It had to be said that Shane did not lack for appreciative looks of his own. At least four chaperones introduced themselves, and he had to run through the rituals of polite conversation while keeping at least one eye on Marguerite. （To their credit, the chaperones were all doing much the same thing with their own charges, so no one went away offended.） At least two young wallflowers noticed him, turned scarlet, and fled to more distant seats. He felt a bit guilty about that, but trying to put them at ease would only make it worse.
After an hour or so, two elderly chaperones began gossiping within earshot. Shane listened in, for lack of anything better to do.
“Now that’s a handsome fellow. Somebody’s man-at-arms, do you think?”
“Doubt he’s a wallflower.” They cackled. Shane kept his gaze fixed on Marguerite, who was deep in conversation with a group of women wearing the layered brocade of merchants from Baiir.
“Is that Waily’s youngest over there?”
“It never was! She was short and had spots, the poor thing.”
“No, Harriet, I tell you, it is. She’s grown at least six inches, look at her.”
“Shows you can never tell how the child will grow up. I saw Lady Octavia at her naming, and that child had ears like jug handles. And now she’s a court beauty. They say the Crown Prince of Charlock offered for her.”
“Offered for her, aye, but she didn’t take him. I hear she’s head over heels in love with Doverfrith.”
“Doverfrith? He’s sixty if he’s a day, and she can’t be more than twenty.”
“That’s what they say. P’raps she’s merely putting on a good front, though, and hoping he’ll die right after the wedding.”
“Worse fates than being a widow with a great deal of money.”
Shane glanced at the pair out of the corner of his eye. The one named Harriet was fanning herself delicately with a fan of painted vellum. The other one, as yet unnamed, leaned forward. “Who’s that talking to your girl?”
“What? Oh, with the oiled hair? Lord Bardulf. Not that he’s a lord of anything, as far as I know. A court position, that’s all. Master of the Prince’s Robes, I think.”
“Yes, but which prince?”
“Does it really matter?” The two of them cackled together. “My brother-in-law probably called in a favor to have him speak to the girl for a few minutes and make her appear interesting.” Harriet tapped her fan. “I fear it will take more than Bardulf. She’s a sweet child, but she hasn’t the conversation of a footstool.”
“Did any of us at that age?”
“True enough.”
“At least yours is sweet. My little Minerva is damp.”
“Damp?”
“Cries over poems and sunsets. Not even particularly good sunsets.”
“Lady of Grass preserve us. What are you going to do?”
“What can I do? Her mother’s ordered me to keep her indoors and away from poets. I told her that there’s only so much that I can do with a girl so set on tragedy. Particularly when sunsets happen every single day.” She sounded deeply aggrieved by this, as if the sun had singled her out personally.
“Oof.”
“You don’t know the half of it. I thought one of her distant cousins might be coming up to scratch, and then he made the mistake of complaining about the rain. She turned on the lad and told him that the rain was the tears of angels shed for the sins of mankind and the poor bastard said that if that was the case, then the angels had left a foot of mud in the west field and he’d lost a boot in it.”
Shane winced. He was not an expert on fanciful young women, but he didn’t see that ending well.
“How did that go over?”
“How do you think it went over? He was gone as soon as the rain stopped and she spent a fortnight drifting from room to room and declaring that love was dead.”
“Lady of Grass. Well, it could be worse. Did I tell you about Moredena’s sheep?”
“Sheep?”
“Sheep. About forty of them. On the ramparts, no less. What happened was…”
Shane felt a pang when Marguerite signaled that she was moving to the next room. Still, duty called. He pushed away from the wall and followed, leaving the saga of the sheep on the ramparts behind.
“WELL,” said Wren, sprawling across a chair in the main room. “That was certainly a day. That I spent. Somehow.”
Shane inclined his head in agreement. He, too, had spent a day. That was about the best that could be said for it. He felt exhausted from sheer inactivity.
Marguerite was the only one of the trio who didn’t look worse for wear. She held up a hand and went to the suite’s door. “Hello? Is anybody—ah, there you are.” A page came to the doorway, dressed in dove gray. Marguerite fished a coin out of her purse and handed it to him. “Please take an
order down to the kitchen for a light meal for three.” The page nodded and raced away.
“Our maid-of-all-work will be here tomorrow,” Marguerite said, closing the door. “She won’t stay here overnight, but check before you reveal anything sensitive.”
“Do we have anything sensitive to reveal yet?” asked Shane.
Wren shrugged. “How would I know, really? Nothing stands out.”
“I’d hardly expect it this early,” Marguerite said. “In fact, if information fell into my lap tomorrow, I’d be suspicious of how easy it was.”
“Oh, good.” Wren sighed. “Because I’ve talked to a few people who didn’t immediately run away, but I haven’t found any way to ask gracefully about patronage.” She cocked her eyebrow at Shane. “What about you?”
Shane ticked off gossip overheard from chaperones. “A court beauty named Lady Octavia is rumored to be madly in love with an older man named Lord Doverfrith. The Dowager’s Master of Horse is not attending this year due to gout, and his wife is reputed to be conducting an affair with both a minstrel and the Eighth Noble Personage. It is believed that the Shadowed Duke poisoned his previous two wives and is now looking for a third. It is unwise for any woman to be alone with Baron Malverstone. Everyone knows that Lady Chadris is being blackmailed, but no one knows about what, though speculation is rife.” He paused, seeing that both Marguerite and Wren were staring at him. “Err…what?”
“People told you that?” asked Wren.
“No. I just stood there and listened.” Shane considered adding the unfortunate Minerva’s tendency to cry at sunsets, but couldn’t imagine that it was relevant to their efforts. “Chaperones gossip.”
“Well,” said Marguerite. She shook herself and began to laugh. “Good heavens. That’s rather more than I expected. And you remembered it all!”
“The Bishop has often asked me what I have happened to overhear at gatherings,” said Shane.
Part of him still insisted that eavesdropping was not particularly paladinly behavior, but he tamped it down. This is my assignment.
“What’s an Eighth Noble Personage?” asked Wren. “I don’t know that ranking.”
“A diplomat from the Benevolence,” said Marguerite. “North and rather far west from here, on the other side of the continent. There’s a few mountain ranges in the way and the ocean route is almost unnavigable, so we don’t have any significant trade with them, and the diplomats rarely ever go home again. If anyone ever finds an easier way to trade with them, both sides will make a few dozen fortunes, but as it is…” She shrugged.