He had changed his cloak. The new one was dark blue wool lined in fur, clasped with silver at the throat. His pale hair had been combed, his gloves removed, his expression smoothed back into one of gentlemanly concern. He looked as if the day had grieved him rather than entertained.
Amelia wanted to throw the remaining cup shards at his head.
She arranged her hands in front of her instead and tried for helpless.
Judging by Dame Margaret’s faint lift of one brow, she was not doing a convincing job.
“Your chamber is comfortable?” Belmaine asked.
“It has a lock on the outside, but very cozy.”
His smile didn’t change. “For your protection.”
“Yes. Strange how many men keep protecting me from unlocked doors.”
Joan made a tiny choking sound and turned it into a cough.
Dame Margaret moved to the window and adjusted the shutter as if she had nothing better to do.
Belmaine looked at Joan. “Leave us.”
“No,” Amelia said.
His gaze cut back to her.
“I beg your pardon?”
“No. I’m not being left alone with you.”
“You are beneath my roof.”
“Against my will.”
“You’re overwrought.”
“I am extremely wrought.”
Dame Margaret’s mouth compressed.
Belmaine took one slow step closer. “Mistress Crale.”
“Not my name.”
“For the present, it is the name the law gives you.”
“Then the law needs glasses.”
“Your wit will not save you.”
“No, but it gives me something to do while everyone else catches up.”
There. The charm was thinning again. She could see it in the tightness near his mouth, the flatness in his eyes. Belmaine didn’t mind fear. He expected it, enjoyed it.
Mockery, however, sat poorly with him. Good to know.
He turned his attention to Dame Margaret. “Father Martin will speak with her.”
“So Joan tells me,” Dame Margaret said.
