Maid of Secrets

by Jennifer McGowan

  Once his initial introduction was complete, the Count de Martine stood at his ease, and I was struck all over again by his beauty—and, I realized, by his youth. Surely he was not even twenty years old, though experience gleamed in his flashing eyes, and practiced effortlessness in his smile. He spoke again, responding to the Queen, and his words danced upon the very air like a silken sail.

  I forced myself to pay attention to the details, which was no hardship. First, de Martine’s clothes were nothing short of exquisite. His deep crimson cloak was thrown back from his shoulders, revealing a doublet of stiff cloth-of-gold, sewn with pearls at the waist and the wrists. Rubies sparkled on his fingers, and matched the color of his trunks and hose. His hose, in fact, looked like they’d been spun of the finest thread, and they showed his well-muscled legs to such perfection, I could not avoid staring. The young lord had to be rich. Richer than de Feria, certainly, whose somber disapproval even now bracketed his stern lips as he watched his own countryman preen before the English Queen.

  Who was this dashing count, so bold as to murmur endearments to the Queen in front of us all? I didn’t know all of what he was saying—he slipped through languages in a blur, flattering the Queen’s acknowledged penchant for translation. But his manner caused Beatrice to hum with calculating interest beside me, no doubt plotting how to use the young man to her advantage. And his words caused Anna to emit tiny gasps of surprise; brief, strangled puffs of air.

  I frowned, considering that. Maybe Anna should be the one to follow Rafe, since she would at least understand him. Then I glanced back at the beautiful and bold young count.

  No, I decided. I’d just have to work harder to learn Spanish.

  The Queen responded regally to yet another sally by Rafe de Martine, but she, too, was clearly charmed by the young man. Who wouldn’t be?

  A soldier or a courtier or a sailor was he? All of these and more, I thought. And even at the end of his presentation, the count did not disappoint. He did not turn from the Queen but backed nimbly away as tradition demanded only of Englishmen, and he did it all with a flourish, bowing to Her Grace with flamboyant style.

  Her eyes now merry, the Queen bowed slightly to him in return before turning to her next sycophant. The Count de Martine had won the Queen’s favor with little more than a smile. What secrets would that same smile reveal to me tonight?

  I narrowed my eyes at the flattering Spaniard, as if to pry out his thoughts, and in just that moment he turned his head, and our gazes met.

  God’s breath.

  I almost staggered back, the force of our sudden connection like a physical blow. My heart seized in my chest, my eyes flared wide, and my feet were rooted to the rush-strewn floor. It seemed as if time itself held still for a moment, waiting in frozen anticipation alongside me. Had he caught me staring? Did he know my heart was about to burst?

  Then there, across the crowded Presence Chamber, the impossibly gorgeous Rafe Luis Medina, Count de Martine did the unthinkable: He raised his brows at me, tilted his head . . . and smiled.

  Finally remembering myself and my role, I smiled archly back.

  This was going to be some assignment.

  Nobody threw a party quite like the Queen of England.

  The night’s revel was a glittering triumph, with music, dancing, and huge trenchers of food. I turned one way, then the other, surrounded on all sides by laughing women and sharp-eyed men, every sense assaulted.

  And if the crush of bodies hadn’t been enough to make me dizzy—the overwhelming scent of musk and sweat and perfumes—I needed only to consider the food of this feast to be pushed to the brink of a swoon.

  Thinking of how we’d scraped and struggled to put food on our acting troupe’s table, I watched course after course pass me by—pickled eggs and steaming quail, sweet rolls and meat pies, fish stew and sugar tarts—all with plenty of ale to loosen tongues. I’d heard nothing yet of import, but I’d seen enough food to make me queasy.

  What were the Golden Rose players eating this night? And did they know the price I’d paid for them to laugh and dance and talk, sharing their flagons of ale? Their evening would be mild as well, I thought, but with the warmth of a bonfire, not of too many people in too close a hall. The troupe would be on the banks of the Thames, fireflies dancing just out of reach of the smallest children, a sweet song wafting over the water from one of the bards. Winters could be hard for the troupe, but in the summertime, with fruit hanging low on the trees and crops in the fields and gold in every merchant’s pockets—summer was a magical time, of fresh air and simple joy.

  Here the air was stifling, and joy was just another mask worn by the swirling, whirling nobility.

  And then there was the sheer noise of the ball. Gold and pewter clinked and crashed, music thundered, and voices rose and fell in ever widening arcs as the ale and wine began to tip from urns and cups. The laughter was the most shocking of all, as it sprang up from nowhere in sharp, percussive bursts, at constant odds with the melodies churning forth from the sweating musicians. Only when the Queen was dancing did everyone fall silent, and this evening the Queen was in the mood to watch, not to partake. But she smiled easily and well, and her manner drove the entertainment to higher and higher levels of frolic. Women in their bold satin gowns, with plunging necklines and wasp-waisted bodices, careened into the arms of their male companions, who spun them around with laughing ease. The noblemen, for their part, looked like hunters prowling through a stand of excitable rabbits, picking one, then the other just for the sheer sport of it. The heat of the night flushed through the hall, and hands strayed to waists, to breasts, to cheeks, all in the crush of too many people wedged into too tight a space. It was . . . just too much.

  “Oh, pish, Rat, you look a fright.”

  I jumped at Beatrice’s sudden, too-close words, my stomach slewing sideways. I had not heard her creeping up. I truly hated surprises.

  She looked satisfied at my reaction. “So, have you seen aught of de Feria yet?” she prodded, as she and Anna took their places to watch the dancing.

  “No,” I said. I didn’t bother to remind her that it was de Feria’s new courtier that I was to focus on, not the thin, dour ambassador himself. Count de Feria was almost an afterthought anyway, as he’d announced today that a new ambassador was on his way from Spain to replace him. The new emissary could come none too quickly, I thought. We’d all grown tired of de Feria’s pale scowl.

  Beside Beatrice, Anna was pink with excitement, and up on her toes in a charming white satin gown. She did not carry a puzzle box with her for once. To Anna, this entire ball must have seemed a puzzle.

  Jane, of course, was nowhere to be found; but then, Jane was good at hiding. Doubtless she was in the crowd somewhere, staring down some unfortunate soul.

  Only Sophia had managed to escape the ball. She claimed illness, but I knew the truth.

  Poor, distraught Sophia. She feared that her betrothed, Lord Brighton, would be here tonight, his dark eyes watchful, his lined face fervent. I shuddered. She didn’t fear Lord Brighton himself, she insisted. She feared what she sensed around him. As if the man were ringed with danger. I allowed her the lie tonight to cover her fears. After all, while the eccentric Lord Brighton seemed to give no indication of wanting to marry her soon, Sophia was only fifteen, and her freedom was already lost.

  “Isn’t it a sight,” bubbled Anna, catching our attention now with her excitement. “I’ve never seen so many dancers, not even on Saint George’s Day, and that’s the truth. What’s brought them all out, I wonder? The new Spaniards in our midst? The good crops in the fields?”

  Beatrice actually smiled at Anna in genuine warmth, and I caught my breath at the sight. Beatrice was truly a lovely girl when she wanted to be.

  Tonight she was dressed in a whisper-light gown of palest sapphire, which set off her blue eyes and soft pink cheeks to perfection. Certainly it was more eye-catching than my own dull grey. I pressed my fingers against my stiff bodice, my finger
s brushing against my grandfather’s book and picklocks, which I’d taken out of their hiding place and sewn into my shift for luck. They did nothing to improve my mood, however. Unlike Beatrice, I had no desire to catch the roaming eyes of the courtiers, and my role tonight demanded that I blend in with the stones.

  But seeing Beatrice now, so slim and straight, her fair blond hair crowned by tiny roses and her ruff a mere puff of silk, I felt like a swineherd beside a princess. As I watched, she parted her lips in a calculating smile. “Lady Amelia seems quite taken with one of the Spaniards, I see,” she said.

  I glanced toward the dancers to see the lady-in-waiting in question being twirled across the floor by Nicolas Ortiz. That worthy Spaniard was dressed in a doublet and trunk hose of rich cream silk, the color making the most of his honeyed good looks.

  “The Queen will not mind?” chirped Anna, ever aware of our sovereign’s dictates on the actions of her attendants.

  “She’s probably asked Lady Amelia to put on a show, though perhaps the woman’s choice in partners is questionable. Ortiz is only a minor noble, but he clearly outshines Amelia. And she’s nearly to her twenty-fifth year,” Beatrice said, and sniffed. “It’s well past time she were wed.”

  I frowned at Lady Amelia, lovely with her white-blond hair piled high upon her head, her ornately embroidered white satin gown wreathing her in wealth. She didn’t look like any old crone I’d ever seen. Why should she be so quickly consigned to marriage?

  “Lord Cavanaugh is watching you, I see,” Anna said beside us, but Beatrice didn’t turn.

  “He is?” she asked, and the faintest blush crept up her cheeks, her eyelids dropping in an artful display of modesty.

  I looked between Beatrice and Anna, utterly confused. “Who is Lord Cavanaugh?” Beatrice’s entire existence involved men staring at her. What made this pair of eyes special?

  “Lord Cavanaugh, Marquess of Westmoreland,” Anna informed me in an impatient whisper. “You must start paying more attention, Meg. He’ll be a duke, you know. ’Tis said he wants to marry Beatrice, and oh, wouldn’t that be a coup. He’s the richest man in court, and the most powerful. ’Twill be a wondrous match. The Queen is considering his suit as we speak, or so they say.”

  “Really?” I stood on my tiptoes for a look at the future duke. He was tall and as thin as a whip, with sharp-bladed features and a shock of black glossy hair. He wore his rich emerald-green doublet and trunk hose with flair, I’d give him that. And even from this distance, I could see that he moved like a rich man. Instinctively I looked for his money pouch, then caught myself.

  Sometimes being a royal spy was truly a chore.

  “Oh, Anna, you overstep,” Beatrice said coyly, in that way she had when she didn’t at all mean what she was saying. “Lord Cavanaugh is merely being kind.”

  “Well, his kindness knows no bounds, then.” Anna giggled.

  But Beatrice’s attention was already wandering. “In truth, the Spaniards are outshining most everyone in the room, except my Lord Cavanaugh, of course,” she murmured, her gaze level across the floor. “Look there, in fact. Now, that’s a worthy competitor for our attention, wouldn’t you say?”

  I blinked at Beatrice, marveling anew at the flush in her cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes. She was undeniably beautiful, I thought again as I turned to follow her gaze—

  And then I saw him, too.

  The bold, exquisite Rafe Luis Medina, Count de Martine, stood casually beside the thin and disapproving Spanish ambassador. Rafe carried a goblet of hammered gold in one of his long-fingered hands, his grin broad, his manner relaxed. As we watched, he leaned back his head and laughed heartily, the gesture so full of life and vigor that even the Count de Feria twitched a smile. Beatrice fanned herself, without artifice. I felt strangely warm myself.

  “I’m going to dance with him,” Beatrice declared.

  “Beatrice!” Anna blinked rapidly. “You dare not ask him! Lord Cavanaugh is watching.”

  “Silly girl, I won’t do the asking. And it’s precisely because Lord Cavanaugh is watching that I will indeed dance. So attend and learn.” Beatrice smiled, and her gaze darted up to meet mine, a challenge. “You too, Rat. Though I cannot imagine you’ll have need for lessons such as these; beauty and grace will never be your stock-in-trade.”

  And she was off, sailing through the crowd like a swan. Self-consciously I straightened my own neck, squared my shoulders, and lifted my chin in mimicry of Beatrice’s studied elegance. I watched her pause and engage in what looked like completely spontaneous conversation with Lord Radcliffe, then turn the heads of four young courtiers, her shimmering form in Rafe’s direct line of sight.

  The music changed at exactly that moment, and the young count looked up and saw her. In another breath he’d neatly excused himself from his conversation with de Feria. He then took no more than a half dozen steps and was at Beatrice’s side. He drew her away from her crowd of admirers, curling her arm into his as if she were his alone. Then he turned her toward him gracefully, the intimacy of a kiss upon the air between them, though they were barely even touching.

  It was nothing short of masterful.

  “Oh, my, then,” Anna sighed deeply, and I nodded, also impressed. But when I opened my mouth to agree, Anna continued, “Did you ever see such a godly man?”

  That stopped me, and I glanced her way. Of all the terms I’d use to describe the young Count de Martine, “godly” wasn’t one of them.

  But Anna wasn’t looking at Beatrice and her conquest—or even at Lord Cavanaugh, who was now watching the proceedings with a decided frown on his aristocratic face. Instead she was gazing at a young man in long robes who stood against the far wall of the hall with other men of the cloth, his strawberry blond hair tousled around his ears, his eyes wide and inquisitive. He twisted his floppy hat in his hands, and his attention seemed pulled in a hundred different directions. He was—attractive, I supposed. But . . . “He’s a priest, isn’t he?”

  “The son of a vicar, of the Church of England,” Anna corrected me. “And the finest of scholars.”

  I goggled at her. “You know him?”

  “Oh, aye,” she sighed, her eyes as soft and wide as a doe’s. “I’ve known Christopher Riley since he was eight years old. And have dreamed of him as my husband since I was twelve.”

  What was with this talk of husbands? Did these girls not understand that marriage was not the answer to every question in their heads?

  Suddenly desperate to serve my purpose here, I shifted this way and that, finally locating the Count de Feria again. By now, ale flowed from vast pitchers into mugs and goblets; even the ambassador had finally indulged. I watched him stare almost forlornly at the swirling ballroom as the Count de Martine and Beatrice danced. De Feria had been married just this past year, I’d learned, and his wife was now nearly full-term with child. He would be impatient with the Queen and her revelry, eager to return to the Continent as soon as the new ambassador was in place. Was this what his conversation would hold tonight?

  After bidding good-bye to Anna, I moved through the crowd, flushing with embarrassment at the ever more personal conversations that reached my ears. To steady my nerves as I walked, I drew out my short blade. I cut a loose brooch from one courtier’s sleeve and slid a hairpin free of a lady’s elaborate wig, then slipped another woman’s jewel-studded cuff off her wrist as she pushed by me, intent on her laughing quarry. As I tucked my plunder into the wide band of cloth at my waist, I caught sight of Jane.

  She was striding away from a side table, a flagon of wine in her hand, with three leering, hungry-eyed men staring after her. Oh, no. The last time Jane had been bothered by the men of the court, she’d practiced her poisoning skills on their fish pies. I eyed the flagon she now held snugly, then looked back at the men quaffing their drinks from newly filled goblets. This would not go well for them, I was sure.

  By the time I reached the far end of the hall, de Feria was leaning up against a thick stone column. I cr
ept up alongside it as near to him as I dared. I felt his glance, so I stood on tiptoe as if to watch the dance progress, a young noblewoman at her first ball, eager for love.

  De Feria huffed a short, disgusted breath, and I hid my smile. Let him think me a fool. As I watched the dancers, I found my eyes drawn again and again not to Beatrice and Rafe, but to the Spaniard Nicolas Ortiz and Lady Amelia, laughing and intimate in their too-close embrace, the courtier as dark and intense as she was fair and earnest. I blinked. Was Lady Amelia in love as well—and with a Spaniard? Had everyone lost their minds?

  The musicians wound down their dance to silence at last, and Rafe de Martine elegantly took his leave of Beatrice. She nodded to him with sophisticated reserve, too smart to swoon, and his smile broadened further. He seemed to be a young man who enjoyed life with great fervor, and he fairly bounded over to the Count de Feria, taking up his post beside him.

  “¿Haya Terminado de bailar?” de Feria inquired, and their conversation launched into an animated debate. My vantage point gave me an excellent view of them both. I frankly had no idea what they were saying—my Spanish was as bad as Beatrice suspected—but after the young count’s easy reply, de Feria seemed to respond with anger and frustration.

  Their words flowed like music, and I stared at them discreetly, my heart in my throat for the whole of the quarter hour that they spoke. Fortunately, though they tried to converse quietly, they were still a bit flamboyant, giving me visual cues to attach to words so that I could memorize their discussion as easily as a dance. I sensed their conversation was ending as the young count lapsed into smooth and placating words, but I remained in place, gawking at the dancers over the heads of the assembled crowd.