Finally, the princess, who had been turning the ring over in her fingers, spoke up. “Who is it who chops the vegetables for my soup, good cook?”
The cook puffed out his chest. “Why, I do, Your Highness!”
“And who is it who sets the soup upon the fire to boil?”
“I do, Your Highness!”
“And who is it who stirs the soup while it boils?”
The cook’s eyes widened. “The little kitchen boy.”
And what a commotion that caused!
“Fetch the little kitchen boy at once!” cried the king. . . .
—from LAUGHING JACK
Jasper woke the next morning and knew even before he opened his eyes that he was alone. There was a coldness in the pallet where before Melisande’s warmth had been against his side. The scent of oranges lingered faintly, but she was no longer in the room. He sighed, feeling the ache of muscles used until exhaustion. She had worn him out, but in the end, he’d heard what he wanted to know. She loved him.
Melisande loved him.
He opened his eyes on the thought. He probably didn’t deserve her love. She was an intelligent, sensitive, beautiful woman, and he was a man who had watched his best friend burn to death. In some ways, he bore scars deeper than the men who had been physically tortured. His scars were on his soul, and they still seeped blood now and again. He was hardly a worthy object of any woman’s love, let alone Melisande’s. And what was worse—what made him tru�souly a cad—was that he had no intention of ever letting her go. He might not be entirely worthy of her love, but he would hold it close until the day he died. He’d not let her change her mind. Melisande’s love was a healing salve, a balm upon his scars, and he would treasure it for the rest of his life.
The thoughts made him restless, and he rolled to his feet. He didn’t bother ringing for Pynch but washed and got dressed by himself. He ran down the stairs, where he found out from Oaks that Melisande had gone to visit his mother and wouldn’t be back for an hour or more.
Jasper felt a vague disappointment, mingled with relief. The discovery of her love for him was very fresh—it was almost too sensitive to bear touch. He wandered into the breakfast room and picked up a bun, biting into it absentmindedly. But he was too restless to sit and eat. His limbs felt as if bees had entered his blood and buzzed through his veins.
He finished the roll in two more bites and strode to the front of the house. Melisande might not be back for several hours, and he couldn’t simply sit and wait. Besides, there was a chore he needed to get through, and he might as well do it now. He should finish this thing with Matthew. And if it was another dead end, as he suspected, well then maybe his lady wife was right.
Maybe it was time to let Spinner’s Falls go and let Reynaud rest in peace.
“Ask Pynch to come here, please,” Jasper said to Oaks. “And have two horses brought ’round.”
He paced the hall as he waited.
Pynch appeared from the back of the house. “My lord?”
“I’m going to talk to Matthew Horn,” Jasper said. He gestured for Pynch to follow as he strode out the doors. “I want you to accompany me in case of . . .” He waved his hand vaguely.
The valet understood. “Of course, my lord.”
The two men mounted the waiting horses, and Jasper nudged his bay into a trot. The day was a grim gray. Low clouds hung overhead, threatening rain.
“I don’t like this,” he muttered as he rode. “Horn is a gentleman from a good family, and I consider him a friend. If our suspicions are correct . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head. “It will be bad. Very bad.”
Pynch didn’t answer, and they rode the remainder of the way in silence. Jasper did not relish this task, but it must be done. If Horn was the traitor, he must be brought to some kind of justice.
A half hour later, Jasper pulled his horse to a halt in front of Matthew Horn’s town house. He looked at the old bricks and thought of the family that had lived here for generations. Horn’s mother was an invalid, confined to this house now. God, this was a nasty business. Jasper sighed and dismounted his horse, then climbed the steps grimly. He knocked at the door and waited, conscious that Pynch stood on a step just below him.
There was a long pause. The house was still, no sound coming from within. Jasper took a step back, glancing up at the windows above. Nothing stirred. He frowned and knocked again, more forcefully this time. Where were the servants? Had Horn told them not to let him in?
He was raising his hand to pound once more when the door creaked open. A harried-looking young footman looked out.
“Is your master at home?” Jasper asked.
“I believe so, sir.”
Jasper cocked his head. “Then will you let us in so I may see him?”
The footman flushed. “Of course, sir.” He held the door wide. “If you’ll wait in the library, sir, I’ll fetch Mr. Horn.”
“Thank you.” Jasper entered the room with Pynch and looked about.
Everything was the same as the last time he’d visited Matthew. A clock ticked on the mantelpiece, and from the street came the muted sounds of carriages. Jasper strolled to the map that was missing Italy to examine it while they waited. The map hung beside two large wing chairs and a table in a corner. As he neared, he heard a sort of whimper. Pynch started toward him even as Jasper leaned over a chair to look in the corner.
Two people were on the floor behind the chairs, a woman cradling a man in her lap. She rocked back and forth steadily, a whispered whimper coming from her lips. The man’s coat was fouled with blood, and a dagger still protruded from his chest. He was quite obviously dead.
“What has happened here?” Jasper asked.
The woman raised her eyes. She was pretty, her eyes a lovely blue, but her face was bone-white, her lips colorless.
“He said we would have a fortune,” she said. “Enough money to go to the country and open a tavern of our own. He said that he’d marry me and we would be rich.”
She dropped her eyes again, quietly rocking.