PROLOGUE
Simon Delara was late.
Usually, he arrived precisely on time — at least, he made certain toappearas if he did. In fact, he typically arrived early, hiding in some alcove or outside a door, with the express purpose of eavesdropping. It was fascinating the things people gave away when they were waiting, thinking themselves alone or with trusted company.
If Simon were to arrive late, it would encourage a client’s mind to wander toward him, his doings, what might be causing him to tarry.
So he was never late.
Well…rarely.
The delay had been a sudden interruption from someone unavoidable. Irritatingly scruffy and brooding, and decidedly unwelcome, but not avoidable.
He went as quickly as he could without appearing to hurry. His step was jaunty, the heels of his silk slippers tapping a staccato on the marble floor of Regent Sigrun’s great palace. His copper hair, styled to unnatural heights and impeccably coiffed, bounced jovially in the lamplight. And a finely tailored frock coat, embroidered with green and fuchsia, swung daintily as hewent. Under one arm was tucked a case of black leather lined with wine-colored velvet. And nestled inside was, of course, his beloved lute.
He knew he looked a delicacy as he flowed through the halls, brushing intimately past courtiers in lace and velvet, some whose secrets he knew and some he didn’t. But every face was familiar to him, every name filed away in the banks of his memory, orderly and precise. This was the craft of a minstrel — to know everyone’s business and use it to his best advantage.
Outwardly, he swept along with carefree ease, his sensuous lips curved upward invitingly. But he was late. Inside his impeccably formed ribcage beat a restless heart. Inwardly, he ground his teeth, swore, bit at the inside of his mouth — a habit he had fought long and hard to drop and in which his beloved sister continued to indulge.
Ru… he couldn’t spare the time to worry. Not now.
At last, he came to his client’s chambers, a sprawling suite in the royal wing of the palace. Not for the first time, he wondered how the woman had managed to secure such opulent and — frankly, presumptuous — rooms. She was somewhat new to the regent’s court, having only arrived that year, but somehow, quite quickly, she had come to ingratiate herself with the most influential members of the aristocracy. Even Simon hadn’t been able to learn a single detail about the woman, and there was nothing that aggravated Simon more than not knowing everything about everyone.
And more than just the usual personal details, Simon was desperate to learn not only how this woman had climbed the social so quickly, butwhy.
Yet after weeks of prying, she remained a mystery to him, a bit of toffee stuck between his teeth, a wayward lock of hair he couldn’t quite tame. No matter who he questioned, manipulated,or overheard, there was only this answer:she’s just that charming, I suppose.
When Simon had nearly come to the end of his quickly fraying rope, the woman herself, Lady Bellenet, had summoned him to perform for her. In her private rooms, no less. But now, by the cruel hand of fate, Simon had been held up. And in doing so, he’d missed his opportunity to hover at the edges, lurk in the shadows, to overhear things not meant for him.
Fucking hell, he might have said, had he still subscribed to the oafish idioms of the middle classes. Never mind that he held no title, that as a merchant’s son, he had come from a family situated firmly in the middle. He was a minstrel, a dealer of information to anyone who paid the right price. That in itself was title enough.
Fucking hell.
He would exact his vengeance on the man who had delayed him later — for this and several other reasons. But now, he had work to do.
The painted doors to Lady Bellenet’s suite were ajar, a welcome invitation as much as a warning —break my trust, and the doors slam shut.
Simon paused at the threshold, hearing voices within. He was already late; let them wait one more moment. This might be his only chance. He made a practiced show of checking his hair, fluffing his neckcloth, and smoothing every wrinkle in his attire. To anyone passing in the hall, or perhaps even sensing his presence from within, he was no more than a vain musician ensuring he looked impeccable for a performance. And though his cunning reputation preceded him, he liked to think that at his best, he fooled even the most astute members of court.
Because this was part of the performance itself, a step in a dance he knew well. As he ran long fingers down the front of his waistcoat, as he adjusted the delicate gold chain of a pocketwatch so that its drape was just the right length, just the right amount of curve… he listened.
Voices drifted out from Lady Bellenet’s room, but they were so low that he couldn’t make out a single word. He was about to push through the doors at last, when a name caught his ear. The sound of it pierced him dully.
“Ruellian Delara… ?” The rest of the sentence was an incomprehensible murmur, but he had heard enough for his hackles to rise. Why should this lady, of anyone, be interested in his sister? Perhaps she was interested in archaeology, but it wasn’t terribly likely. Only abominable bores like Hugon D’Luc cared about such dull things as ancient pottery.
Simon craned his neck, trying to hear more, but it was useless.
“Whereisthat cursed minstrel?” a deep and feminine voice said, loud enough now that Simon could hear quite clearly. “He’s three minutes late.”
And Simon was through the doors, breezing in like a confection of silk and charm. As he sashayed in, he nearly collided with a woman on her way out, dressed in finery.
“I’m terribly sorry,” he said, bowing.
“It’s all right,” she said, her tone distant and uncaring. Simon saw now that he recognized her — Countess Odeline. He had performed for her often in the past, though not recently.
“My lady,” Simon said, treating the countess to his most inviting smile, “how long has it been? I do so miss our musical evenings. Please, don’t hesitate to call upon me when the mood for melody strikes.”
He had known the countess to possess great humor, and she dearly loved to laugh. But she merely blinked in response, her gaze glassy and far away. As if she’d never seen Simon before in her life. He turned and watched her depart, unable to keep his brows from drawing together in confusion.
