Lenora shook her head. “Though I was forced to cut some of its length.”
“It is still of a good golden hue,” he pointed out. “You must needs make the most of what is left to you. Especially if you—er—mean to resume public life.”
“Public life?” Lenora was startled by the turn the conversation was taking.
Her father cleared his throat. “People are starting to ask after you. The Viscountess of Morpington, Lady Helen Cecil, indeed, the Queen herself has expressed an interest in your wellbeing.”
“That is very good of them,” Lenora replied in a wooden voice. Of course, she thought without rancor, they would be curious. They would all be vastly interested to see if she was still the most beauteous in all the land, or if another could now lay claim to that title. Lady Helen Cecil, the King’s mistress, was the pretender to the role and was no doubt invested in the outcome. The thought of people appraising what was left of her looks made her feel a little sick.
“Your cousin Eden has offered for you to stay with her at Vawdrey Keep for a few months, until the—er—color returns to your cheeks,” her father said weakly.
Lenora’s lips twisted. There was now a permanent red discoloration to her face, she thought listlessly. A patchy dry redness which mottled her skin and probably would till the end of her days.
“I had thought,” Sir Leofric blustered. “That you might wish to withdraw from—well, things,” he said lamely. “But your grandmother is strongly averse to the idea.” Ah, finally the convent, thought Lenora. Here it comes. She readied herself to trot out her objections. He took a deep breath. “She suggests accepting Sir Lionel Emworth’s suit forthwith.”
Lenora caught her breath. Marriage? Her mind went blank. She most assuredly had not been expecting that! “Sir Lionel Emworth?” Blue shield with a white hart, she thought.
“He is one of your many admirers, is he not?” her father said bracingly. “My mother writes he is young and idealistic and that moreover, he had an epic poem written in your honor.” Lenora was silent. “The preface of which,” her father continued. “Contained a dedication swearing his undying devotion to your pure soul,” her father continued doggedly. “Your soul which remains unaltered despite your outward appearance.”
Lenora gave a choked laugh. “He may have sworn devotion to my soul, Father, but we both know it was my face he was enamored of.”
Sir Leofric looked exasperated. “He could scarcely cry off now, Lenora, if you accept his suit. Not without looking exceedingly unchivalrous.”
“There are worse things to look than unchivalrous,” murmured Lenora. One of which would be a pox victim.
“Your grandmother thinks—”
“No, Father,” said Lenora quietly.
Her father gave a huff of exasperation. “If young Emworth is as tenderhearted as people say, then it may well be—”
“You mean,” Lenora interrupted him. “That he might be induced to wed me out of pity?”
Her father reddened, but lowered his eyes, unable to deny it. “Beggars cannot be choosers, Lenora,” he snapped waspishly. It was the second time she had heard that saying today. “You seem to forget your current predicament, daughter. You are no longer in the position to pick and choose from an army of suitors.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “My child, I am trying to provide for you. We need to be realistic about the future now available to you.”
“I realize that, Father and appreciate the plain speech,” Lenora answered steadily. “But I will not have someone marry me because they feel sorry for me or fear the judgement of others.”
What she wanted, thought Lenora suddenly, was the very opposite of that. Someone who never felt sorry for anyone and did not care two pins for the opinion of others. That was when one of the other sigil’s Berta had mentioned earlier sprang suddenly to mind. The black field with the white portcullis. Of course. Sir Garman Orde.
3
Garman Orde groaned and rolled onto his side. Everything ached from where that bastard Roland Vawdrey had attacked him in the melee. Plus, he needed a piss. He never should have drunk that last flagon of ale. He rolled off the mattress and maneuvered the chamber pot from under his bed using his feet. Then, after freeing himself from his braies, he relieved himself whilst staring out of the window at the still night, until his full bladder was empty. He had a feeling sleep would not return now. Perhaps after all, he should have brought a wench back to while away some hours, but something about the women who hung around the tourneys depressed him. They were so desperate for something special in their life—a winner, anything that elevated them from the drab monotony of their everyday drudgery. It grated on him. They would find nothing like that underneath him for a night. He’d rather pay a whore than have to brag about his victories to keep them happy. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. He was just pulling his linen braies up over his bare arse, and tying the drawstring, when his chamber door blew in as if on some invisible breeze. But there was no breeze in Caer-Lyoness tonight. It was still and silent. Then he saw it, the pale hand at the latch. The slender body clad in shadows, that drifted through his door, the shrouded head and shoulders. Stronger men than he would have quailed at such a spectacle, but Garman Orde was made of stern stuff. He simply took a step back and uttered an oath strong enough to make a specter flinch.
“Oh,” said the faceless wraith with relief. “You’re already awake. Thank goodness, I thought I’d have to try and rouse you.”
“Who the — what the hells—?”
She seemed to notice his discomfiture and sat promptly down on a chair in the corner of his room, holding up her hands. “Did I frighten you? I’m sorry.”
He rallied himself, fixing her with a stern gaze. “Who the hells are you, woman? Why are you here?”
He watched the direction of her head go from the chamber pot to him and then back again. “Oh!” she said belatedly. “I never meant—”
“To interrupt me mid-stream?” he asked sarcastically. “If you’d been a fraction earlier, you’d have seen the whole show.”
Her head tipped back at that, and one hand rose to her breast in agitation. “I do apologize,” said the faceless specter, sounding mortified. “I thought you’d be asleep at this hour.”
“You thought waking me from my sleep in that get-up would be a good notion?” he asked in disbelief. “What’s your game? Did de Busselll set you up to do this?” He already knew the answer. This wasn’t some female for hire. She was a lady, through and through. But he was rattled and letting off steam. “What if I’d been sporting with a couple of wenches in the bed with me? What then?”
“A couple?” she echoed faintly.
Yes, a real lady, he rolled his eyes, plunking his hands on his hips. “Get to the meat of the matter,” he said irritably and sat down on the bed opposite her, glancing at the door.
“No-one’s going to burst in,” she said calmly, following the direction of his gaze. “I’m not trying to entrap you. My name is Lenora Montmayne. You know of me, I think?”