No, she really shouldn’t. She was truly damning herself. Thank God Mary was not actually the Queen or young Mistress Vavasour would find herself packed off back to her family, shamed. “Come now. However will I learn about such things if you do not teach me?”
Mistress Vavasour did not need much coaxing. She leaned closer. “He did take me away from the festivities the other night.”
“Two nights ago? The second night of Christmas?”
“Yes, after that awkward moment with that murdering strumpet.” Mary did not react and was proud of herself. “He practically chased me out of the hall. He said I was distraught and needed to rest. He was right, of course—so thoughtful. For some reason I couldn’t stop sobbing.”
Mary understood the sentiment. “So you were with him the rest of the evening? When did he leave you?”
“Oh, no.” Mistress Vavasour looked a little embarrassed. “He was only with me a few minutes. I was surprised when he said he wished to . . . couple with me. After all, there was no bed and he insisted I bend over a chair. So I did as he asked—he is an earl after all.”
Mary could not take much more of this, but kept her expression eager.
Mistress Vavasour continued. “Then he got angry. I do not know what I did wrong. He slapped my bottom and I did my best not to yelp. I just waited there, sure he would do something exciting. Instead he yelled at me. He said I was ‘too damn compliant’ and left. He was not with me more than ten minutes.”
“Do you know where he went after he left you?”
“No. I did not follow. I had seen Baroness Sheffield in the corridor beyond the room and did not wish to explain what I had been doing alone with Lord Oxford.”
Mary was surprised when the girl’s eyes brimmed and she gazed imploringly. “Did I do something wrong? How did I displease him? I did what he asked, but I am still learning about these things.”
“Oh, sweet girl.” Mary felt terrible for her. “Believe me—it is not that way with more gentle men. Be glad he did not go further.”
Mistress Vavasour looked thoughtful, but no longer seemed on the verge of tears. “He is not like other men, is he? He has not even tried to kiss me yet. Most men start with a kiss, don’t they?”
Poor, poor girl. “Yes, yes they do.”
“Oh . . . ” Her voice trailed off, and she took a healthy swig of her mead.
Mary sipped more delicately—mead was not designed to be swigged.
“So I should let him bed me, but act like I don’t want him. Is that what you recommend?”
Mary looked, in shock, at the scheming face of the young maid of honor. She couldn’t help feeling as if she’d created a monster. “I recommend seeking out a different husband, an available one—one that will treat you well.”
“It would not matter how he treated me as long as he made me his countess.”
This time, Mary took a swig of her drink. Hardly tasting the honey and spice of the mead, she swallowed and choked out, “Pray excuse me,” before turning back into the fray of the ballroom.
Chapter Ten
Sir Charles could not believe that his brother would be raising the hopes of such a young girl. Well, of course he could believe it, but he would never get used to Ned’s depravity.
“So next we speak to Baroness Sheffield.” Mary was still coughing when she spoke.
“She will not be as easy a nut to crack. Besides, she would demand to know your true identity. She is the Queen’s cousin and will know for certain that you are an imposter. She might even cause a scene. Best leave her to me.”
Charles could tell Mary was raising a questioning brow beneath her mask. “I am not sure it’s safe to send you into her clutches.”
“Come now, I am a grown man. And that’s exactly what she likes.”
Her lips curved, thin and painted, into a small smile that did not match the Mary he knew at all. He couldn’t wait for the mask to come off, to see her as herself again. She murmured, “And you think you will escape unscathed?”
“Have more faith in me than that. I know how the game is played at court.”
Mary squeezed his hand before stepping away. “I trust you. I will go join the dance. See what else people know.”
He watched Mary agree to dance with a young man and hop into the fray. He hoped she was enjoying herself—it was hard to tell between the mask and regal persona she had donned.
He retrieved two Venetian glass goblets of a late harvest wine from a footman. This would require heavy flirtation. He took a fortifying breath before sidling up beside the masked Douglass Howard, Baroness Sheffield. She took the idea of the merry widow to an entirely new level.
“Sir Charles!”
“Ever at your service, madam.”
“Madam, indeed. You know I have given you leave to be familiar.”
“Indeed? But I have no idea who you are. All I see is an elegant masked lady.”
“Do you? But then you have been in the company of another elegant masked lady all evening. One who is not my illustrious cousin? Although it would be even stranger if my cousin had you dangling on Her arm when her more regular favorites are about. But then, why are you in uniform and not masked? Of course, I do love a man in uniform, but you are even more dashing when you dress as per your birthright.”
“What would that be? The son of a farmer’s widow?”
“No one cares who you mother was—they know your father and brother. You should dress as befits an earl.” Baroness Sheffield placed one finger squarely on his chest.
“So that everyone can whisper what a shame it is that I was not born on the right side of the sheets?” He covered his face with his hand in false shame. She slapped his hand down, and he laughed. “Nay, my lady. I think I prefer the uniform.”
“I think I prefer what is beneath the uniform.” Baroness Sheffield dragged her finger down his chest and over his stomach.
Charles snatched up her hand before she could reach too low and placed a kiss on her fingers. “Speaking of my dear brother,” not that they were exactly, “I have been told he is well on the way to recovery and full of vinegar as ever.”
“I am glad to hear it. Court is so dull without him making a spectacle of himself.”
Baroness Sheffield was quite a spectacle herself, her powdered bosom ready to pop out of her heavily jeweled bodice. Noting his glance, she trailed her fingers along her neckline. Charles wasn’t attracted to her, but he could not look away.
“Uh . . . ” She had very large breasts. Abundant. Pillows. They were almost obscene. Try to focus. “I was thinking that it would be best if I could get to the bottom of his attack before anyone else got hurt.” Charles wrenched his gaze away with a sigh of relief and took a sip of his too-sweet wine. Why do people drink this syrup?
“I thought his attacker was his wife’s companion, Mary something?”
“No, she has been cleared, though it did happen in her room. Who was he with two nights previous?”
“I saw him with that little strumpet, Anne Vavasour. She had best watch herself if she wants my cousin to keep her in service.”
“Yes, I knew of that. But he was with her very briefly.”
Baroness Sheffield let out a low chuckle at his words. “Very briefly. And he was in a temper, let me tell you. They entered the chamber. I heard nothing. And then he stormed out. Stepped on my hem as well—which is unlike him, if you ask me.”
“Are you close, then?”
“With Oxford? Little Ned de Vere? Never. I’m not his type. You see, I would be willing.”
“That is perverse.”
“Welcome to court. You have been here how long? Three? Four years?”
Sir Charles joined in her laughter. Ned’s predilections were well known. “Really, when it comes down to it, he is not that picky.”
“Well, he was two nights ago. He wouldn’t take the willing wanton, Anne Vavasour, with her arse in the air and her skirts over her head—yes, I saw her. He wasn’t interested in my indisp
utable charms.” Her hand went to her cleavage again. Damn. “And he was ranting about virtue and how no woman would offer a challenge anymore. That he may as well bed his wife.”
“His wife?”
“That’s where he was headed. Back toward his wife’s apartments.” That was certainly where he ended up, but not in his wife’s chamber.
“The palace is a large place. He may have gone anywhere, but he was in a foul temper. If it wasn’t his little whore, perhaps it was his own wife? She is the daughter of Baron Burghley—she must know something of being calculating.”
Charles nodded. This was unexpected, but made some sense. If Oxford had gone back to see Mary, but his wife had come upon him, she would have been none too happy. She was a cold woman . . .
“Charles, would you fetch me something delectable from the table yonder?” She ran her tongue over her teeth. “I have a craving to bite down on something.”
She was so obvious that it was almost funny.
“As my lady commands.” He was sure it had not been her intention, but she had paved the way for his escape. He laughed to himself as he gave a footman instruction to bring Baroness Sheffield a plate of sausages.
• • •
The last dance had been slow and elegant with plenty of opportunities to show how lacking Mary was as a dancer. She let out a silent sigh of relief as the next dance was announced—a much faster dance. That last goblet of mead was not helping her technique and a faster dance meant more chances to fudge steps in the name of having fun. At least it did for Mary. For Queen Elizabeth though . . . She frowned, certain the Queen would never fudge anything.
“I thought I knew all of the lovely women of Her Majesty’s court.” Mary turned as her next partner in the dance claimed her hand and took position. The Earl of Leicester.
The drumbeat announced the start of the music and she lowered into a riverenza, going over the four-count in her head.
She rose and stepped into her spezzati, each step sharp. Smiling, she met his eyes. “I am sure you do, my lord.”
She had to remind herself she was doing nothing wrong. She was not honestly trying to impersonate the Queen. She could not help if people were foolish enough to identify someone based on their wig. She knew Leicester would not make that error. The best she could hope was that he did not interpret her costume this evening as an attempt at anything malicious.
The Earl of Leicester took her hand, and they circled each other. “But I cannot place you.” His eyes were questioning. Suspicious.
She laughed lightly, hoping to come across as playful. “Of course you cannot—we are all anonymous tonight.”
He moved around her in a series of semidopio. Somehow he made the quick bounce of the steps seem predatory. “But you do know who I am. That hardly seems fair.”
“Perhaps next time you should wear a wig,” Mary quipped, keeping her tone light even as Leicester used the choreography of the set to steer her off the dance floor. He kept a firm grip on her hand as he led her through the open side doors and into a smaller chamber.
He dropped her hand as he turned to face her. “You realize I know you are not the Queen, whatever you pretend to be.” His anger was apparent.
“I pretend at nothing.” Mary tried to stay calm. “I simply am in disguise at a masked ball.”
“Disguised as the Queen.” His statement was calm and clear. Only his eyes gave away his—what was it? No, it wasn’t anger. Distrust, perhaps?
“Not so.” Mary tried to make her voice soothing. “I wear a red wig and a mask.”
Leicester barked a laugh loud enough to attract the attention of a few people standing in the ballroom. “You are similar build, height, and coloring. You cannot pretend that you did not know that many would take you for Queen Elizabeth.”
Mary had no response. He was correct—that had been the plan. Something in Leicester’s tone made her feel that she had done something very wrong.
“If I do not know you, you are not of the peerage. Yet here you are with enough gold trim in your gown to proclaim that you are high ranked.”
“My lord, I had no idea you were the self-proclaimed enforcer of the sumptuary laws.” Mary stunned herself with her harsh sarcasm.
His lips tensed. Was he angry? Or laughing? She had to cover her error in etiquette. Right now. In sweet, sing-song tone, she said, “It is Christmastide, my lord. Topsy-turvy, servants are lords and the lords are servants. At least, my friends keep telling me so.” Big smile. Flutter eyelashes. Look down. Be demure.
Did it work?
Leicester laughed again, this time with humor rather than derision. “So it is. I have been Lord of Misrule enough years that I should remember that. But that wig—it is Hers, yes?”
Mary inclined her head in affirmation.
“So you are close enough to Queen Elizabeth that She would lend you a wig, but I do not know who you are?”
A low voice joined in from the across the small room. “Do you need to know, Monsieur? Certainly all I need to know is that she is tres jolie, non?”
The Earl of Leicester started to lower himself to his knee, but caught the look from the “French Ambassador” and quickly righted himself. “Mais oui, Monsieur. She is tres belle so much so that she reminds me of my beloved Queen.”
She willed herself to give reverance, but could not control her legs. The Queen. The Earl of Leicester. It was too much.
The Queen kept her voice low and masculine, keeping with the guise of the French ambassador. “I trust, mademoiselle, that you have discovered all that you hoped for this night?”
Mary opened her mouth to answer but no words came. She had been in the presence of the Queen before, but never in such an intimate setting. She had definitely never been the primary focus of the Queen, at least not that she’d been aware at the time.
Leicester laughed and pulled a flask from a hidden pocket in his slops. “Have some Irish courage, my lady.”
Mary had enough of her senses about her that she was able to take the flask and put it to her lips. The liquid was sweet on the tongue but burned her throat enough to break her out of her stunned silence. “Thank you, my lord.” Tears came to her eyes and her stomach roiled as she handed the flask back to Leicester.
Who promptly handed it to the Queen.
She tossed back a quick sip from the narrow mouth of the flask and then held the liquid on Her tongue with a look of bliss. She swallowed. “Uisce beatha. Very smooth, Robin. Something the Queen should never drink. Something a French ambassador would likely abhor.”
“It is a very nice Irish whiskey.” Leicester seemed almost defensive.
Mary had never tried or wanted to try whiskey. She could still feel it burning in her stomach. And her toes. Her ears even felt tingly.
Whether or not it was the effect of the burning liquor or her own good sense, Mary found her voice. “Monsieur, I have found out more than I thought I would, but not as much as I had wished.”
“It is ever the way of things. I must say, it has been entertaining watching the courtiers in confusion. In a way, it is sad that all it takes is a red wig. Although that knowledge does give me a sense of freedom.”
The Earl of Leicester stepped closer and took the Queen’s gloved hand. “Aye, if the wig is the icon, then the woman can spread her wings and fly.” He placed a lingering kiss on the smooth leather.
Queen Elizabeth removed her hand from his and glanced around furtively. “Monsieur, you take liberties. The Queen will hear of this, n’est-ce pas?
Mary barely registered Leicester’s dejected look before catching sight of herself in a mirror. Stepping closer, she laid a reverent hand on the styled curls. “It’s a funny sort of crown.”
“That it is.” The Queen stopped laughing as her face grew serious. “Be careful you do not get too far above yourself, mistress.”
“Nay, monsieur. ’Tis only playing. Christmastide.” Mary smiled, but her words were hollow. How open ended was the Christmastide excuse, really
? Certainly she had seen the courtiers engaging in excess, but she had seen that during other masques and festivities. She had bought into the idea of anything goes and gotten herself into trouble. Perhaps the rule only applied to the Queen and Her circle.
The French ambassador stepped closer, meeting her eye. She really was of like height with the Queen. When the Queen was dressed like the Queen, in full regalia, She seemed so much bigger. Monumental, almost.
“Mistress, are you well?” The Queen showed genuine concern.
She was a lovely woman. Handsome, even as a man. How odd to see Her without the wig. Her hair was so short, like a boy’s. But then it would have to be to wear a wig comfortably. It looked soft, like baby hair. Mary wanted to touch it.
“Robin, please escort her to Sir Charles. He is just outside with Baroness Sheffield. He will see to her safety.” Queen Elizabeth turned to Mary. “Mistress Parry will take care of the wig.”
Mary stepped into a wobbly reverance. What was wrong with her?
The Queen who was not the Queen for tonight and who Mary was not supposed to reverance, recovered her with an irritated groan. “Mistress, you are not to have whiskey again.”
“Yes, monsieur.” Mary was proud of herself for remembering the farce. Monsieur, not Your Majesty. Her smile broad, she let Leicester lead her from the room. She had just had a drink with the Queen. Come to think of it, she had had several drinks over the course of the evening. Drinks much stronger than the small ale she was used to.
Oh, there was Sir Charles with that harlot, Baroness Sheffield. She was a piece of work, shoving her bosom in Sir Charles’s face. Didn’t the woman know he was spoken for?
He was staring. He had better be careful or he might start drooling on Baroness Sheffield’s breasts. Then again, it was quite a chest. Mary looked down at her own cleavage, proudly peeking out of the top of her bodice—her too tight bodice that made her meager little breasts appear more impressive. Compared to Baroness Sheffield, she felt almost mannish. Sir Charles certainly seemed interested in the baroness’s amazing mounds. What man wouldn’t be? Mary and Charles had no agreement between them—so he was technically free to pursue whomever he wanted. Everything between them had seemed so perfect, so natural—it was hard to imagine him not with her. But it could happen. It should happen—it was the sensible course. Then why did that idea make it hard to swallow? The lump in her throat was overwhelming.
Courtly Scandals Page 12
