To Serve a King by Donna Russo Morin Page A

is nothing you can do for the duchesse that we cannot.”
    The woman offered a counterfeit smile with her overly sweet sentiment.
    With a cynical glance at her, Arabelle urged Geneviève on with a genuine smile. With relief and no pause to examine the reasons for Jecelyn’s politeness, Geneviève rushed from the room, rounding down the spiral staircase, skirts flying out behind her, quick steps echoing up into the high stone circle of the stairwell. But once at the bottom, she caught herself up short. Where did she begin to look for a man in a palace she knew nothing about?
    It was midafternoon and the court was at its leisure, not at the hunt nor involved in any other sport. Where would a nobleman who was not a member of the king’s council be? Where would a gentleman pass his leisure time? The idea burst upon her and she spun left, making a run for the great hall.
    Fires burned in the giant stone recesses along the far wall, warding off the chill of a rainy spring day, but the crackle was no more than a simmering undercurrent, the low murmur of a babbling brook behind the cries of the forest animals.
    Knights, soldiers, pages, and men of all sorts filled the long wooden tables in the hall, a serving girl or two scattered in the mix.Their riotous calls ebbed and flowed as cards were slammed down in defeat, as a chess bishop took the life of a queen.
    Geneviève stood on the perimeter searching the faces, bearded and clean shaven, common and regal, but she found no familiar features. Granted, her male acquaintanceship at court was limited, but she should be able to find one of the men from her company the previous evening.
    A young serving boy passed, a tray heavy with mugs and a pitcher balanced upon splayed hands, frantically serving a court confined indoors.
    “Excusez-moi,” she said, stopping the young man with an outstretched hand.
    “Mademoiselle?” He tarried but did not halt.
    Geneviève skipped beside him. “Have you seen Baron Pitou, or perhaps the marquis de Limoges?”
    The young man’s face scrunched up with thought. “I know not of a Baron Pitou and the marquis is no longer at court. I saw him leave myself this very morn.”
    “The baron is new to court,” Geneviève explained, hoping to jog the lad’s memory with more information, though she had very little to give. “Tall and young, with wavy blond hair and blue eyes.”
    The boy did stop then, his gaze scanning the vast room. “I’m sorry, mademoiselle. Perhaps you might ask at the stables. The lads there know every man by their horse.”
    “An excellent suggestion.” Geneviève sent him on his way. “Merci.”
    For a few moments more, she searched the sea of faces, but found neither Baron Pitou, the duc de Ventadour, nor any of the men she had met. She left the room as swiftly as she had entered, making for the stables, stopping in her rooms long enough to gather her cloak and throw it about her shoulders. In a determined rush, she found her way through the maze of the palace’s first floor and out to the stables.
    The smell of wet horse clung to her nostrils and she held her hand against her nose in a vain attempt to hinder its assault.
    “Excuse me, young man?” From the door of the vast wooden outbuilding she called to the first squire she glimpsed within, unable to push herself across the boundary and farther into the odorous, airless interior.
    “Has Baron Pitou come for his horse today?”
    “Who, mam’selle?” The rugged man wiped the dirt and sweat from his face with a ragged cloth.
    Geneviève repeated the name and his description as well, but once more she received an unsatisfactory and surprising response.
    “I know of no such gentleman. And if he is in residence, he did not come by horse.”
    With a silent, frustrated curtsy of thanks, Geneviève turned away disappointed.
    “Try at the laundry,” he called after her. “The maids there might help. They clean all the rooms. Perhaps they would know of your