Page 89 of The Favourite

“You are generous,” Alisander replied. “I was thinking three.”

Albrici’s smile broadened as he turned toward him. “How are you, Visconte Bardulf? I hear you are lately married and neglected to invite me. I am mortally offended.”

“It was too bad of me, but you know how impulsive I am, my friend.”

“Impulsive? But the story I heard was less a matter of impulsivity and more a matter of cold calculation.” He contemplated Alisander coolly for a moment before continuing. “Then again, I might have misunderstood the tale. It was not in my native tongue, you understand.” He spread his hands. “Me, I would say you have great self-control, my lord, but what do I know? I am but a poor scholar of human nature.”

“You are too modest, my dear Albrici,” Alisander tutted.

“Always,” the other agreed with a sigh. “It has long been my greatest failing.”

“Whoever told you that?”

“My sainted mother, she always remarked upon it.”

“Ah, your mother. Now, I would have said your biggest weakness was a pretty face.”

“Ah yes.” Albrici fondled his moustache. “I am something of a connoisseur, it is true. What a pity it is, that the ravishing Lady Helen will never again grace Wymer’s court,” he sighed. “Now that was a beautiful woman. Such a shame.”

Alisander sent him a swift look. “She has not graced it in over six months now,” he said mildly, accepting a goblet of mead from a passing page.

“It is true,” Albrici conceded sadly, “there is a sad scarcity of handsome women at this court these days, I find.” He shook his head.

“Do you?” Alisander turned to him with a look of surprise. “I had heard quite differently. How strange.” He paused to let his words sink in. “I was sure it was you … but perhaps I am mistaken.”

Albrici looked ruffled. “But what rumor is this?” he cried, then looked quickly around to gauge if anyone was listening to them.

“Rumor? No, no, you mistake me. It was more of a conversation I overheard concerning how much time you were spending in the company of a certain … widow.”

The other man bridled. “But this is a gross falsehood and an impertinence!” He lowered his voice to a hiss. “There is not the smallest question of impropriety! We are—I assure you—cordial acquaintances, only!”

Alisander lifted his eyebrows. “There is not the slightest need of assurances, where I am concerned, signore. I have no connection to that lady’s family.”

Albrici seemed to recall his surroundings and subsided to a state of twitching impatience. “Always the rumors and speculations in this accursed place!” he grumbled.

“Alas, ‘tis true.”

“One can hardly even venture out—quite innocently—without others whispering in the corners!”

“It is too bad,” Alisander agreed. “Perhaps you, too, ought to marry? It might calm down certain … speculations.”

Albrici gave a start. “That lady, she is far from over her mourning period,” he said with heavy disapproval.

“Which lady?”

“The widow—” He broke off hastily. “That is, er, I do not know…”

Alisander smiled at him pityingly. “So nice to catch up with your news, Albrici,” he said, drifting away as the other floundered hopelessly. He walked almost immediately into Lord Vawdrey.

“Ah, Bardulf,” the other greeted him serenely. “Fortuitous meeting you here.”

“Vawdrey,” Alisander returned cautiously. “As you say, always a pleasure.”

Oswald Vawdrey’s smile broadened as he scrutinized him. “You are having, perhaps, a trying day?”

He pulled himself together. “Not at all. Where did you gain that impression?”

“Oh … nowhere.”