The intruder and his borrowed maid, who was perhaps in love with the knight who followed them to the hall.
He shook the unpleasant, bitter reminder from his mind. Tonight he was not the interloper and she was not the servant. This was his chance to show Beryl who he really was, who he could be, and perhaps make her think twice about who she would rather spend her time with.
Perhaps even her future.
Chapter 11
The great hall was already crammed with guests when Iris floated through the doorway on Padraig Boyd’s arm. The smell of the rich foods that would soon be served wafted just under the great swags of greenery and ribbons, mingling together the crisp scent of the winter woods with roast venison and woodsmoke and spiced wine and heady cologne.
They made their way to Padraig’s table, where Peter and Rynn and the others in Padraig’s camp had caught sight of them and were rising from their seats. Padraig leaned his head closer to Iris’s ear so as to be heard above the cacophony of voices and laughter and frolicking hounds, and the vibration of his deep voice so close to her skin caused gooseflesh to raise beneath the silk of the old gown.
“There must be two hundred people here,” he said, warming her hair with his breath, and then he pulled out her chair for her.
Was he nervous? Iris certainly was. If he made a fool of himself, it could only be Beryl’s fault. Had she remembered everything? Had she done enough to prepare him for tonight, for these people?
Iris sat at his side while across from them, around them, the servants lowered into their own seats. Iris could feel the sullen presence of Cletus as he stood against the wall at Padraig’s back.
“Lady Hargrave said upward of a score of holds had been invited.” Iris spread her napkin and then attempted to scan the crowd surreptitiously around the cupbearer as he attended to her chalice. She couldn’t see very far into the wall of people in the center of the hall. “I suspect with their retinues, your approximation is accurate, Master Boyd.”
She took a sip of wine, lowering her lashes as she felt the weight of the curious stares being cast in their direction. She could name several of the guests on sight, but thankfully, none of them knew her. Darlyrede’s lesser servants would not be in attendance at such a lavish affair, and the kitchen staff was so harried that Iris didn’t fear being outed. Even the ones who looked directly upon her didn’t seem to recognize her in Euphemia Hargrave’s old kirtle.
“I feel like a hare caught in a briar,” Padraig continued in a mutter, and the nerves in his voice tugged unexpectedly at her heart. “They’re all watchin’ tae see which way I rin.”
“Careful,” Iris said in a quiet singsong voice. “Your Scots is showing.”
“Och, one does beg your paardohn, my lady.”
Iris couldn’t help her giggle. “You would have sounded like Sir Lucan had it not been for your ‘och,’”
“I love to hear your laughter, even if it is at my expense. ’Tis like a morning bird’s song.”
Iris turned her face toward him, still smiling. “Master Boyd, are you flattering me?”
His teeth flashed at her, and there was no trace of discomfort on his face now. He opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by the clear ringing of a bell.
Everyone in the hall stood—a hushed roar of wooden legs on stone, the rustling of finery—as Vaughn Hargrave led his wife to their seats at the lord’s table. Lady Hargrave’s gaze stuttered briefly over Iris at the table, but she did not give her away with sustained attention. The noblewoman’s skin was cloud white save for the bright red patches high on her cheeks, and Iris grew ashamed. Here she was, playing at being a lady and enjoying the attention of the handsome man at her side while her charge suffered under the ever-watchful eye of that monster, Lord Hargrave.
Perhaps the lady was feeling similar sentiments about Iris’s position.
Father Kettering cleared his throat. “Let us pray.”
After the lengthy blessing—prolonged for the benefit of the priest’s increased and noble audience, no doubt—Vaughn Hargrave held his palms toward the room with a generous smile, full of ease.
“Friends, honored guests, my lady wife, please, be seated.” He looked on benevolently as the crowd once more found their places. “Thank you for answering my call to Darlyrede’s final hunt of the season. Our lands have prospered, and it is my fondest wish to share our bounty with such good friends as have gathered here tonight.”
There was a polite stomping of boots and several calls of encouragement.
“But,” Hargrave continued, “there is a concurrent occasion for which I have summoned you all here to be witness. As you know, during our long, long time as neighbors; the many years—decades—during which our holds have flourished, my lady wife and I have suffered much loss. First, our dearest daughter, Cordelia, and then our beloved young niece, Euphemia. Perhaps you do not know—as several of you cannot claim quite the distinction of age as can I”—here the crowd twittered—“that Lady Hargrave and I first came to Darlyrede House some two score years ago, to care for the young son of our beloved friends, Lord Tenred, Baron Annesley, and his lady, Myra.”
He smiled, and his thick eyebrows rose in encouragement. “Do you remember them? Yes, it was very long ago. And yet only yesterday it seems that we received the tragic news of their passing, and the bereft state of their only child, their son Thomas.”
An awkward silence fell over the hall now, and Iris felt a chill race up her back. She dare not even glance at Padraig from the corner of her eye.
“Yes, him you likely do remember. Or,
