Victoria Janssen - The Duchess, Her Maid, the Groom & Their Lover

“Hold still,” Kaspar murmured, pressing her into a crouch next to the palace wall. Her dark cloak would melt into the dark granite, she hoped. He let his bag slide off his shoulder, next to her, and stepped into the light.

Trembling, Camille watched from beneath the hood of her cloak. Eunuchs were forbidden to venture outside the palace alone, and though she’d bent that rule before, there was no guarantee the guardsmen would do the same. If they decided to imprison Kaspar for the night, she could still make her way to the breeding barn alone, but retrieving Kaspar would be difficult, and delay their departure significantly. If the guards decided to escort him back to her chambers, and found her gone, it would be a disaster.

“Ho!” the smallest of the guardsmen called. “Kaspar!”

Worse and worse. Camille recognized the voice—Léopold, one of Michel’s personal honor guard, who reported directly to him. He stopped in the middle of the graveled path, hands planted on hips. “What’s amiss, eunuch? Searching for your manhood among the cowpats?”

“’Hap you can find it with them catamites at the Dewy Rose,” another said, and belched. A third guard cuffed him on the side of the head and murmured something, which led to a brief scuffle between the two.

Ignoring the byplay, Kaspar said, “I’m in search of Vilmos. Have you seen him?”

“Fucking His Grace, most like,” Léopold said, his perpetual sneer audible in his voice. “I’d leave his service first.”

The fourth guardsman spoke. “Better fucking His Grace than losing his ballocks.”

Kaspar said, his tone cool, “Better without ballocks than buggering His Grace’s filthy arse.”

If Kaspar provoked them into killing him, Camille would kill him again. She closed her eyes as insults began to fly faster and more foully, soon succeeded by the meaty smack of fists on flesh; the crash of the lantern being dropped; the thumps of large bodies hitting the ground; grunts and curses and panting. After a few minutes, she opened her eyes and found that two of the guardsmen were dragging Kaspar off Léopold’s supine form. The last guardsman doubled over in the grass, vomiting.

“You’d better be off before Léopold comes to,” one of them said. Camille recognized his voice: Rodrigue, another of Michel’s honor guard. “Eugène, you, too. You can’t afford any more trouble. Weren’t you due on duty at dawn?” Eugène cursed and sprinted for the door into the palace. Camille winced as the door slammed shut behind him.

“Thanks,” Kaspar said.

“You’d better be off to Her Grace, in case Léopold takes it into his head to make trouble,” Rodrigue said, bending to hoist Léopold over his shoulder. He snagged the fourth guardsman by the sleeve and then shoved him toward the door. “If I see Vilmos, I will let him know you asked after him. Take the lantern, will you?”

“My thanks, again.” Kaspar stood watching as Rodrigue and his drunken companion maneuvered Léopold through the narrow door, thumping his head against the wall more than once in the process. Then he wiped his sleeve across his face; in the lantern light, Camille saw a dark stain of blood beneath his nose.

Slowly, she unkinked her back and stood, propping one hand against the wall. Kaspar looked in her direction and snuffed the lantern. She heard his shoes crunching on gravel, then a clank as he set the lantern on the ground, next to the door. Camille took a deep breath and joined him. Softly, she said, “Thank you.”

Kaspar said, “Léopold might be trouble.”

“Then we’d best hurry.”

His hand took hers in the darkness, and as he led her to the rear gate, Camille felt a rising joy. Soon she would be free.

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