achieve it, but it would almost certainly prove effective.

  The three gathered in the booth watched her with open curiosity and, in the case of the single woman, clear hostility. Belinda’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

  The woman was extraordinary. Even dressed—extraordinarily—in what appeared to be men’s clothes, and not even fashionable men’s clothes, but rather peasant breeches and a wide-necked blouse that had once been white but was now yellowed with age and use, she was absurdly, almost obscenely, feminine. Her black hair was cropped ridiculously short, exposing her ears and nape, a tiny fringe over her forehead. She had small, well-shaped ears, pierced with gold loops, the only adornment she wore. Her eyes were wide and dark; the startling shortness of her hair made them seem larger and made the bones of her face even more delicate. Her mouth was drawn in a challenging scowl.

  It took a conscious effort of will to glance away from the woman, to not allow astonishment and envy to darken her own gaze. Belinda saw surprise, then offense, from the corner of her eye, as the woman realised she’d been dismissed, or written off as merely ordinary. It was a dangerous sally to make: the woman would be accustomed to men and women alike being unable to look anywhere but at her. She would be used to tired and trite acclamations of her beauty, expecting them even as she judged poorly those who offered them. To brush her off would make her either an enemy or an ally for life; as of yet, neither she nor Belinda knew which path she would take.

  The man across the table from her was a stocky youth, broad-shouldered and broad-waisted both, yet without carrying too much weight. His hair was sandy, full of thick curls, and his eyes hazel, forthright, and shockingly familiar: it was the same man whom she’d shared a tavern bed with, weeks earlier, all his baseness gone and replaced by well-cut clothes and a clean smile. Belinda seized control of the pang that shot through her heart, refusing to allow herself so much as a clutch at Marius’s arm. She herself looked as different as he, even more so, her dress no longer adding two stone to her weight. There was no flicker of recognition in his eyes, though his gaze was frankly appraising as it swept over her. He was more handsome than might have been expected from her first encounter with him, though he had nothing at all of the woman’s beauty, and seemed all the plainer for being seen after her. He looked to be an honest sort, a man who would say whatever came to mind without a moment’s thought for consequences.

  And she knew already how untrue that must be. Unexpectedly, she found herself liking him for it, though she was not given to impromptu judgments for friendships. He clearly had cunning in him, and the impulse to like that could be dangerous to her. For a moment she cast thoughts to that night, wondering if he’d made her laugh; if anything, it was her laugh that might give her away. But he hadn’t, and until she could learn more about him, her only need was to remain certain he didn’t recognize her, and that could be best accomplished by playing her role as Beatrice Irvine fully.

  “And has Marius found love at last?” The second man at the table sat forward, taking himself out of concealing shadows and into the light. “Who is she, Marius? Is this the woman who’s had you addled the last two weeks?” He laced his fingers together on the table, long fine fingers with bone structure nearly as elegant as a woman’s, and lifted his eyebrows.

  He was red-headed without being sallow, a golden cast to his skin and to his hair brought out by the capped torches that lit the club. In that light, his eyes reflected gold, as if they had no color of their own. He was tall, even sitting, and full of grace. Belinda caught herself staring, and was grateful when Marius, proudly, said, “It is. May I present the Lady Irvine. Beatrice, these are my friends. Eliza Beaulieu, Lord Asselin, and—”

  The second man’s fingers loosened from each other, a slight movement, and straightened, staying Marius. He saw the gesture; Belinda was certain she was not intended to as he finished, “And Eliza’s brother, James.”

  “M’mselle,” Belinda murmured, dropping a curtsey. “M’sieur. My lord. It is a pleasure to meet you all.”

  “Yes.” The coarseness was gone from Eliza’s voice, replaced by cool disdain and vowels as expensive as the ones James produced. “I’m sure it is.”

  “Don’t be nasty, Liz,” Asselin said. “They’ve gotten used to you. They can get used to another woman, and so can you.”

  “At least I dress the part,” Liz snapped. A curious silence fell as the other four party members looked at her, examining her clothing and her hair.

  “What part,” James finally asked, as mildly as he possibly could, “would that be, exactly? Sister.” Eliza’s scowl deepened and James flashed a grin, gesturing for Belinda and Marius to sit. “Come on, then. No need to stand on ceremony just because you’ve got a woman now.” He scooted over until he bumped into Eliza, sending her out of her sprawl and into a more dignified position. “Asselin, move,” he commanded, and the stocky man did, taking James’s former place at the back of the booth. Marius offered Belinda a hand as she sat, deliberately allowing her to move in to the place across from James so she wouldn’t have to face Eliza directly. Belinda saw what he was doing and smiled. Eliza saw it, too, and her glower darkened further.

  “All right, now, tell us how you’ve bewitched him in just two meetings,” Asselin demanded. “We can all see some of it—” His gaze dropped to her bosom, an entirely matter-of-fact and friendly leer. “But his wretched mother’s been trying the last three years to get him married off and not a woman’s caught his eye.”

  Belinda felt Beatrice draw around her again, stiffening her spine a little and making her chin lift. Felt her own reservations crop up as Gregori’s death came back to her, as the night of dancing in Aria Magli turned cool in her blood. Those were not real things, she told herself, coincidence and drink, nothing more. But they framed her response in ice, making the provincial of her: “In Lanyarch, my lord Asselin, bewitchment isn’t a word used lightly.”

  Oh, yes: the noblewoman whose skin she wore would make a fine player in Lutetian politics, one part warm and approachable and one part Lanyarchan provenance. Half the court would think she could be used and the other half would want to use her. Asselin rolled his eyes at that country rudeness, but James again made a small gesture, lifting his fingers from the table fractionally. It stayed Asselin as effectively as it had Marius, and the stocky lord let out an explosive, apologetic breath.

  “Forgive me, Lady Irvine. I spoke lightly. I confess to knowing very little of your homeland. Perhaps a discourse on the topic would lend itself to my greater understanding of Marius’s sudden”—he glanced at Marius, whose expression was guarded and warning, then at James, who held one eyebrow in a faint arch—“infatuation,” Asselin finished with all due diplomacy. “Perhaps I’ll even find myself moved to visit there myself, and find as fine a wife as Marius seems to have done.”

  “Surely you speak too hastily, my lord,” Belinda said with a faint smile. “I’m a widow as of yet, and not a wife again.”

  “He does speak hastily,” Marius growled. “Leave off, Sacha. Jealousy ill becomes you.”

  “Oh, come, Marius, you wouldn’t have brought her here if y—”

  “Sacha.” James interrupted, the name as mild as his question to Liz had been. Asselin held another irritated breath and let it go with an outward splay of his thick fingers. There was more argument in him than Belinda had expected, more wit and therefore more reason to be cautious.

  “If I did not think the lady might enjoy the finest company Lutetia has to offer…” Marius said blandly. “Although if this is the best I can do, perhaps I should consider moving. They�
�re not usually this dreadful, lady, I promise you that.”

  “No.” Belinda smiled, watching Eliza’s eyes darken with resentment. “But I’ve unbalanced your equilibrium, haven’t I? I’m sure you’ve all known each other—since childhood?”

  Three of the four looked accusingly at the fourth; Marius lifted his hands in a supplication of innocence. “I’ve told her nothing, lords and ladies. Can I help it if she’s of a quicker wit than the rest of us combined?”

  “Speak for yourself.” Eliza looked Belinda over as if she were a side of meat gone bad. Belinda’s eyebrows rose very slightly, wondering at the distaste behind the other woman’s attitude.

  “Is it only that I’ve disrupted the power balance?” she asked Eliza, forthright curiosity overcoming subtlety. “It must be appealing, having three handsome men ready to jump to your service. But is another woman really so challenging?” She smiled, knowing she was very likely setting the scales against herself, but Eliza’s enmity was worth the blank anger that slid through the stunning woman’s eyes. “Do you doubt your position here that much, mademoiselle?” She was aware of the fascinated, noisy silence of the three men, and knew Eliza must be equally aware. There was one more step she could take, a final taunt she could press, but she waited instead, watching nuances of expression flick across Eliza’s face.

  Eliza finally gave the only answer she could, moments before silence stretched out unbearably. “Of course not.” She inhaled, about to make further excuse, then turned her head away and snapped her fingers, gesturing for wine. The soft sound broke tension in the booth and laughter replaced challenge. Sacha pressed her about Lanyarch, and Belinda answered, more than half a mind given to her part. The four she sat with had been friends long enough that they were given to answering questions put to another; long enough that they finished sentences together, often using precisely the same words. Eliza’s vowels never slipped from the upper-class accent; it was the only detail that left Belinda uncertain. The woman’s dress was outrageous, her hair unbelievable—many women wore their hair that short, but only so extravagantly coifed wigs could be more comfortably worn over it. Belinda had never seen a woman dare public scrutiny with her hair shorn. That she did laid to rest a lingering question Belinda had; only a woman who had a protector of great power would buck convention and wear her hair in such an astonishing style. Even so, there would be a story behind it.