Waltz in C Sharp Minor

Chapter 17 of "A Sword for Wellington", Book Three of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles

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The story began in A Grail for Eidothea and continued with A River Trembles. Now the Chosen Court seeks another Arthurian treasure. New here? Save this post and have a binge read. You deserve it.

Lady Meredith ingratiated herself and Gwenddydd into the ex-pat Society of Brussels. Sir Hugh met with Wellington. Gwenddydd prepared for an evening out, trying to figure out where to hide her knife on her person.

Light from glittering crystal chandeliers bounced off the hall’s gilt ornamentation, casting a golden hue over everything and everyone. Even the white walls glowed with an incandescent heat.

“Miss Jones, try not to appear over-awed,” Lady Meredith reminded.

Bowing her head, she adjusted her long satin gloves, making sure they covered her dragon tattoos.

A stirring grew from the doorway and a great cheer rose from the people around them.

At the entrance stood the Duke of Wellington, arm raised in acknowledgment of the fevered greeting. Silent among all the applauding guests, Gwenddydd stared at him. This was the man, dressed quietly in blue, wearing a round hat with a red band. This was the man whom the Circle declared would spare Britain from a dark fate. He beamed a benign smile at his welcome. With a blonde at his side, he made slow progress along the gallery level.

Gwenddydd touched Lady Meredith’s arm. “Should we follow?”

“In a moment. Let our hostess and those he is here to see attend to him first.”

Sir Hugh walked in behind the duke. With him strode a handsome, golden-haired man. Sir Hugh twirled his cane as if its presence was no more than an affectation, but he leaned heavily upon it as he descended the short staircase.

A series of horrified gasps broke out around Gwenddydd and Lady Meredith. “Who is that ill-begotten creature?” Gwen heard one of them ask.

Muttered speculation ensued but one voice cut clear through the rest. “He is lucky Wellington finds him indispensable.”

Gwenddydd’s eyebrow quirked. Already? She should not be surprised. He made a good sparring partner despite his disability.

“That’s Sir Hugh Devenish.” Gwenddydd couldn’t see the woman who spoke. “Served with the Duke on the Peninsula. Even with that face, I am very glad I do not have a daughter to worry about around him!”

The feather in Lady Meredith’s turban twitched. Gwenddydd edged closer.

“I do not see a need to worry. That scar will set any young miss fainting with sheer fright.”

“He was one of the darlings of the ton you know,” the first woman confided. “Such a handsome young man! He could have had any young heiress he wished with that devilish smile of his. Did you know he once charmed a girl until she was inside out with love for him? She wouldn’t give a fig for any of her regular beaus. Excellent matches were broken, often for good, because of him. He broke many a heart, flitting from one girl to the next. I heard one lass pined away into nothingness when his expected proposal did not come.” She paused to allow the horror of this to sink in with her listeners.

Gwenddydd thought pining away because of a man sounded rather stupid.

“Men can be foolish in their youth,” suggested one.

“Still,” the woman replied, “the girls will have none of him now.”

“Why not?” Gwenddydd whispered to Lady Meredith, who hushed her.

“A rich man may still hope for a bride despite such a marring, but not a second son. His true colours will out, after all. How can he charm when a soul cannot bear to look upon him?” The woman plowed on, not waiting for an answer. “These days, I hear he is something of a cold fish. Always watching. Quite malevolent.” Gwenddydd wondered if bardic blood flowed in this woman’s veins. They had just arrived in Brussels. How could she know?

Ondine and Llyr stayed home, not wanting to embarrass us or endanger our mission by making a misstep in this entirely unfamiliar society. Madame Peeters altered my gown and fashioned an eyepatch to match.

I had been crowned Queen of the dreigiau môr, yet my confidence utterly failed me at the soiree. I became a wallflower, shying away at each curious, distasteful expression.

I backed into a corner, the night’s cool damp air wafting in from a nearby window. Across the room I saw Lady Meredith and her companion sail amongst the company. Miss Gwenddydd’s auburn beauty turned more than a few heads.

Someone found a seat next to me and sighed, rubbing at their leg. I glanced and stilled at the sight of the blue eyes and ruined face of Lady Meredith’s nephew.

“I did not expect you to be so painfully shy,” he remarked, his gaze returning to the gathering.

I raised an eyebrow, the one not hidden by the eyepatch. “I did not expect you to seek me out.”

“I merely sit to rest my leg.” He focused upon chafing his thigh.

He could have chosen any number of empty chairs. I clutched my fan. “How do you do it?” I blurted.

Bent over, he turned to look up at me. “Do what?”

“You…your face.” I gestured at it with my fan. “You mingle like it is not even there.”

“It never lets me forget.” His expression darkened. “You sound envious. Is your injury—” His gaze flicked to the left side of my face. “—permanent?”

“Very likely.” I did not know if Maeve would remain with me the rest of my life or if she and her magic would fade in time. “Everyone looks at me, no, at it.”

Sir Hugh stood, facing me, his back to the room. “Part of me wishes to advise you to run, to go back from whence you came, to where you are comfortable.” He towered over me.

I felt hemmed in with nowhere to flee. I gritted my teeth. “I will not run,” I managed to say.

His lips twitched, dragged down on one side by his scar. “Part of me would tell you to ignore the gossips.” He edged closer. I craned my neck to look up at him. “And the third part wishes to know what lies under that eyepatch.”

I rose, stepping around him. “You are a war veteran, sir, so I know you will not be shocked by any injury I might reveal, but I wonder at you wishing to see it. Have you not witnessed enough dreadful wounds?”

He followed my progress. “Miss Pendyr, there is no scarring on your nose, nor anywhere in the vicinity of your eye. It is a strange injury, and—” his voice lowered, “given what you seek, I think you are more than what you seem.”

I straightened and drew on my courage. “You want to see? There is a price.” I did not wait for him to guess. “The sword.”

His gaze swept over me. “Dance with me.”

I agreed.

The quadrille drew to an end. Sir Hugh led me out onto the floor before the previous couples dispersed. I caught a glimpse of Miss Gwenddydd’s surprised face. I faced Sir Hugh in the line.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked. I knew why I had agreed, to get closer to the one who held the Sword.

The music began, another quadrille.

“There is a saying about keeping your enemies closer.” We circled each other.

“I am not your enemy,” I murmured. I bumped into him. Having only one eye wreaked havoc with my depth perception. I mumbled an apology.

We closed hands with the couple next to us, promenading in the same circle.

“Do not think of yourself the way you think about me.”

We separated. I promenaded around the woman next to me. “What do you mean?”

Our backs brushed as we passed each other. “My looks disgust you.”

We parted again, giving me time to find an answer that would not insult him. “They startle me. Disgust is too strong a word. I am sure I will become used to it as we continue our acquaintance.”

Sir Hugh snorted. “If you think this will continue beyond this dance, you are much mistaken.”

We twirled, shoulder to shoulder. “It will come to us. If the Lady has sent it to Wellington, well, we shall wait our turn.“

Hand in hand, we walked forward, taking the position of the couple in front of us. Sir Hugh gripped my hand tight. “What do you know of that?”

I smirked at him. “Enough.”

He pulled me out of the quadrille. “Miss Pendyr…”

I delivered my sweetest smile. “You arrived with him. Once he no longer requires the sword, you will convince him to give it to us. Failing that, I wish to move in the circles that will enable me to ask the Man himself for it.”

“I will not help you,” Sir Hugh ground out.

My smile broke into a triumphant grin. “You already have.” By choosing to dance with me, I had been rendered acceptable to Wellington’s circle. Not a sure thing, by any means, but I would take what victory I could.

I dipped a curtsey and walked away, taking care not to hurry my pace.

I found my father in a small room dedicated to cards. He met my gaze. “You look flushed.”

“Men,” I muttered, “are distinctly annoying.”

The other three at his table tittered at my pronouncement.

One elderly woman advised, “If you have turned a man’s head, girl, accept him. You will not find another with that thing on your face.”

I remembered Sir Hugh’s advice. My brows rose. “Indeed, madam, what need have I of a man’s pity?”

I stalked off, going in search of Jasper. He had grown used to my new appearance, or at least, I no longer felt his shock through our bond. I had need of a haven in this storm of criticism.

Sir Hugh approached, giving Gwenddydd an encouraging smile. ‘No,’ she thought to herself, ‘don’t fall for that smile again. No matter how endearingly crooked. Stick to the reason you’re here. Do not ask him about that woman.’ She took a steadying breath. “Do you see Wellington any where?”

A waltz played. He extended his hand and she accepted it. He swung her into the waltz. They danced in the British style, locking arms to swing the other around before he bowed over her hand, his lips almost brushing her glove.

“Sir Hugh,” she prompted, once they had settled into the waltz’s rhythm.

“Hush,” he replied, smiling. He turned so his unblemished cheek faced her. His devastating smile wreaked havoc on her senses. The gossiping woman had been right about that much. “It has been a long day and my temper was short. Forgive me.” His charming penitence made impossible for her not to excuse his rough temper.

Their twirl slowed to a stop. His face grew taut . His gaze raked her hair and face. What did he seek? His search ended at her lips. Her gaze dropped to his mouth. His wounds interrupted its natural curve but he could still kiss. “The other evening,” he said huskily, “we were interrupted.”

She drew a deep breath. She mustn’t get lost in him, mustn’t.

“I cannot dance and talk with you at the same time. You are too distracting.” He released her from the waltz embrace and tucked her arm into his. So he felt the same?

Lady Meredith watched Mr. Pendyr weave through the crowd toward her. He kept glancing in her direction as if to assure himself of her continued presence.

She opened her fan, letting it flap lazily, while she conversed with the woman next to her, the wife of one of the Belgian colonels.

Mr. Pendyr vanished from sight. She looked for him, telling herself she wanted to be better prepared for his appearance. She would not be fooled as her nephew somehow had. What had possessed Sir Hugh to dance with Miss Pendyr?

‘No,’ she thought, watching Hugh dance with the Dark Ages warrior woman, ‘there are worse things.’

“It cannot be me who has upset you so.” Mr. Pendyr appeared, bearing a glass of punch. “Our conversation has just begun.”

“And what conversation would we have, Mr. Pendyr? You are a stranger to me.”

He sat next to her, handing her the glass. “I was not once.”

She ignored the fluttering in her stomach and stared out at the dancers. “My nephew dances with a nobody.”

Mr. Pendyr followed her gaze. “Is she not your charge? How is she a nobody?”

“She lacks connections.” Lady Meredith closed her fan with a snap.

Mr. Pendyr sat back. “Ah, a nobody like me then.”

She twisted to face him. “You, sir, are at least a gentleman. Or you were.”

His eyes widened. They were still the odd hazel colour she remembered. “Then I wonder at her position, my lady, and that you have given her such a place near your person.”

“Ha! Not only are you squiring your daughter around the continent without her mother, but she has the most unusual companions.”

“Her mother is dead.”

The cold words landed like lead weights in her chest. Lady Meredith fingered the ruffles hiding her neckline. “My condolences, Mr. Pendyr, I did not know.”

He exhaled, looking down at his hands. She followed his gaze. His fingertips were still ink-stained, just as they had been in their youth. “You were not curious enough to find that out after I wrote to you.”

“Which you did for nefarious reasons, not romantic ones,” Lady Meredith pointed out.

“Hardly nefarious,” Mr. Pendyr protested. “The world’s future hinges upon our cause’s success. Whereas yours—”

“—will spare all of Europe from another decades-long war. You should give up your cause, Gerald.”

Surprise lit his face, giving it some of its lost youth. “You do remember my name … Meredith.” He edged his chair closer. “Shall we not let our young ones pursue their goals? If our conflict does one good thing, it will be re-establishing contact with you, my old friend. It has been such a very long time.”

Lady Meredith stared, her mind whirling. Did he aim to distract her from Wellington? “Mr. Pendyr, I do not know how society behaves in the backwaters of Wales, but we do not refer to a lady’s age, nor suggest she is of a certain decade.”

He smiled, an expression that looked awkward. When had he last smiled? “It is a very lovely backwater. What do you say, Lady Meredith? A truce?”

What had his life been like so far? To ask that question meant she had already lost this battle of old attractions. To hide her disturbed thoughts, she watched her nephew slip away hand in hand with the warrior woman. She sighed. “Truce.” She faced him, hands folded neatly in her lap. “I suppose we have a lot of catching up to do.”

“I look forward to doing so. May I call upon you? Where do you stay?”

Her gaze narrowed slightly. “Hôtel Bellevue.”

Mr. Pendyr rose and sketched a bow. “Until then. Please excuse me.”

Lady Meredith stared after him, nonplussed. She had just offered an olive branch and he walked away? She tracked his progress through the room and saw him approach his daughter and another man, who argued with her.

She squinted. The gentleman reminded her of someone, but who?

“It was just a dance,” I repeated to Jasper. “We discussed this. We need to ally with them to get closer to the sword.”

Jasper’s expression did not change from the sour one that had greeted me. “Not that you want to take it from them now.”

“What Llyr learned makes sense—endless war, or worse, a resounding defeat, will afflict the continent and Britain if—” I lowered my voice. “—a certain someone does not claim the sword. The sword bearer’s priestess made that quite clear.”

“And what if we don’t get it afterward? What if the Duke, and his name is Arthur after all, what if he refuses to give it back? It would become an historic trophy in a museum.”

“That’s why we are here—to make ourselves known and accepted—”

“Eidothea, the season in Psygota Mawr is not like it is in London, or here. Everyone is double dealing and intriguing—”

“—Then we fit right in. War is going to happen soon,” I insisted. “Everyone says this confrontation between the Duke and Napoleon will decide our futures.”

“Eidothea, we should just take it—”

“Stop arguing, the pair of you.” My father hove into view. “This is neither the time nor the place for it.”

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