Finally, when the horse and livery of the four other dukes that had come from a distance had discharged their contents and had made their ways to the stable, the carriage bearing the Lord Regent, Tristan Steward, Duke of Bethany, pulled slowly and deliberately up to Haguefort’s gate.
Ashe choked back the bile that had risen in his throat. As much as he had struggled against his deep dislike of Tristan Steward in general since they had been young men, there was an arrogance to the Lord Regent’s gait that made the irritable dragon within his blood rise, enflamed. We are about to be fighting for the very survival of the continent, and this pusillanimous ass is jockeying for position so that he can make an entrance, he thought bitterly. Clearly, the Alliance has as much of a threat within it as against it. He swallowed the last of the herbal tea, feeling no fortification from it whatsoever, then turned away from the fresh air of the balcony and made his way to the meeting rooms where he knew the bright morning would give way to an endless day of dire plans, petty infighting, and, with any luck, a united army to defend the Middle Continent from the blood that was about to be spilled across it.
Gerald Owen’s kitchen was an orderly place, where cooks and wait staff of longtime employ moved efficiently through the day, preparing meals for as few as Haguefort’s regular occupants or as many as an entire province with very little disruption. It had long been so; Stephen Navarne, in his lifetime, had made it his business as duke to host many festivals and parties, Naming ceremonies and diplomatic gatherings, as had his father before him, culminating each year in the winter carnival, a combination of religious summit, cultural ritual, and folk celebration that accommodated the western third of Roland and many foreign visitors. Very little could disturb the smoothly running machine that comprised the chamberlain’s kitchen and buttery staff.
Tristan Steward, the Lord Regent of Roland, was one of the rare exceptions. The elderly chamberlain’s face had darkened to an unhealthy shade of dusky red after the third ring of the serving bell. He slapped a tea towel down on the wide stone kneading surface before the bread ovens, causing three of the cooks to scatter to different sides of the hot room as the bells jingled more insistently. Then Gerald Owen turned to the slim young chambermaid whom the Lord Regent had brought to Hague-fort some months back, along with a donated wet nurse and nanny, and gestured impatiently at her. He could not recall her name, and tried to suppress his irritation, reminding himself that she and the others probably had suffered more than enough during their employ in Bethany. “You—girl—take the tea tray to his lordship, and make certain there is a modicum of rum to be had with it, or he’ll send you back for it. You used to be in his employ, so you know to stay out of his way, lest he strike you. But if that should happen, if he should even attempt it, report it to me immediately; the Lord Cymrian will address it. I’ve had too many house servants abused, and Lord Gwydion refuses to tolerate it.”
“Yes, sir.” The young woman picked up the silver tray and headed for the stairs, the vacant look of affected timidity replaced a moment later with a smile. For the third time that night, a servant knocked on Tristan Steward’s door bearing libations in response to his summons.
This was the first time, however, that the Lord Roland’s response was not fully surly, but only annoyed, his irritation eased, perhaps, by the after-supper cordial followed by the half-decanter of brandy he had received on the two previous occasions. “About time you got here,” he murmured grumpily as the slim, dark-haired chambermaid glided into the room with a silver tray, which she set down on the table near the fireplace. “What code do I have to use with your idiot chamberlain to assure that I get you when I call, and not some blithering idiot or bewhiskered sot?”
The young woman smiled as she turned back to the Lord Roland. “Perhaps you should order the tea first next time,” she said, no hint of deference in her voice. “If you insist on calling for spirits, the wine steward and the sommelier are going to be the ones sent from the buttery to attend to your needs. Lowly chambermaids deliver tea, not brandy.”
“But I like brandy,” said Tristan playfully, setting down his empty glass and making his way across the room to her. “And I have needs other than those that can be met with a beverage. As you well know, Portia.”
The young woman’s black eyes sparkled with amusement as her former master slid his hands into her hair, gripping the long, glossy strands with an intensity belied by his lazy tone. “Ah, so you missed me, did you?” she said, not flinching as Tristan pulled her closer, interlacing his fingers behind the base of her skull, allowing himself to become entwined in the dark waves of thick, rough silk. “I wondered if you would, given how quick you were to part with me, foisting me off on Lord Gwydion like an unwanted set of tea towels.”
Tristan Steward blinked at the accusatory tone in her smoky voice. “I did no such thing,” he said reproachfully, twisting his hands in her mane. “It was agony to part with you, Portia; my loins have been aching since the day I left you in this place four months ago. Your mission here is of unsurpassed importance to me, to us—and had it not been, I never would have allowed you away from me for a moment.” The chambermaid reached up behind her neck and roughly pulled his hands from her. “Alas for you, and your aching loins, in the course of doing what you asked, I have come to understand how much you have misled me,” she said curtly, turning away from Tristan Steward and beginning to unload the items from the tea tray.