“Because I hate dancing.” There was only one person he wanted to dance with tonight, and he couldn’t see her anywhere. Couldn’t see any of the tiermatha, so she probably just hadn’t arrived yet.
“It’s an important part of the social contract, Jeffrey.”
“Then maybe you should dance,” he snapped, and regretted it instantly. Alison North’s face went still and even paler than usual. “Mother, I’m sorry—”
“You’re under more strain than I realized,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry I teased you.”
“No, Mother, I should never have said that. I’m sorry.”
“There’s something else, isn’t there?”
“No. I’m just—you’re right, I’m under pressure about the new Baronies. But it’s no excuse.”
“You’re right, though. I should dance. It probably looks bad that I don’t.”
Jeffrey took her hand. “Mother, everyone understands.”
“Do they?” Tears glimmered in her eyes. “Jeffrey, I just can’t bear it. I know it’s weak—”
“It’s not.”
Behind him, he heard Bixhenta say something in that dry voice of his, and then Imogen spoke, and his heart began beating more rapidly. Mother’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?”
He withdrew his hand carefully. “I’ve just thought of something else I have to do,” he said, sounding exasperated. “As if I weren’t busy enough.”
“Really?” Mother sounded skeptical, and he tried to relax. She was the one person who could see through his cultivated demeanors, though he was sure she wouldn’t be able to guess what had him on edge tonight.
“Yes, and I’ve also decided that I’m tired of hiding,” he said with a smile, and stood. “I’m going to mingle, and I’m going to deflect anyone who wants to propose a candidate for the Baronies, and I might even dance. At least then no one will bother me.”
Mother nodded. “You should dance with Imogen,” she said, levelling a cool gaze at him. He returned it with equal coolness.
“Is she here? I haven’t seen her,” he said, which was entirely true. He bowed to her, and set off in search of the only woman he intended to dance with that night.
He’d had a restless night, reliving those wonderful kisses, and then he’d overslept, and then he’d been unable to focus all day, thinking of her. Had she thought of him at all? Did she know how she’d captivated him? He’d spent an hour in his office, pretending to work, but actually coming up with plans to be alone with her again. There was a concert in a few days that his family was scheduled to attend; he could invite her to that. Suppers at the palace—well, that wasn’t exactly private, but it was an excuse to see her, and he wanted to spend time with her whether or not that meant kissing. Had his love life always been this complicated? Had he ever had a love life? This was far more difficult than deciding on two new Barons or Baronesses.
He finally saw her, talking to a member of her tiermatha, and commanded his heart and his feet to slow down. The Kirkellan woman saw him first, and he gave her a polite nod before smiling at Imogen. He was certain it was a foolish smile, but he couldn’t stop himself. She wore white and pale green tonight, with her hair arranged elaborately atop her head, and the smile she gave him warmed him all over. “Good evening,” he said to both women.
“Good evening, your Majesty,” the unfamiliar woman said in passable Tremontanese. This might be the one Imogen had said was courting with a Tremontanan soldier.
“Good evening,” Imogen said, looking away. Jeffrey could understand that. If anyone could see his eyes right now, they wouldn’t have a secret, they’d have a scandal.
“I hoped to dance with you, madam ambassador,” he said, offering her his hand. She hesitated—why hesitate?—then took it, still without meeting his eyes, and allowed him to lead her to the center of the ballroom. He’d chosen this dance deliberately, not only because it was one of the few they’d practiced together, but because it allowed him to hold her close without anyone thinking anything of it.
All the tension that had built up in him that day drained away when he put his arms around her and felt her arms encircle his waist. I love her, he thought, and it was such a stunning realization that he almost missed the first steps of the dance. She was what he wanted, she was the only person he could truly be himself with, and he wished more than ever he had some way to declare it openly.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” he said. It was banal, but he wasn’t just going to burst out in a declaration of love, not in the middle of the dance floor.
“It is a nice dance,” Imogen said.
“That doesn’t sound very enthusiastic.”
“I talked to Diana. It was not a nice talk.”
“I’m surprised the two of you have anything to talk about.”
“She thinks I steal you from her. We had a fight. I did not break her hand which I think is good for me that I show…restraint.”
He laughed a little too loudly at that, drawing the attention of other couples dancing nearby. “Restraint indeed. I’m sorry she feels so hurt, but I’m not going to follow her wishes just to make her happy.”
“That is what I tell—told her. She did not like that.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t get into a fist fight, talking like that.”
“She is crazy but not stupid enough to fight a Kirkellan warrior with no weapon. She is thin enough I can break her with my one hand.” He laughed again, quietly this time. “Do not laugh, I am serious.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you, just at the image of Diana snapping like a dry twig.”
“It is funny, I think.”
Jeffrey let out a slow, deep breath. “I’ve been completely useless all day,” he said. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking of you.”
“I have thought of you as well.” Her eyes were roving the ballroom, looking everywhere but at him. He could see his mother, sitting in her chair, watching them. How much could she tell, at that distance?
“I’m glad,” he said. “I’d hate to be the only one who found last night memorable.” It felt as if they were dancing in an invisible sphere, their words audible only to themselves. “Will you attend the violin concert next week with my family? I’m sure I can find a coach that only seats four to take Mother and Elspeth and Owen home, and then I’d have to escort you myself.”
“I cannot,” she said.
He hadn’t expected that. He probably should have remembered she was an ambassador and couldn’t just come running when he called. “Really? That’s too bad. Well, I can think of some other pretext so we can be alone together. There’s always another play, of course…the trouble is I’m watched almost everywhere I go, so privacy is hard.”
Imogen took a deep breath. “It is to say I cannot go with you to be private. We cannot be a relationship.”
He knew he hadn’t fallen because he could feel the pressure of his feet on the floorboards, the slight jolt that went from his toes to his knees every time he took a step. He welcomed those little pains, because the rest of him was numb, as if he’d stepped into a frozen sea and been swept off his feet. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Not that his numb brain could think of anything to say to that.
Dimly, he heard her continue, “I am ambassador and you are King. I cannot—it is that I am the face of the Kirkellan to all the nations and not just to Tremontane. If I am with you I cannot treat with Bixhenta and that is why I am here, to treat with the nations and to be…I cannot remember the word, but it is when you do not put one above the other.”
“Impartial,” Jeffrey said. He could barely hear his voice, coming from somewhere beyond that frozen sea.
“That is the word. Impartial.”
Now he was glad she wasn’t looking at him. He hoped no one was looking at him. He must look like he’d been stabbed through the heart. It certainly felt as if she’d done so. Well, she was a warrior; at least she’d struck cleanly, no dancing (hah!) around the problem and killing him b
y inches. “I understand,” he said, and was surprised that his speech was intelligible. “I apologize. I should have realized I was putting you in an untenable position.”
“I do not understand ‘untenable.’”
“It means I expected more from you than honor would allow.” He could tell she’d finally turned to face him, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes. Once again he saw Mother looking in their direction. It felt like too much effort to deflect her. “It’s all right, I understand,” he said.
“You do not sound all right.”
You tore my heart in half. Should I sound all right? “I just regret not recognizing the problem sooner,” he said. “I should never have pursued you.”
“But…Jeffrey…”
The icy waters were receding, leaving him once again in control of his face, and he looked at her and managed to hold onto a polite smile. There were tears in her eyes, and he wished more than ever that he could comfort her, kiss her until her tears vanished. “We made no promises,” he said, “and you have nothing to reproach yourself for. I hope you will still be my friend, Imogen.”
She nodded, silently, and at that moment the music came to an end, and he stepped away from her and made his bow. Imogen wound her hands into the fabric of her gown and didn’t return it. Then she walked away, and he watched her take a few steps, then moved off in the opposite direction.
He stayed for several more hours. He spoke with a dozen people, all of whom had “suggestions” for who should rule the new Baronies, all of whom he deflected skillfully. He danced again, three times, avoided Diana, drank just enough to feel dizzy without losing his ability to reason. Mother left two hours before he did; she didn’t speak to him, but he could tell she knew something was wrong.
He didn’t know when Imogen and the tiermatha left, didn’t look for her at all, but at some point he could feel her absence and it eased the numbness around his heart, just a little, because it meant he didn’t have to make an effort to avoid her and keep up the pretense that nothing was wrong. Finally, when he judged he’d been enough of a presence, he left and, trailed by his guards, went back to the east wing.
“You’re dismissed,” he told Stephen, who’d been sitting up waiting for him and looked surprised at the unusual command. Jeffrey undressed himself, struggled a little getting out of the tightly-fitted frock coat, and carefully put away all his clothes. No sense making more work for Stephen after telling him to leave. He stood in front of his mirror in his undershorts and looked into his own eyes. How stupid people were, to have looked directly at him tonight and not seen the pain that filled him.
He looked over the rest of himself, then closed his eyes and shuddered. He looked so much like his father. There’d been that one day, shortly after the funeral, when he’d been in the drawing room and he’d heard his mother come in and gasp, and he’d looked up just in time to see the agony cross her face as she realized he wasn’t Anthony. It had felt just the same as it did right now, that icy numb sharpness like a blade through the chest. Amazing that it never got any easier, losing what you loved most in the world.
He turned out the light Devices and lay on his bed, not turning down the covers. She was right. She couldn’t stay impartial if they were courting. That didn’t make it hurt any less. She was the woman he wanted, the woman he loved more than anyone else, and she was the one woman he wasn’t allowed to have.
Eleven months, and you can court her, he thought, but eleven months was a long time, and it wasn’t as if she didn’t have hundreds of men lining up to escort her places. Some of them were even decent fellows, handsome and smart and interesting, and heaven alone knew if she’d even still care about him in eleven months. Damn. He was a king, he was supposed to have his pick of women—no, that was a stupid way to think. King was just a costume he put on; Jeffrey North was a man, and a man who was so good at hiding who he was that he had no chance of meeting a woman who might fall in love with the real him.
He crawled under the covers and put the pillow over his head. Thank heaven he didn’t have to see her often. He could learn to treat her with the same politeness he showed everyone outside his own family, that cool friendliness that charmed people without promising anything. What he wanted was irrelevant; she needed him to keep his distance, and he would do anything for her, even if it broke his heart. Which it would.
Jeffrey: The Plot
Jeffrey read the page a fourth time, hoping a different solution would suggest itself. Nothing came to mind. Well, it was probably too much to hope that the Baroness of Marandis had suddenly become stupid. Lady Rosalind Wemberly had a keen mind and a good appreciation of the King’s responsibilities, which was why she only sent the most tangled problems his way. Which further meant, unfortunately, that any problem she was unable to solve was fiendishly complex and meant a long-term headache for Jeffrey.
He sighed and laid the paper down. The Ruskalder refugees trickling into Tremontane through the Rockwild Range most often ended up in Barony Marandis, where the easier passes were. Giving citizenship to ordinary people was easy enough, but when the refugees were a ruling chief of Ruskald and his family, it became a matter of international diplomacy. On the other hand, giving Hrovald a poke in the eye appealed to Jeffrey. Yes. Make Knoten of Hvartfast a Tremontanan citizen, and do it publicly so Hrovald’s spies couldn’t help but know it.
Someone knocked on the office door, and the door eased open before Jeffrey could issue an invitation. “Your Majesty,” Arthur said, “Mister Burgess would like a word with you.”
Jeffrey put the paper away. “Max,” he said as Burgess entered, “what can I do for you?”
“It’s what I hope I can do for you, your Majesty,” Burgess said. Perspiration shone on his forehead, and he mopped his brow with his sleeve as he came to stand in front of the desk. Jeffrey eyed him curiously. He’d never known Burgess to be so visibly distraught.
“Well, have a seat,” he said.
Burgess shook his head. “It’s—I’m not sure where to start,” he said. “Just read this.” He removed a folded sheet of paper and a length of telecoder tape from inside his dull brown coat and extended the paper to Jeffrey. Mystified, Jeffrey unfolded it.
“It’s about troop movements in the new territory,” he said. “I don’t see what’s odd about that.”
“This wasn’t a telecode from the Army,” Burgess said. “It was private information, sent by Mairen of the Kirkellan to the Kirkellish ambassador here in Aurilien.”
“To Imogen? Why would she care?”
“Why indeed.” Burgess leaned against the desk, focusing his intense stare on Jeffrey. “Madam ambassador met with Bixhenta twice in the past two weeks. She sent a telecode request—” He waved the tape in Jeffrey’s face— “and received this reply before returning to the Veriboldan embassy the second time. Her telecode was written in Kirkellish, but that clumsy attempt to fool us didn’t work.”
“I don’t,” Jeffrey began, then stopped and read the paper again. The message said only that the Kirkellish tiermathas were patrolling the newly conquered territory along with companies of Tremontanan soldiers, and that…oh. “This says the Veriboldan border is not patrolled, only the new Ruskalder border.” A cold, sick feeling washed over him. “What are you implying, Max?” he asked, though he already knew.
“I’m saying Imogen of the Kirkellan is a spy for Veribold,” Max said.
His words snapped Jeffrey out of the cold funk. Imogen as a spy for anyone—it was ridiculous. He would as soon believe his mother had decided to spy for Ruskald. “Max,” he began, but Burgess overrode him.
“I’ve been watching the ambassador for some time now, ever since she became friendly with Bixhenta,” he said. “She has cultivated an acquaintance with Prince Ghentali of Eskandel as well. He has given her gifts, treated her with high regard—I understand he intends to offer her a place in his harem.”
All Jeffrey’s instincts were ringing warning bells inside his head. Burgess knew full
well a prince never offered marriage; that was the decision of the harem. And of course Imogen had built relationships, because that was why she was in Tremontane. Jeffrey’s suspicions rose. Not of Imogen, whom he would trust with his life; no, it was Burgess who was behaving strangely.
Carefully keeping his expression neutral, he leaned back in his chair. “What do you think the Kirkellish ambassador has in mind?”
“I don’t think the plot is hers,” Burgess said. “She’s too young and naïve to plot independently. No, I think she’s Bixhenta’s catspaw. He’s sent a number of telecodes from the embassy to Haizea, and I’m sure Veribold is preparing to exploit that hole in our defenses. We’re spread thin occupying territory, we’re still guarding against Hrovald’s potential return…we’re ripe for invasion.”
“That could devastate us,” Jeffrey agreed. “Have we seen movement along the Veriboldan border?”
“There hasn’t been anyone in the area who could observe.” Burgess wiped his forehead again. “We need to move troops south to defend that border. Bixhenta has refused to respond to my inquiries, and I don’t dare press for fear he’ll learn we know the truth.”
The warning bells were getting louder. “And Imogen?”
Burgess’s intent stare focused on him again. “She should be taken into custody, to prevent her warning Bixhenta that we’re onto him.”
Burgess had an answer for everything, didn’t he? And he’d been quick to suggest moving troops. But why? Jeffrey’s instincts weren’t enough to tell him more than that he would have to act very carefully. Whatever Burgess had in mind, it was something that had him nervous, and Jeffrey couldn’t afford for him to bolt.
He pushed back his chair and stood. “The ambassador is meant to have dinner with my family today. It will save us the trouble of trying to extricate her from her embassy if we take her into custody now.” Just saying the words made him feel sick again. Imogen would believe he thought she was a traitor. He couldn’t warn her even if there was time, because she was straightforward enough it was unlikely she could react properly. The sick feeling turned into anger. Burgess was going to pay for forcing Jeffrey to arrest the woman he loved.
Tales of the Crown Page 27