Which door was his? She did not know, but she suspected. She went to the other side of Delilah's door and turned the knob, softly, ever so softly ...
She recognized Forrest's boots and the costume he had worn as Dionysus, the night before. His doublet lay upon a stool—but that was all there was. His bed was empty; like Delilah's it had not been slept in.
Like Delilah's ...
Suspicion reared up in her mind again, anger roiling behind it. Who else? What had been happening while she had been talking with her mother?
She turned away to the door, seething. If Geoffrey was gone, too ...
Then she told herself she strumpet could not seduce night—or a half-night, for the midnight. She strode out the Geoffrey's room.
She was about to burst in, but halted at the last second, though she was not sure why. She reached out with her mind instead ...
And almost collapsed with relief. To find only a dream of him riding, riding with the wind in his hair, wild and free, was a vastly pleasant surprise. She sighed, then was being silly. Surely the more than one man in a ball had ended an hour after door and down the hall to turned the handle and opened the door as quietly as she could. She would wake him gently, tell him that she needed his help ...
But what of the woman who lay beside him?
And the two armed men who lay sleeping on the floor, just inside the door?
What sort of twisted pleasures had her brother been pursuing, anyway?
Cordelia stared, outraged. Then all the morning's anger boiled up within her, and she strode across the floor, stepping over the two sleeping men and hissing, "Hussy!" She reached down, grasping a smooth, bare shoulder and snarling, "Strumpet!"
The girl opened her eyes halfway, a lazy smile on her lips, stretching with a sinuous undulation, turning her head up to look ...
Then she saw Cordelia, and her eyes flew wide in shock.
"Get out from here!" Cordelia snapped. "Now! Instantly! Ere I claw your eyes blind and pull your hair out by the roots!"
The woman sat bolt upright, but her eyes narrowed as she clutched the bedclothes to her. She was in her early twenties, Cordelia guessed, and was quite well put together—lushly, in fact. "I am not your servant..."
Cordelia's hand came around with a ringing slap. The girl cried out and fell back, and it was Geoffrey's hands who held her up. "Peace, sister. 'Tis not your affair, after all."
"Nor was Alain yours!" Cordelia spat. "Out, tearsheet, or I shall do you more mischief than a whole tribe of elves!"
The girl darted a glance at the two men. "Bardolph! Morley! Aid me!"
The men lay still, not even snoring.
The woman stared in horror—and, for a moment, so did Cordelia.
"They are men who prefer to watch, not do, I suspect," Geoffrey said, very nonchalantly. "They crept in whiles we did disport ourselves, and I had some wish for privacy, so I put them to sleep."
The girl's glance swung up to him in fright, and she squirmed away from him toward the edge of the bed. "But ... your embrace was so ardent, your kisses so fevered..."
"That I might overlook an intruder?" Geoffrey smiled, showing his teeth. "I am never so besotted that I cannot hear someone who fairly shouts his gloating glee, as their minds did."
"And you cast them into sleep without even ... even..."
"Batting an eye?" Geoffrey shrugged. "'Twas only a moment's distraction."
"Now will you get hence!" Cordelia raged. "Nay, do not pause to dress—take your tawdry garments with you, and get out!"
The girl didn't stay to argue any further—she leaped out of bed, catching up her clothing, and darted out the door with only one backward look of fright.
Cordelia gazed after her with more than a little contempt, seasoned by jealousy. "Your taste surely runs to the baroque, brother."
"A good guest takes what is offered." Geoffrey sounded amused.
Seething, Cordelia spun about, to see him propped up on one elbow, the sheet still draped across his hips, watching with an expression of great interest.
"You curmudgeon!" Cordelia said, with every ounce of contempt she could muster. "You lewd man, you libertine, you rake! How many women must you debauch before you realize the harm you do?"
Geoffrey started to answer.
"Nay, tell me not!" Cordelia snapped. "Great affairs of state cannot wait while you slake your desires!" Geoffrey stared up at her, thinking that his sister was really very impressive—and had probably saved him a deal of trouble in disentangling him from one more set of lingering clutches. But he said only, "You may be sure that I dally only when there is time."
"Oh, do you indeed!" Cordelia snapped. "Nay, you are like a dog who forgets all else when he scents one trace of a bitch in heat, and forsakes all duties to go padding after her, drooling!"
Geoffrey frowned. "Would you have me be a celibate? Nay, a monk, perhaps, never to enjoy the company of any woman who was not a nun!"
" 'Twas scarcely a nun who left here but now, and 'twas far more than her company that you did enjoy! Nay, while you did 'dally,' your friend Alain was beset by armed men and, for all I know, nearly slain!"
Geoffrey was out of bed, somehow contriving to slip his breeches on without completely giving up the cover of the sheet. "Armed men? Why, could you not fend them off, sister? Nay, do not answer—'twas not your place! A curse upon me, that I was not there!" He froze, staring up at her, frowning. "Nay, surely any number of armed men who came against him while you were watchful would have died in the attempt!"
Cordelia felt a stab of guilt, but told herself sternly that she was not Alain's keeper—not yet.
Geoffrey pulled on his doublet and buttoned it. "Therefore, if he was taken, you were not there."
"No," Cordelia said, biting down on shame. "I was not." Geoffrey stilled, watching her. "Do not blame yourself, sister. You are not Alain's watchdog; you were not set to that task. Nay, it is the man who is supposed to guard the woman, not the woman the man. Yet if you did not witness it, how do you know he was set upon?"
"Why," she said, "because his room is in disarray, with tapestries slashed and furniture overturned—and there was blood on the floor!"
Geoffrey was moving toward the door before she finished the sentence, buckling his sword belt. "Proof enough. Let us go."
"How shall we find him?" Cordelia wailed. "And we must find him right quickly, for he may be in mortal danger!"
"His soul, mayhap," Geoffrey agreed, "but I doubt that his body is in any peril at all, blood or no blood. The man is a most excellent swordsman, Cordelia—he held me off for a good five minutes! Nay, we have only to find the Lady Delilah..." He was about to add, and we shall find Alain, but caught himself and said instead, ". . . for she will know where the bodies are, dead and living."
"Her chamber is empty," Cordelia said.
Geoffrey shrugged impatiently, opening the door and ushering her through. "That means only that she is not in her chamber. We shall find her, and she will know where Alain lies." He didn't like the sound of that, so he added, "Or stands and fights—where we may join him."
Alain stood deep within the manor house's bowels and had finally found a door, larger than the others, that would let him into the Great Hall. He opened it only a fraction of an inch, and was assailed with the sounds of men's voices barking commands to one another, while they scurried to put away the tables and take down all the decorations. It seemed odd that they would be so prompt about tidying up after the ball, but Alain didn't really give the matter much thought, only edged the door closed again and stood on the other side, sword in hand, waiting, listening to Sir Julian's voice bawling orders to search and to guard. Alain's face hardened at the words; the old man was commanding his men to seek out the Lady Cordelia and hale her before him, and to bring her brother with her, dead or alive.