“I have a feeling he’s not going to get up for a while,” Celaena said, and when she turned to Sam, he was frowning. He’d always had a mixture of sorrow and sympathy for the courtesans—and such hatred for their clients. His mother’s end hadn’t been a happy one. Perhaps that was why he tolerated the insufferable Lysandra and her insipid companions.
Someone almost knocked into Celaena from behind, but she sensed the staggering man and easily sidestepped out of his path. “This is a madhouse,” she muttered, her gaze rising to the girls on the swings as they floated through the room. They arched their backs so far that it was a miracle their br**sts stayed in their corsets.
“I can’t even imagine how much Bardingale spent on this party.” Sam was so close his breath caressed her cheek. Celaena was actually more curious about how much the hostess was spending on keeping Doneval distracted; clearly, no cost was too great, if she’d hired Celaena to help destroy Doneval’s trade agreement and get those documents back into safe hands. But perhaps there was more to this assignment than just the slave-trade agreement and blackmailing list. Perhaps Bardingale was tired of supporting her former husband’s decadent lifestyle. Celaena couldn’t bring herself to blame her.
Even though Doneval’s cushioned alcove was meant to be private, he certainly wanted to be seen. And from the bottles of sparkling wine that had been set on the low table before him, she could tell he had no intention of getting up. A man who wanted to be approached by others—who wanted to feel powerful. He liked to be worshipped. And at a party hosted by his former wife, he had some nerve associating with those courtesans. It was petty—and cruel, if she thought about it. But what good did knowing that do her?
He rarely spoke to other men, it seemed. But who said his business partner had to be a man? Maybe it was a woman. Or a courtesan.
Doneval was now slobbering over the neck of the girl on his other side, his hand roaming along her bare thigh. But if Doneval were in league with a courtesan, why would he wait until three days from now before making the document exchange? It couldn’t be one of Clarisse’s girls. Or Clarisse herself.
“Do you think he’s going to meet with his conspirator tonight?” Sam asked.
Celaena turned to him. “No. I have a feeling that he’s not foolish enough to actually do any dealings here. At least, not with anyone except Clarisse.” Sam’s face darkened.
If Doneval enjoyed female company, well, that certainly worked in favor of her plan to get close to him, didn’t it? She began winding her way through the crowd.
“What are you doing?” Sam said, managing to keep up with her.
She shot him a look over her shoulder, nudging people out of the way as she made for the alcove. “Don’t follow me,” she said—but not harshly. “I’m going to try something. Just stay here. I’ll come find you when I’m done.”
He stared at her for a heartbeat, then nodded.
Celaena took a long breath through her nose as she mounted the steps and walked into the raised alcove where Doneval sat.
Chapter Five
The four courtesans noticed her, but Celaena kept her eyes on Doneval, who looked up from the neck of the courtesan currently on the receiving end of his affection. His bodyguard was alert, but didn’t stop her. Fool. She forced a little smile to her lips as Doneval’s eyes roved freely. Up and down, down and up. That was why she’d opted for a lower-cut dress than usual. It made her stomach turn, but she stepped closer, only the low-lying table between her and Doneval’s sofa. She gave a low, elegant curtsy. “My lord,” she purred.
He was not a lord in any sense, but a man like that had to enjoy fancy titles, however unearned they might be.
“May I help you?” he said, taking in her dress. She was definitely more covered-up than the courtesans around him. But sometimes there was more allure in not seeing everything.
“Oh, I’m so sorry to interrupt,” she said, tilting her head so that the light from the lanterns caught in her eyes and set them sparkling. She knew well enough which of her features men tended to notice—and appreciate—most. “But my uncle is a merchant, and he speaks so highly of you that I …” She now looked at the courtesans as if suddenly noticing them, as if she were a good, decent girl realizing the company he kept and trying not to become too embarrassed.
Doneval seemed to sense her discomfort and sat up, removing his hand from the thigh of the girl next to him. The courtesans all went a bit rigid, shooting daggers in her direction. She might have grinned at them had she not been so focused on her act.
“Go on, my dear,” Doneval said, his eyes now fixed on hers. Really, it was too easy.
She bit her lip, tucking her chin down—demure, shy, waiting to be plucked. “My uncle is sick tonight and couldn’t attend, but he was so looking forward to meeting you, and I thought I might make an introduction on his behalf, but I’m so terribly sorry to have interrupted you.” She made to turn, counting down the heartbeats until …
“No, no—I’d be pleased to make the acquaintance. What is your name, my dear girl?”
She turned back, letting the light catch in her blue-gold eyes again. “Dianna Brackyn; my uncle is Erick Brackyn …” She glanced at the courtesans, giving her best alarmed-innocent-maiden look. “I—I truly don’t wish to interrupt you.” Doneval kept drinking her in. “Perhaps, if it would not be an inconvenience or an impertinence, we could call on you? Not tomorrow or the day after, since my uncle has some contract with the court in Fenharrow to work on, but the day after that? Three days from now, is what I mean.” She made a little coo of a laugh.
“It wouldn’t be an impertinence in the least,” Doneval crooned, leaning forward. Mentioning Fenharrow’s wealthy court had done the trick. “In fact, I much admire you for having the nerve to approach me. Not many men would, let alone young women.”
She almost rolled her eyes, but she just fluttered her eyelashes ever so slightly. “Thank you, my lord. What time would be convenient for you?”
“Ah,” Doneval said. “Well, I have dinner plans that night.” Not a hint of nerves, or a flicker of anxiety in his eyes. “But I am free for breakfast, or lunch,” he added with a growing smile.
She sighed dramatically. “Oh, no—I think I might have committed myself then, actually. What about tea that afternoon? You say you have dinner plans, but perhaps something before … ? Or maybe we’ll just see you at the theater that night.”
He fell silent, and she wondered if he was growing suspicious. But she blinked, tucking her arms into her sides enough that her chest squeezed a bit more out of her neckline. It was a trick she’d used often enough to know it worked. “I would certainly like to have tea,” he said at last, “but I’ll also be at the theater after my dinner.”
She gave him a bright smile. “Would you like to join us in our box? My uncle has two of his contacts from Fenharrow’s court joining us, but I just know he’d be honored to have you with us as well.”
He cocked his head, and she could practically see the cold, calculating thoughts churning behind his eyes. Come on, she thought, take the bait … Contacts with a wealthy businessman and Fenharrow’s court should be enough.
“I’d be delighted,” he said, giving her a smile that reeked of trained charm.
“I’m sure you have a fine carriage to escort you to the theater, but we’d be doubly honored if you’d use ours. We could pick you up after your dinner, perhaps?”
“I’m afraid my dinner is rather late—I’d hate to make you or your uncle tardy for the theater.”
“Oh, it wouldn’t be a problem. What time does your dinner begin—or end, I suppose is the better question!” A giggle. A twinkle in her eye that suggested the sort of curiosity in what a man like Doneval would be eager to show an inexperienced girl. He leaned farther forward. She wanted to claw at the skin his gaze raked over with such sensual consideration.
“The meal should be over within an hour,” he drawled, “if not sooner; just a quick meal with an old friend of mine. Why don’t you stop by the house at eight thirty?”
Her smile grew, genuine this time. Seven thirty, then. That’s when the deal would occur. How could he be that foolish, that arrogant? He deserved to die just for being so irresponsible—so easily lured by a girl who was far too young for him.
“Oh, yes!” she said. “Of course.” She rattled off details about her uncle’s business and how well they’d get along, and soon she was curtsying again, giving him another long look at her cl**vage before she walked away. The courtesans were still glaring at her, and she could feel Doneval’s hungry gaze on her disappearing form until the crowd swallowed her up. She made a show of going over to the food, keeping up the demure maiden façade, and when Doneval finally stopped watching her, she let out a sigh. That had certainly gone well. She loaded a plate with food that made her mouth water—roast boar, berries and cream, warm chocolate cake …
From a few feet away, she found Leighfer Bardingale watching her, the woman’s dark eyes remarkably sad. Pitying. Or was it regret for what she had hired Celaena to do? Bardingale approached, brushing against Celaena’s skirts on her way to the buffet table, but Celaena chose not to acknowledge her. Whatever Arobynn had told the woman about her, she didn’t care to know. Though she would have liked to know what perfume Bardingale was wearing; it smelled like jasmine and vanilla.
Sam was suddenly beside her, appearing in that silent-as-death way of his. “Did you get what you needed?” He followed Celaena as she added more food to her plate. Leighfer took a few scoops of berries and a dollop of cream and disappeared back into the crowd.
Celaena grinned, glancing to the alcove where Doneval had now returned to his hired company. She deposited her plate on the table. “I certainly did. It appears he’s unavailable at seven thirty in the evening that day.”
“So we have our meeting time,” Sam said.
“Indeed we do.” She turned to him with a triumphant smirk, but Sam was now watching Doneval, his frown growing as the man continued pawing at the girls around him.
The music shifted, becoming livelier, the twins’ voices rising in a wraithlike harmony. “And now that I got what I came here for, I want to dance,” Celaena said. “So drink up, Sam Cortland. We’re not washing our hands in blood tonight.”
She danced and danced. The beautiful youths of Melisande had gathered near the platform that held the twin singers, and Celaena had gravitated toward them. Bottles of sparkling wine passed from hand to hand, mouth to mouth. Celaena swigged from all of them.
Around midnight, the music changed, going from organized, elegant dances to a frenzied, sensual sound that had her clapping her hands and stomping her feet in time. The Melisanders seemed eager to writhe and fling themselves about. If there were music and movements that embodied the wildness and recklessness and immortality of youth, they were here, on this dance floor.