Chapter 36

“Are we really going to this party?” asked Sam. “Aye, once we no longer smell like horse manure,” Tristan replied. Braeden fingered the brim of his hat. “All of us are going?” he asked. “I’m leery of causing a scene.” “You’ll be with me, so you’ll be fine,” said Tristan. “Though I might suggest you eschew your robes in favor of something more conventional. You and I are of a height if you want to borrow clothes.” Braeden and Sam’s room had a private bath, so the two of them took turns bathing. A servant had filled two tubs with hot water, but by the time Sam stepped into the water, the temperature was barely lukewarm. She scrubbed at her skin until it was pink and combed her fingers through knotted hair. A lukewarm bath was better than no bath at all, she told herself. When she emerged from the bath, clean and fully dressed, Braeden was buttoning the top of a brocade doublet that accented his broad shoulders and tapered waist. Tight, tan breeches clung almost obscenely to the well-shaped muscles of his thighs and buttocks. Sam reminded herself that such clothes were the height of fashion and concentrated on forcing her eyes above his waist. “I look ridiculous, I know.” “No! You look…nice. Truly,” Sam said as Braeden struggled with the final button. “Here, let me.” Standing on her toes, she slipped the silver button through its thread loop, her fingers grazing Braeden’s neck. That strange frisson of energy shot up her arm again, and they both jumped at the contact. “Sorry,” she said, coloring furiously. A knock came at the door that separated their room from Tristan’s, ending the weird interlude. “Let’s go,” Tristan said, pushing back a wet forelock from his temple. Held in the private tavern at the back of the inn, the party was in full swing by the time they arrived. The primary bar was lined with people, pushing and shoving as they waited to be admitted. Crompton stood by the tavern door, granting and denying entry like a king passing judgment on his subjects. Inside the tavern was a cacophony of sound. Men shouted over the gambling tables as cards traded hands and dice tumbled. Leathered feet stomped in tune to a minstrel’s bagpipe, and a few men whirled around the room with female partners. It was hard not to notice the women in the room. All of them, even those who carried drinks, wore black partial masks that covered the forehead and nose but left the lower half of the face exposed. “Why are the women wearing masks?” Sam asked Paladin Sagar after he’d greeted them, his face markedly redder than when they last saw him. Sagar pinched the bottom of a nearby barmaid, who hopped and let out a little squeal. He watched appreciatively as she flounced away. “Some fine women in here tonight,” he said, more to himself than anyone in particular. “What was it you were saying, boy? Oh yes, the masks. It’s a new tradition we started. Affords the women a bit of privacy for our little gatherings.” “Privacy? What do they need privacy from?” “Why, their fathers and husbands, of course. This isn’t the sort of party a respectable lady should attend.” “Then why do the women come?” asked Sam. Paladin Sagar chuckled. “Because it isn’t the sort of party a respectable lady should attend.” “I see,” said Sam, not seeing at all. She watched as a woman in a hooded red dress flirted with two men at once, stroking one’s cheek while caressing the forearm of the other. Paladin Sagar slapped his knee. “By the gods, lad, if you could see your own face right now. Lyons, you need to do your duty by your trainees, man. The boy’s as innocent as my own sister.” Sam and Braeden traded glances. Tristan had yet to ask her about the brothel, and she hoped he didn’t start now. “Not so,” said Sam, thinking quickly. “How about a drink and a game of Hazard?” “Good lad,” said Paladin Sagar approvingly. Three drinks and four rounds of dice later, Sam had grown thoroughly disgusted with the whole affair. The men with whom she was playing – three Paladins and an earl’s second son – wagered increasing bets until the pile of gold in front of them threatened to spill over the table. She couldn’t help but think of the Catanians she’d seen in the marketplace earlier in the day, most of whom wore secondhand clothing, well-made but clearly stitched together from other cast-offs. She wondered what they would do with such a large sum of money. As the night wore on and the general level of inebriation grew, so did the impropriety of the revelers. The earl’s son pulled an elegantly clothed girl onto his lap and kissed her neck as she giggled, while the Paladins she’d gambled with had found women of their own and were in varying stages of intimacy in less-than-discreet corners. At some point during the night, she’d also lost track of Tristan. He had disappeared into a crowd of Paladins, all of whom wanted to be regaled with the stories of his latest triumphs and updates from the Center. “Let’s stroll around the room,” she said to Braeden. He nodded and stood up from the table. It didn’t take Sam long to spot Tristan. He leaned against the tavern wall, the hooded woman in the red dress curling around him like a snake. She threw back her head with a husky laugh,  allowing her strawberry blonde waves to escape the confines of her hood. “Who is that woman with Tristan?” Sam asked. “Why, jealous?” “What? No! No, I think I recognize her,” she said. She squinted, studying the woman’s pert mouth and the classic lines of her face. Her eyes widened. “I do recognize her!” “Oh?” “She’s the duchess of Catania!” Sam hissed. “I’m sure of it.” “Forgive me if this is an ignorant question, but so what? Will she recognize you?” “No, I don’t think so. She hasn’t seen me since I was seven, and I was too far beneath her to warrant much attention, anyway. But Braeden, she’s married. To the duke!” Braeden sighed. “Tristan’s a grown man. He can make his own decisions. And besides, she’s hardly the only married woman here tonight.” “It’s not about Tristan, Braeden, truly. I don’t care what Paladin Sagar said about the masks – if I can recognize her, surely the Catanians will see through her disguise as well.” Sam shook her head, appalled. “Everyone knows my father has taken his pleasures outside the marriage bed, but he would never flout it in public like this. And with the Paladins no less! It reflects badly on both her and us.” Braeden halted in his tracks. “You know, Lady Sam, you can be a little condescending sometimes.” “Don’t call me that!” she snapped. “And what do you mean?” “So your father slept with women who couldn’t say no to him any more than they could say no to paying their taxes. But yet you feel that their plight is less shameful than fraternizing with the high and mighty Paladins?” Braeden shrugged. “Seems a bit arrogant to me.” Sam flushed. “You’ll be a Paladin one day, Braeden, so you better not let them hear you speak that way. And say what you will about my father, but I think there’s something to be said for discretion.” “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” “Oh, give it a rest, Braeden! Look, it’s not just about Tristan and the duchess. This whole party—“ Sam said, spreading her arms. “It’s dishonorable!” At her last word – dishonorable – Tristan dropped his hand from the duchess’s right hip and gently pushed her to an arm’s length distance. Though Sam stood halfway across the tavern, and there was no way he could hear her over the din, his gaze somehow found hers, his eyes tinged with sadness. “You know, Sam, he thinks you’re dead.” “I know,” she said quietly. Tristan disengaged from the duchess and allowed himself to be drawn away by Paladin Sagar. She didn’t want to watch anymore. “Braeden?” “Yes, Sam?” “Let’s get out of here.”