Best you return abovestairs.”

Honore looked up at Elias as he escorted her from the dais. “Surely you do not believe Finwyn will be amongst those who entertain Lord Costain’s guests?” she asked.

“Not to entertain, but he may move among the guests to search out those interested in a different sort of entertainment.”

“Then neither of us can be seen.”

“Thus, I shall observe from the gallery.” He nodded at the balcony coursing one wall. Overlooking the hall, musicians engaged to supplement the music provided by the troupe were settling in with their instruments. “A good vantage from which to see and not be seen.”

“I would like to watch with you.”

Elias was tempted to agree since she would recognize the miscreant before he whose dealings with the man were fewer and under cover of night.

“Should he disguise himself as a performer,” she pressed, “I know his stature and mannerisms well enough to recognize him sooner than you.”

“I am thinking the same.” He guided her past guests who gathered at the center of the hall while servants moved the dining chairs and benches to the perimeter to afford a better view.

Halting before the stairs, he said, “I shall follow shortly.”

She slipped out of his hold and raised her skirt.

Though inclined to watch her ascend the steps, Elias distanced himself the sooner to shed lingering looks. The De Morvilles were of too much interest.

“Sir Elias!”

He donned a face, turned to the sisters. “Ladies.”

“Did you enjoy the meal?” Lady Vera tilted her head, exposing her neck to the caress of torchlight.

“I did. I thank you and your mother for a glorious feast.”

Her eyebrows rose above eyes that could not hope to match the blue nor depth of Honore’s. “What was your favorite dish?”

How to answer when he knew he had eaten only because his belly did not ache? “Dear lady, that is like asking which of the Costain sisters is the loveliest—the light or the dark, the blue-eyed or the brown-eyed.” He looked between them. “The one most accomplished at song or at dance.”

Both laughed, pleasing to the ear but not as pleasing as another’s laugh. Too, he liked another’s smile better for its lack of perfection.

Lady Vera released a long, musical breath. “Food aside, there is one thing that might aid in choosing between my sister and me.”

Telling himself he had only himself to blame, he said, “That is, my lady?”

She set her chin higher. “Which of us is more a woman than a girl?”

As there was no way to avoid offending one or both, she had him where she wanted him. But there was something to smile about, and he did, causing the triumphant turn of her lips to convulse.

“Lady Vera, you are a treasure worthy of being the only one in a man’s keeping. I am sorry if my decision not to be that man offended, for I believe you will make a very good wife. But as I am certain I could not be as good and worthy a husband to you, it would be wrong to deny you the opportunity to find true happiness—and love.”

Only when she settled into her heels did he realize she had been on her toes as if to better see his dismay. She clicked her tongue. “It is impossible to dislike you, Sir Elias.”

“I cannot say I am sorry.”

She laughed again, as did her watchful sister, then touched his arm. “Will you sit with us?”

He grinned. “And risk our fathers once more seeking to match us as they please?”

“You are right.” She sent her gaze around the hall, narrowed it. “Methinks Sir Leofric a bit young—more a boy than a man—but I like him. He and his friend will sit with us, Gwen.” She curtsied and drew her sister away.

Elias did not realize he was still smiling until the feeling of being watched drew his regard to the gallery. The musicians were visible on their seats near the railing, but not Honore. She stood in shadow to the left alongside a pillar, her presence and gaze entirely felt.

A stick thumped the floor, then Lord Costain’s son boomed, “The performance is about to begin. Take your seats!”

Amid the rush to comply, Elias ascended to the gallery. Mostly ignored by those tuning their instruments, he strode behind them.

It was a mistake to share the dark with Honore he realized when struck by the longing to slide an arm around her and draw her back against him. But were they to work together and stay out of sight, it was necessary.

Peering across her shoulder, she said low, “Lady Vera is lovely and seems of a kindly disposition.”

“She is.”

“Methinks your father has chosen well.”

“She is very young.”

“That sounds a complaint. Most men—”

“I am not most men. When I wed, it is a wife I want, not a daughter I must raise to womanhood.”

He felt her surprise. Though he meant what he said, he regretted sounding angry.

“Admirable,” she murmured. “I did not mean to offend.”

“You do not. What offends are men—especially ones old enough to be a father or grandfather—who steal a girl’s youth, health, even her life to gain immortality by making sons on her. Men who think naught of disposing of daughters by wedding them to whoever proves most advantageous to their purses.”

As the musicians began strumming, blowing, plucking, and drumming, she said, “Your father.”

“One among many. When he believed me dead alongside my older brother, he ruined a girl who birthed only daughters ere she could give no more. Do I not soon provide a grandson, he will set her aside and ruin another.”

“And yet you will not wed Lady Vera.”

“Though now more a woman than a year past when I offended her family and angered my father by refusing to take to wife a fourteen-year-old, I will not wed one nearly half my age.”

“But you seem taken with her.”

“Calculated flirtation to make amends and ensure our welcome.”

He heard her swallow. “Then whom will you wed so your sire does not ruin another girl?”

“I know not, but I have a year ere that must be done.”

“A year?”

“To repair the rift with my sire, I gave my word that within two years I would wed a lady acceptable to both of us. One year remains.”

After a long moment, she said, “You will make a good husband, Elias De Morville. And father.”

The stick sounding again, its thump echoing around the walls and silencing the musicians, Honore turned forward.

Forcing his gaze past golden hair that tempted his fingers, Elias looked to the doors before which Sir Damien stood and felt excitement stir as if he were outside waiting to be let in, as if the tales he would tell swirled above his thoughts, the dance he would dance twitched his feet, the songs he would sing expanded his lungs.

When a hush of anticipation fell over all, Sir Damien stepped to the side and nodded at the porters.

The doors were swung wide, and against the night the performers were a feast of color, from painted faces to costumes, instruments, batons, balls, and exotic animals.

“The family of Costain are pleased to present Jake the Jack and his Troupe Fantastique!” Sir Damien announced.

The man at the fore, garbed in close-fitting chausses and tunic fashioned of blocks of red, black, and yellow material, and holding white batons, gave a sweeping bow. Then he leapt forward, tossed the batons high ahead of him, and twice sprang from hands to feet before recapturing the sticks.

As his audience roared and clapped, he dropped his head back and smiled out of a face colored white but for eyes and mouth rimmed in black. “Fantastique!” he shouted in an unnaturally deep voice. Then, running, tumbling, and dancing, the other performers entered the hall.

The first act, accompanied by the musicians in the gallery, was so breathtaking Elias could have lost himself in it if not for the reason he was here. He could not forget those exploited by a troupe likely led by Jake the Jack.

“I have never seen such,” Honore whispered.

“Oui, they are very good.”

She set a shoulder against a pillar. “A pity their hearts are black.”

Once more struggling against pulling her into his arms, he said, “Hopefully, not all.”

“Certes, Jake the Jack.”

As he had concluded, and in that moment whatever he felt for Honore he felt more. No girl this. A woman unafraid to engage her mind ahead of her body.

Singing followed, causing other members of the troupe to take to the walls behind their audience. Most settled in, but some moved around the perimeter. It was these Elias observed and would have directed Honore to watch did she not point them out.

Next, a troubadour clothed in a tunic painted to look like chain mail and holding the reins of a great wolfhound fit with a saddle, transfixed all with the tale of ill-fated lovers Pyramus and Thisbe. So perfectly and passionately was it delivered Elias knew he could learn from the man were he able to give his undivided attention. He could not. And he was glad of it when he saw a male singer crouch behind a nobleman several seats removed from Otto.

“There,” Elias said.

“I see him.”

Over the next several minutes, with the troubadour’s tale and accompanying song more annoyance than entertainment, they watched the exchange between nobleman and performer. It was so discreet it seemed no others noticed. Then the nobleman nodded, dipped into his purse, and as if merely clearing the hair from his brow, passed payment over his shoulder.

As the singer resumed his place against the wall, the thick-necked woman who had earlier bent herself out of shape approached the young knights seated with the Costain sisters. A quick end was put to that encounter by the one alongside Lady Vera. The knight backhanded the air and nearly struck the woman’s face, causing her to retreat so quickly others would have noticed were they not enraptured by the tale.

Over the next half hour of dancing, juggling, and the display of exotic animals, more attempts were made to find an audience for Théâtre des Abominations and five more payments given.

Would Costain’s guests collect on that for which they had paid at the intermission when drinks and viands were served, or at night’s end? Likely intermission, and after the second half of the show, another batch of nobility would slip from the castle.

Minutes later it came to pass when the break was called and servants entered bearing platters and pitchers. Though it appeared all but two of the performers remained in the hall to make themselves available to admirers while easing their own thirst and hunger, six of the guests moved toward the great doors left wide open to cool the hall heated by a crackling fire and the press of bodies.

“I shall follow them and, if there is time, rouse my father’s men,” Elias said as he drew Honore across the back of the gallery. “You will return to your chamber.”

“Can I not—?”

“Non. And pray, do not argue. I will not agree, and you will only delay my departure, giving them a chance to slip away.”

“I will do as told,” she acquiesced, and he left her on the landing and descended the stairs.

Honore entered the chamber she was to share with the young ladies and opened the shutters as Elias appeared in the bailey below. There was no sight of the guests who had departed ahead of him, and as he broke into a run, she prayed he would overtake them, be safe, and soon return with Hart and the others.

A quarter hour later, Jake the Jack departed the hall, and she feared if his destination was also Théâtre des Abominations, he would see Elias stole after his patrons. But with great leisure and turns, tosses, and catches of the batons, he crossed the bailey and settled in the shadow to the left of the inner gatehouse tower. The answer to what he did there was the noblewoman of middling years who joined him.

Honore could not see into the dark where torchlight barely stole, but she would remain at the window until Elias returned.

Leaning against the embrasure, she peered out across the castle to the dimly lit land. As the tents were erected back from the walls, she could see the tops of many and the glow of fires. Beyond them lay the wood, and possibly the sideshow.

“Lord,” she whispered, “pray—”

Movement returned her gaze to the bailey, and she saw a knight pass beneath the raised portcullis.

She caught her breath. Not a knight. A squire. And not alone.

The head of the one whose arm he gripped was lowered, but though she could not see the face of the slight figure, all of her leapt.

She nearly called to Hart, but there were others in the bailey beyond the garrison patrolling the walls, and she dare not alert Jake the Jack. But a moment later he emerged as if she had called to her boy. Hands empty of batons, he stared after the two moving around the side as if to enter the donjon by way of the garden.

Had the man recognized Hart? Or did he merely suspect?

The woman who had joined him appeared and drew him back toward the inner wall. He shook off her hand, but as fear constricted Honore’s heart, urging her to call out a warning, Jake the Jack returned to the shadows.

Honore ran.

With the guests in the hall resuming their seats for the second half of the performance, easily she moved past them and was waylaid only upon entering the kitchen corridor behind servants carrying platters of decimated viands.

“Honore!” Cynuit stepped in her path. “Is it not wondrous? I thought Sir Elias most entertaining but—”

“Later.” She sidestepped.

“Something is wrong?”

No longer, she thought and called over her shoulder, “All is right. Enjoy the show.”

All was not right, but nearly so. Thus, it was best the boy remain where he was safe.

Honore expected to find Theo and Hart in the heated kitchen, but amidst the servants setting aright the mess of many, they were not to be seen. Certain they could not have reached the hall, Honore guessed they were in the garden.

“Pardon!” she exclaimed when she bumped into a servant, nearly causing him to lose hold of an enormous tray upon which sat empty tankards and goblets.

His annoyance quickly replaced by a taut smile and deferential nod, she opened the door and stepped into a cool night all the more comfortable after the moist heat left behind. She closed the door, looked around.

Naught. Only vegetation softly lit by torches beyond the garden wall.

Thinking Theo and Hart must be hidden behind a tree or bush, Honore called, “Theo? It is Honore. Come out!”

A groan, not of a boy but a man.

She hastened down the path, heard the sound again, and corrected her course.

“Theo?” she said upon reaching the wooden gate and finding no one there. “Hart?”

Another groan, directly in front but not this side of the gate.

She fumbled with the latch and swung the gate open. In the shadow of the donjon, a familiar figure was on hands and knees. Alone.

Honore dropped down beside him. “Theo, where is Hart?”

He pushed back onto his heels, groped at the back of his head. “I know not what struck me. I…had the boy.” He shook his head, grunted. “Felt like a stick.”

A baton. Jake the Jack had not returned to the shadows to continue his tryst. Recognizing Hart, he had retrieved his batons.

“He has taken Hart,” she said. “You must help me get him back.”

He lurched upright. “I have failed my lord.”

“Theo—”

“Was bringing the boy to you. Let down my guard.”

“Theo—”

“Should have stayed alert.”

A slap landed, stinging her palm. Though there was not enough light to see the red of Theo’s cheek, she saw the whites of wide-flung eyes. “Forgive me,” she said, “but we have no time to waste.”

“Of course!” He turned into the inner bailey. Were his legs not long and strong enough to compensate for the blow to his head that made it impossible for him to maintain a straight course, Honore would have led the way. As it was, hampered by skirts and a shorter stride, she was barely able to keep pace. And another thing slowed her as she ran past the glowering noblewoman whose tryst had been interrupted—pain in her heel that made her look behind.

Small, round objects were scattered across the hard-packed dirt, one of which made itself felt through her thin-soled slippers. Beads? She swept her gaze forward in time to avoid colliding with a man-at-arms who called after her, “What goes, my lady?”

The answer to that was Theo who had passed beneath the inner portcullis into the outer bailey where torches were more numerous, being set to light not only that place but the land before the castle.

The regard of those who patrolled the walls less weighty than when Honore had first entered here, likely a result of the festivities and the belief those who came and went were but performers, she ignored them. And picked out more beads—one here, two there, several kicked up by Theo’s trampling before he stopped to question a man-at-arms alongside the outer portcullis. The latter nodded, gestured to the tents, and the squire hastened past.

As much as Honore longed to inspect the beads, she dared not lest Theo leave her farther behind.

When he halted just off the drawbridge, she overtook him. “What did the man-at-arms say?” she asked as he stared out across the camp.

“He confirmed one of the troupe, costumed with a heavily-painted face, left the castle minutes ago. The man claimed the boy with him was his son who had disobeyed and stolen into the donjon to watch the performance.”

“Did he say which direction?”

“Just the tents.”

She breathed deep. “He will take Hart from here. We must—”

There—more beads. She scooped them up, turned toward the castle to make better use of torchlight.

They were so simple they were almost crude, but smooth and familiar. Fairly certain they were her prayer beads, she recalled her loss of them to Finwyn who had sought to remove evidence the witch he intended to name her was God-fearing.

Meaning Jake the Jack was Finwyn, his face hidden by paint? Not possible, and yet no other explanation could she find. She who had assured Elias she could more quickly identify the miscreant had failed. But providing there were yet beads to be shed, they would lead to Hart.

“These.” She thrust her hand toward the squire. “The prayer beads taken from me when Finwyn tried to drown me in the stream. He leaves a trail.”

The squire frowned. “You think it was Arblette who struck me? I think you are wrong. I left him searching for Hart on foot—”

“It has to be him.” She sighed. “Finwyn or not, the one who took Hart unwittingly marks his path.”

“Then we follow the beads.”

Their course remaining crooked and broken as they searched them out, once more he led the way.