I found myself the cynosure of at least a few eyes, and discoursed on puddings in general and the kindness of the Roundsilvers. I confided my hope that I could convert the Queen to the cause of savory puddings, and offered as an example my mother’s recipe for a pudding of minced lamb’s kidneys. When this line of discourse began to flag, I related my account of the sack of Ethlebight, and again the story of my capture by Sir Basil of the Heugh, along with my subsequent escape in its emended version.
I have mentioned elsewhere the necessity of my demonstrating my gifts to the people, lest they overlook me entirely. And here I found I was not ignored, for I was approached by a young woman wrapped in what looked like an elaborate, ruffled dressing gown of a brilliant satin green, its sleeved puffed and purfled, its hem embroidered with gold thread and cat’s-eye chrysoberyls. Pearls wound their way through her tawny hair, and a necklace of emeralds and diamonds held her long throat in a close embrace. A peacock-feather fan hung carelessly from one hand. She blinked at me with long, lazy dark eyes that made her look as if she had just risen from a luxurious sleep.
“You are Lord Quillifer?” she said. “I believe you have news of my husband.”
I did not make a guess at the identity of the husband, but at once I swept off my hat and bowed.
“Quillifer,” said the duchess, “may I present her ladyship, the Marchioness of Stayne?”
I rose and viewed the silk-swathed woman before me. “When last I saw your husband, he was well,” said I. “He was being closely guarded, but he was not shackled or otherwise mistreated.” I smiled at her. “You should also know,” I said, “that I rescued his signet from the bandit treasure-house, and have it in my possession.”
The lazy eyes widened. “Do you have it with you?” she asked.
“I secured it in a strongbox until I found a means of contacting you,” I said.
The marchioness smiled with small white, chisel-like teeth. “I shall be at home tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “If you bring the signet and more information concerning my lord and his friends, you will find me grateful.”
I bowed again. “Your ladyship honors me,” I said, and rose to find her sauntering away, her peacock-feather fan dangling by its cord from her wrist. I watched the lazy motion of her hips as she flowed across the floor, and turned to find the little duchess watching me with narrow-eyed surmise.
“Master Quillifer,” she said, “I think you have progressed from puddings.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Her ladyship’s fingers toyed with the rim of a chased silver goblet while her long eyes regarded me from over her shoulder. “Your room is but half-furnished,” said she, “yet you have taken care to provide yourself with the most needful items.”
“A bed, fine sheets, pillows scented with lavender, wine, a fire,” I itemized. “The table and chairs, in the other room, I account pure luxury.”
She sipped wine from the silver goblet and passed it to me. It was a sweet Varcellan moscatto, reminiscent of another occasion, when I kissed the wine from dark Ella’s lips. Inspired by the memory, I kissed her ladyship’s mouth.
“Yet what I shall do with the saddle,” I said, “I know not.”
“You could buy a horse.”
The saddle, beautifully tooled black-and-red leather, regarded me reproachfully from the table. The saddle, the set of four silver goblets, the silver hat-pin, the pomander, the rundlet of Varcellan wine, and the gold-plated medallion were among the gifts that had begun arriving at Roundsilver Palace the morning after I proclaimed myself the new Groom of the Pudding. They were frankly intended as bribes, and sent by people who hoped that I would use my influence with the Queen on their behalf.
I had not expected my joke to go so far, and when the gifts began to arrive, had not known what to do. I immediately sought the advice of the duke and duchess. The duke first reproached me for letting the matter get out of hand.
“If word of this reaches the Queen,” he said, “it may very well injure our efforts to aid Ethlebight. She is not noted for her love of pranks.”
I looked at him in horror. “What should I do?”
He lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “Write very becoming letters of thanks,” he said, “and assure the donors of your gratitude and friendship.”
“I should not return the gifts?”
“They were given freely,” said the duke. “It would be an insult to return them. But if one of your new friends asks for a gift to be returned, then by all means hand it back.”
“Oh, but it was so comical!” said the duchess. And she recounted the whole episode in detail, and in the end the duke was laughing as well as she.
Nor did the incident affect plans for Ethlebight’s relief. For, sitting next to the saddle on my table, was the black leather portfolio containing ten privateering commissions, signed with the royal seal and delivered to my care just that morning by the Chancellor. Along with these was my own commission to travel to Ethlebight and be the Chancellor’s agent in seeing the licenses well bestowed upon the city’s captains.
“A horse?” I said. “I should prefer not to ride a horse in this weather.”
Her ladyship turned onto her back, her head and her great mass of fair hair lying warm across my arm. “Ay,” she said. “You prefer to gallop indoors.”
I kissed her again. “I am more than happy to venture a ride out-of-doors,” I said. “But not in such weather as this.”
She smiled, revealing those small, chisel-shaped teeth, which against all likelihood I found perfectly enchanting. I rested my hand upon the rounded curve of her abdomen.
The marchioness had been born Lady Amalie Brilliana Trevil, the seventh child and fifth daughter of the Count of Culme. Such was the abundance of daughters in his gloomy northern stronghold that Culme rather haphazardly gave Amalie in marriage to his friend the widowed Marquess of Stayne, for the express purpose of breeding an heir. Married at sixteen, Amalie was now seventeen and had been carrying the heir for five months. The nausea gravidarum having passed, and her husband having ridden off with his army on an ill-fated attempt to overthrow the kingdom, Amalie now felt ready for her own adventure.
I had called upon her at her invitation, and found her with a small circle of friends. I presented her with Stayne’s signet, and she offered thanks and refreshment. We chatted most pleasantly for an hour—I fought myself looking in those long dark eyes for a sign—and by and by, I found it smoldering there. We first met at my apartment the following afternoon.
For the world she had adopted a style that was slow and languid, and in response I stroked her as if she were a lazy kitten. But when my caresses brought a rosy bloom to her cheeks, and her breath caught in her throat, the languid pose vanished, and she became a tiger-cat in my arms.
Pregnancy had strangely improved her. Her body seemed flushed with warmth and vitality. Her skin was smooth and rich as samite, and her breasts were exquisitely sensitive. The rounding of her abdomen was strangely attractive, and her condition did not yet preclude intimacy.
“It may yet be a long while before my husband returns,” she said as she nestled against my arm. “I have applied without success to a number of moneylenders.”