A whole day of hunting, a whole day of Rhosyn keeping her ears pressed to the ground and yet Duke Karsyn hadn't tried anything out of the ordinary. Unless you count out-shooting Edrien. But Edrien had never been an impressive shot.
By the time everyone got back to Hemsgate, the scandalous rumours rippled through the aristocrats with new details. Lady Naome was said to be pregnant and by the way Lord Regin kept her close, he was not too pleased with the disgraceful gossip behind his back.
Rhosyn was sure that Karsyn had his hand in this scandal. It only cropped up after his appearance and he'd come with Lord Dowly, the young man at the centre of the affair. If the duke desired to humiliate a lord, Regin wasn't the best choice. He had a reputation for acting before thinking. He'd once marched his standing army of ninety-four men to his border with Lord Solsby, arguing that the man had been manipulating the borderline again.
But if it was a destabilised south and potential civil war, Regin was the finest choice.
There was a game the duke was playing and Rhosyn had to win.
She'd caught the burgundy coat of Dowly across the room, the ballroom in full swing again as crowds of lords and ladies mingled and danced. It was the perfect hunting ground, where conversations disappeared into the tempo of the music.
Rhosyn turned to survey the room, searching for the silver raven hidden amongst the nobles. With wandering eyes, she collided into a body, the collision sudden in her distraction.
"I'm terribly sorry, My Lady," a young lady dipped into a hurried curtsy, sloppy in its deliverance.
Her large doe eyes wide and complexion pale. Regin eyed up the commotion with annoyance and then Rhosyn realised. The young lady before her was Lady Naome, his daughter, somehow managing to get a moment of reprieve from the man.
Her fingers fidgeted with a folded piece of paper, nerves bubbling up as she bit on her lip. She would only have a few moments away from her father and by the way her eyes flickered over Rhosyn's shoulder, she was running out of time to chase Lord Dowly to somewhere hidden.
"No need to apologise, My Lady." Rhosyn smiled at the pretty young woman, the action easing the girl's anxiety. "It was I who was not looking where I was going."
Lady Naome flushed, probably perplexed that a high noble woman wouldn't reprimand her, regardless of being at fault. Rhosyn had been on the receiving end of that a few too many times when she was nothing other than her uncle's temporary heir.
Now she wanted to help the young lady more than ever. She was but a victim caught up in the politics of the realm.
Regin began to move, probably worried that his daughter had caused yet another issue of embarrassment for himself and Rhosyn decided to pick a side.
"Will you excuse me please, Lady Naome." She stepped around the young lady, heading off Regin with a brilliant smile. "Lord Regin, it's been too long." Rhosyn dipped into a curtsy too low for his standing. "I've heard that your Sunwold Amber wine has just finished resting for the season."
The short man paused, blinking away his original hostility. Regin was a hot-head, but he prided himself on his land—especially his home grown and pressed wine.
"Oh, yes," he sputtered out, straightening his collar and standing to full height—the top of his head coming to Rhosyn's nose. "This year the Goldskiff grape had been extra large—a sign of its sweetness. I didn't know you held an interest in wine, Lady Valewyn."
"And I guess it burned a brighter amber too?"
"A pristine burnt orange with hints of lilac—"
"The famous lilac tea rose, adding that crisp undercut," Rhosyn hummed, delighted as if tasting the sweet, nutty concoction.
"Either you know your wine, or you know how to flatter me, My Lady," Regin laughed, as if it didn't matter which answer was true—he was already charmed.
"What do you think of the new Frostpress White?"
Rhosyn caught the eye of a butler lingering close by, who instantly closed the few steps distance, tray laden with pale liquid glasses. She reached for two glasses, her fingers pressed around their stems and her eyes locked with a set of winter grey across the hall—Karsyn.
Lifting the two cups, she handed one to Regin and lightly touched rims with a fine clink. The wine was sickly sweet and smooth. As if someone desired to create a winter pear and quince dessert to drink. It wasn't Rhosyn's first choice, but it was necessary.
"A fine craft—and freshly pressed." Regin nodded his head, impressed by the Hemsgate Frostpress. Or impressed that they managed to create such a wine only two days ago from field to bottle.
"Indeed."
Rhosyn contemplated her glass, bracing herself for the ridiculous levels of alcohol it contained. It was as if the nobles had no taste and only the aspiration for results—ones that would have them so intoxicated that anything seemed like a good idea.
Heat already pooled in her chest and brushed lightly at her cheeks. Her head rushed, a million ideas muffled for the point of a good idea. She'd just have to push through.
"How are things in Sunwold, Lord Regin?"
The alcohol seemed to already be taking their effect on the short lord, his face beet red and the sunken gaze from his eyes tired and lazy.
"He moved that rock again, I'm telling you. The one shaped like an upside-down triangle." Regin's sunny disposition faded in the bitterness of alcohol.
It's an age-long debate of the Sunwold and Solsby Haugh over a cattle farm no less. The farmhouse resides on Sunwold land, where the pastures all encompass on the Solsby Haugh border. Both claim taxing rights on the same milk and calves, and every year it gets louder.
The problems of the south seemed far more petty than that of the north. Rhosyn couldn't help but glance out over the hall, expecting to find Karsyn where he was moments ago. But he'd vanished and somehow it curled unpleasantly at her.
"He must've recruited half a brigade to move it," Rhosyn said, as if entirely on his side.
"Exactly! He's more cunning than he looks." Regin brightened at being understood. "That Widdershard Stone has stood there since my grandfather's perambulation—till the flood took a bite out of the bank. Now Lord Solsby swears it 'settled truer' on its own..."
The lord had started rambling, something he was known to do to anyone who'd hear him out. Rhosyn's head hurt from sipping on the distasteful so-called wine and she searched out the nearby butler to dispose of the half-empty cup.
"...next he'll come for my manor, and then my—"
He'd given her an idea.
"Lord Regin, Lady Naome is of wedding age is she not? Why don't we match-make?" Rhosyn boldly suggested, the butler popping up beside her shoulder and she handed off her glass.
"Match… make…?"
Regin looked as if he might shrink into his boots. It was written all over his face, the anxiety that started to drip from his brow. His daughter was ruined in his eyes and he was walking a precipice of ruin as a noble.
But Rhosyn wasn't going to let his blanching face deter her from landing the hook.
"I hear that the lands of Ravenstair are the gateway to the north," she continued, watching as his eyes narrowed at her—good, he's listening. "The north love a good wine as much as the next nobleman and I heard a rumour that the Dowly Company has struck precious stones—grey-blue sapphires."
Regin's eyebrows hitch.
It was a rumour, but all she had to do was get Regin to the door—plant the idea. Ravenstair was a rich land in both minerals, metals and strategic positioning. It was a tax log for honest merchants to travel the hostile 'staircase' through the mountain pass and a death wish for those who chose to try their luck.
The method in which Dowly got tied up with Regin was messy and disrespectful. But Regin could do much worse for his daughter's marriage prospects, and marriage would solve their problem. If only Regin could look past the slight and rumours circulating.
"The way I see it, Lord Regin," Rhosyn dipped her voice low, just for him. "You can turn this scandal into a win. A secret wedding that only the closest of family attended up north, when you went to visit that church at the step of Ravenstair."
He leaned in, eyes searching the marble floor piecing together the plan, fueled with a newly discovered power.
"Remember, My Lord, I was there." Rhosyn took his glass from fidgeting hands. "All you have to do is say the word."
"B—But," his voice trembled unsure, "what if he denies it?"
Clearly, Regin was under the impression that Dowly used his daughter. He didn't know that the young nervous man was actually in love and due to his fear, or Regin's anger, failed to ask for her hand.
"If you want, I can reach an understanding with him. I think you'd find, however, it's in everyone's interest that the two wed," she murmured, head bowed close to his.
"Right," Regin exclaimed, "of course. If you could secure this adventure, Lady Valewyn, I'd been most grateful."
"And I'd receive that gratitude in the form of a bottle of Sunwold Amber," Rhosyn chimed, charmingly.
"A whole crate!" he exclaimed, pride bursting anew.
Rhosyn finally turned away, Regin happily mumbling to himself as he departed. All she had to do was find Dowly.