Peyton nodded sincerely. “I hope so. I only pray that I can keep from laughing when Lord Brian sees what a treasure he has in the de Fluornoy women. You must stick to the scheme, Ivy. Follow my lead and do what I do.”
Ivy continued to giggle as they rode up on the gate. They were met by several soldiers, led by three knights. One knight on a great brown destrier reached out to halt Peyton’s mount.
“Announce yourself, my lady,” he asked politely.
No time like the present to begin their act. Peyton smiled brightly and was positive she could hear a collective gasp of horror go up among the men.
“Lady Peyton de Fluornoy and party,” she said brightly. “We are expected.”
“Aye, you are,” the knight replied in a peculiar voice. “Move forward into the bailey and you shall be met by a steward who will direct you.”
She batted her dark-circled eyes at the knight and spurred her horse forward, followed by the rest of the group. Ivy made sure to smile at the knight as she rode past. Visor down, she couldn’t see his face but hoped he was disgusted with her appearance.
The knight turned to watch them as they rode into the open mouth of the courtyard. Ali did not know what to think.
The bailey was a vast thing, extremely well kept. It appeared more as a manicured drive than a bailey, servants with decorated dogs standing at spaced intervals and shaped dogwood trees flanking the main entrance to the castle. It was a busy courtyard, servants and residents alike moving about in chaotic order in anticipation of the impending arrivals. The excitement of a celebration filled the air and it was difficult not to catch on to the thrill. Even for the most recent reluctant guests, the excitement was intriguing.
A brightly colored steward in the Summerlin colors of red and silver stepped forward to greet them. Dressed in a satin tunic and hose with a satin cap, he bowed deeply.
“Might I have your house name, my lady?” he asked politely.
“De Fluornoy,” Peyton handed her reins to a servant and dismounted with help from one of her soldiers. The St. Cloven man peered at her most strangely and Peyton suspected that her cover would be blown before she had a chance to complete her objective. Pursing her lips threateningly at the dense soldier, the man hastily moved away from her.
“Ah yes! We have prepared a suite of rooms for you and your sister,” he turned sharply and snapped orders to a group of soldiers hovering a few feet away. Immediately, the men moved forward to collect the baggage.
As their parcels were efficiently removed, the steward returned his attention to Peyton. His eyes widening as he received a second, closer look at the lady; outrageously pale with black-shadowed eyes, he took an unconscious step away from her as if she carried the plague.
Peyton played into the man’s shock, beaming foolishly at him. “Thank you, sirrah. Would you be so kind as to show us to our rooms?”
“Are there going to be lots o’ men at the party?” Ivy chimed in loudly, making sure to exhibit her disgraceful teeth.
“Indeed! Men!” Peyton agreed eagerly, and the two of them cackled like witches before a cauldron.
The steward visibly flinched. “Aye, my ladies. There will be many…. uh, men,” he swallowed hard. “But…. butmarriedmen. There will be very few single men, or those who are unbetrothed. In fact,…”
Ivy cut him off. “Who cares if they are unwed or not. Just give me a good arse to pinch and….”
“Ivy!” Peyton admonished, half-serious. “Surely you must not think of a man as a fleeting pinch. After all– ’tis that very attitude that has driven two men to their grave already.”
Ivy sniffed, tossing hair that she had purposely mussed with leaves for a completely squalid effect. “Old badgers, both of them, with the potency of custard.”
“You made them old before their time,” Peyton retorted, laughing silently at the steward’s horrified expression.
Ivy put her hands on her round hips. “Do not portray yourself as an innocent, Peyton. Certainly, you are no saint.”
Peyton’s mouth opened in outrage and she shoved her sister boldly. “How dare you intimate that I am a whore!”
“Your words, darling, not mine,” Ivy advanced on her sister, pleased with the turn the act was taking.
“Oh!” Peyton shouted, incensed. “You pox-ridden, self-absorbed wench! How dare you insult me!”
She charged Ivy, a girl considerably larger than herself, and the two went tumbling to the ground in a great pile of silks and satins. The steward, appalled at the turn of events, loudly demanded for them to cease as the shocking situation exploded before his disbelieving eyes.
Grunting and screeching, Peyton and Ivy rolled about in the dusty bailey and slung insults that would have made a whore blush. Content with their play-acting, they wrapped their hands around each other’s necks and screamed louder. But themore they yelled and insulted each other, the more laughter threatened to jeopardize their scheme. Over and over they rolled until Peyton bumped into the wheels of the wagon. Jubil, a vacant expression on her face, stood by and watched without concern.
“Stick your fingers up her nose, Peyton,” Jubil called helpfully. “She shall stop soon enough.”
Peyton heard the encouragement and almost dissolved into hysterical giggles. Jubil was quite sane this day, an unusual state for their aunt, and had meant the comment to enhance their act. Jubil was most likable when she was rational.
