Maid of Secrets

by Jennifer McGowan

  “You may call me Rafe, fair maid,” he said. We were now doing our part to thread beneath other dancers’ upstretched arms. “Would you do me the honor of your name as well? It is Meg, I believe?”

  I jolted, to hear my name on his lips, but of course he’d heard it before. Beatrice had called me by name. “It is, and I give you leave to use it, in appreciation for this dance. It has been a long time since I’ve enjoyed myself so much.”

  He gave me a teasing smile. “May it be only the beginning of many dances to come.”

  I blinked at his flirtatiousness, but fortunately, the third verse was beginning. We stepped toward each other and back, then toward the dancers on either side of us and back again, which gave me just enough time to collect my thoughts. Then we paired with other partners on down the row, twirling and whirling our way through a complicated series of figure eights that brought us all the way to the end of the line. We cast off again, to walk the length of the row of dancers and eventually resume our regular spots.

  As I walked, I clasped my hands to my breast as if to quell my beating heart, and plucked the packet of letters free. Walsingham stepped just into my path at that moment, a specter in the shadows. I slipped the stolen letters to him as easily as if we’d been thieving together for years.

  I regained my position next to Rafe, my stomach now as tight as a drum. Walsingham had disappeared back into the throng, and I prayed the man could read quickly, or had collared Anna to do the reading for him. She could decipher hidden messages in text with almost unnatural speed. The next rotation would be our last move down the line, and my best chance to fetch back the letters. Even now, I was desperately trying to remember how many verses remained in the Trenchmore. After the next stroll down the line, were there two more verses—or three?

  “I seem to be making you unaccountably nervous,” Rafe observed, startling me as we stepped forward, then back, following the steps prescribed by the dance.

  “Not at all, my lord,” I said, raising my chin as I scanned the crowd. Where was Walsingham? “I am only worried about my footwork. I have managed the dance so well to now, ’tis merely a matter of time before I miss a step.”

  He chuckled. “I get the distinct feeling that you do not often misstep, fair maid.”

  I looked at him sharply, but we were now turning to our partners before us and behind us, and we cast off again, beginning the long walk down to our original spots in the line. During this walk I was to intercept Walsingham and reclaim Rafe’s packet of letters, with just barely enough time left to return them to their rightful owner before the dance came to an end.

  Only . . . Walsingham was nowhere to be found.

  I passed our appointed rendezvous point, and my heart was in my throat by the time Rafe and I arrived back in our positions. The dance was speeding up, in anticipation of a grand finish, but I did not have the letters!

  I replayed my instructions again and again in my mind. I had told Walsingham specifically that he would have very little time to read the letters. He knew that. He knew I had to get the letters back into Rafe’s pocket before the end of the dance. Which was now bearing down upon us like a mad bull.

  “Breathe, fair maid,” Rafe whispered into my ear as we came together then to duck under another couple’s lifted arms. “You’ll faint if you keep this up. Should we retire?”

  “No!” I said. My mind clamored with thoughts, possible new gambits, none of them any good. This was why I didn’t improvise. I did not have the stomach for it, let alone the heart. The moment Rafe patted his pocket, he would realize that the letters were missing. Would he immediately suspect me, a country lass with no formal education? Beatrice had given him to understand that I was here on the Queen’s charity. Would that be enough to save me?

  I realized he was waiting for me to speak. “I’m sorry, my lo—”

  “I said, call me Rafe.”

  “Rafe.” I blushed, and it had nothing to do with the role I was playing, but it was masterful timing nevertheless. I’d have to call upon these memories if I ever had to play the awestruck girl again. Assuming Rafe didn’t have me thrown before the Queen as a petty thief, of course. Wouldn’t that be quite the irony. “I’m sorry,” I said again. “The dance is coming to an end, and I want to savor every moment of it.”

  “Perhaps we—”

  His words were lost to me as we began the complicated handoffs, swirling through the other men and women who danced alongside us in figure eights. I brushed by Rafe’s side a half dozen times before the refrain was complete. Any one of those times would have been enough for me to slide the letters back into his pocket, but where was Walsingham?

  And suddenly the spymaster was there. His face implacable, his position just outside the whirling rows of dancers. He was no longer hiding in the lee of the column but out in plain sight, just close enough for me to reach him. He was talking to a young woman in apparently earnest conversation, but his body was angled so that he was just open enough . . .

  The music picked up speed, and laughter rippled through the lines of dancers. We all swirled yet more vigorously, and I threw my arms out in an expression of exultation just as my turns flung me farthest from the line, as near to Walsingham as I ever hoped to get.

  He turned in just that moment, and I felt the whisper of pressure on my fingers, even as his short cloak glided over my outstretched arm in a careless whirl. I had the letters!

  Hurriedly I pulled my arm back and pushed the papers into my bodice again, success sparking through me like a leaping fire. I turned to face Rafe, a grin on my face, triumphant.

  And then the music stopped.

  But I still had the letters.

  I stared at Rafe, actually feeling the blood drain out of my face. He backed away neatly from me and bowed, like the proper gentleman he was. I curtsied as well, like the well-taught maid I was trying desperately to be.

  The music was shifting into a Volta, but I could not risk that dance. It was too intimate, and required the man to lift the woman off her feet. In lifting me, Rafe’s hands would be positioned directly on the waistband of my dress below my bodice—exactly where I didn’t want them to be. He would feel the lumpy weight of the stolen jewels immediately, and I could not run the risk that he would begin wondering what else I might be hiding beneath my skirts.

  I needn’t have worried that I’d have to endure another dance with Rafe, however. Immediately upon my ascent from my curtsy, Beatrice appeared at his side.

  “You are kind to favor poor Meg with such a dance, my lord,” she cooed. I felt myself grow hot, and even though it added to my disguise, I was infuriated that she could nettle me with such ease.

  “The favor was hers to bestow, my lady,” Rafe said in return, smiling at me even as Beatrice swanned in front of him, turning smartly so as to block me from Rafe’s view. If it hadn’t been such an elegant move, I would have been outraged by Beatrice’s audacity. As it was, she played it off as if it were merely part of the dance.

  “And will you take my favor now?” she asked him, holding out her hand.

  Knowing I should retire to figure out how in the name of heaven I was going to get the letters back into Rafe’s pocket, I nevertheless lifted my chin, sliding to the left even as Beatrice shifted to the right, striking her pose for the Honor to commence the dance.

  “It was a pleasure, Rafe,” I said with a gentle incline of my head, using his first name quite deliberately. No “my lords” or simpering curtsy this time! “But I suspect you will be far better matched with Beatrice. Her skills at all manner of dance have captured many a gentleman’s fancy at court. Her experience is much remarked upon.”

  Rafe’s brows lifted ever so slightly, but Beatrice narrowed her eyes, clearly unsure about whether or not I’d just insulted her. I smiled at them both serenely. I hadn’t really just intimated that she’d bedded half the male population at Windsor Castle, not exactly.

  But it was close enough.

  The music crashed to mark the
opening strains of the Volta, and Rafe smoothly swept Beatrice away. I turned as well, and therefore only imagined that her eyes were burning two smoking holes through the back of my gown. For just a moment, I was almost cheerful.

  Walsingham was waiting for me before I even cleared the first row of columns.

  “Well?” he asked without looking at me.

  I stopped, making as if I were straightening my hair after the rush of the country dance. Half-turning, I caught sight of Beatrice’s soft blue dress swirling as Rafe lifted her into the air. I was taller than Beatrice, and more fit, but she had the kind of lithe beauty that men could not resist. I strained to see whether Rafe looked like he was enjoying himself. Surely he could see through Beatrice’s game and—

  “Your report, Miss Fellowes.” Walsingham’s biting tone cut through my thoughts, and I looked up at him, suddenly peevish.

  “Ah, yes, my report.” I barely constrained myself from spluttering the words. “Where shall I begin? You dallied during your act of the play, despite my express warnings, and returned too late to the stage.” And now, I realized, I would have to betray yet another secret to this man. I had to transfer the packet of letters from my bodice to my waistband, since that was the easiest place for me to hide the letters so that I could quickly retrieve them and return them to Rafe. Unfortunately, my waistband was already weighed down with my spoils from earlier in the evening, which meant I needed to empty it. Now. In front of Walsingham. I’d been warned not to pick-pocket, but . . . there was nothing for it.

  “Oh, very well,” I huffed. I shoved my hand into the tight wrap of my waistband and pulled out the offending jewels. A brooch. A cuff. A hairpin with a stone the size of an egg. I thrust these at Walsingham, and he took them without a word. “Since I was not of a mind to be discovered, I abandoned my role,” I continued. “I now find myself still with a final act to complete and no idea what lines I will say.”

  Walsingham frowned at me, clearly confused. I got the impression he was not much one for the theatre. “You still have the packet of letters,” he said dourly.

  I pulled the papers out of my bodice and brandished them at him. “I do.”

  “I was afraid of that.” Was that an eye roll? My blood began to simmer in my veins. I’d like to see him try to light-finger a set of papers both into and out of a man’s trunks, verily I would.

  “You’ll need to intercept the boy before he reaches Ambassador de Feria,” Walsingham continued, scanning the ballroom. “De Feria is already making noises to Cecil that he must needs retire, and the moment he leaves the ballroom, you can expect the young count to follow him. You won’t have much time.”

  I shoved the letters into my newly emptied waistband. “And how do you expect me to get close to the Count de Martine again if we are not in the midst of a dance, Sir Francis?” I asked, my words tight. “It’s not as if we’re countrymen, nor even well acquainted.”

  Walsingham gave a short, derisive laugh. “You are a young woman of the court who has just had the pleasure of dancing with a bold young count from the Continent. I’m sure you have enough experience with the theatre to imagine how the next scene might play out, Miss Fellowes. Count de Martine won’t be so eager to meet with the Spanish ambassador that he won’t take the time to tip the chin of a wide-eyed and willing maid.”

  I stiffened. “Tip the chin?” I repeated. Tip the chin! “Surely you can’t mean what I think you do.” Had the whole of the court lost all sense of decorum?

  And just that quickly, Walsingham’s humor turned to irritation. “Do not try my patience, Miss Fellowes. You are seventeen years old, not ten. I’m not asking you to tumble the boy, just get him to tarry with you down a dark hallway long enough for you to set everything to rights. You cannot tell me that your training with your acting troupe did not include how to make eyes at a man. I won’t believe it.”

  I bit my lip, but the man had a point. As soon as I could easily pass as a woman and not just a girl, Grandfather had made sure I was taught enough tricks of fluttering femininity to make a man think I was interested in him for something other than his money. Still, could I use those tricks to fool Rafe? I somehow didn’t think he’d be pulled in simply by my blinking a great deal and giggling into my hand.

  “It’s time,” Walsingham said abruptly. “De Feria is leaving the ballroom now, and de Martine is tracking his departure. You can rest assured your young count will take his leave of Beatrice the moment the music ends.”

  I glanced to where Walsingham gestured, and caught sight of just the hem of de Feria’s dark cape as it sailed through the west entrance of the Presence Chamber. Rafe would exit through that same doorway, and there were any number of long corridor-like antechambers in which he could meet with de Feria. The castle was a rabbit warren of intersecting rooms, and I’d have to move quickly if I planned to intercept Rafe before he reached the Spanish ambassador—or before he realized his letters were gone.

  I left Walsingham without another word, nimbly threading my way through the crowd. I cleared the west entrance to the Presence Chamber just as the Volta came to a close, to the enthusiastic applause of all those watching. I’m sure a good portion of that applause was for Beatrice, fluttering and simpering and cooing simpleton that she was.

  Focus. I couldn’t go too far outside the Presence Chamber. There were too many possible corridors Rafe could take.

  I moved down the hallway with purposeful strides, glancing into this room and that. What would a young woman do if she were waiting for her would-be lover? Where would she go?

  And what would she do once she got there?

  “Don’t even think about it,” I muttered, poking my head into an antechamber. Would it suit? No. Only one entrance. I’d feel trapped in a room such as this. “The game is the letters, nothing more.”

  “Talking to yourself, fair maid?”

  I squeaked and whirled around, doing such an admirable job of sounding like a startled little girl that I would have commended myself, had any of it been on purpose. I looked up to face the Count de Martine, who was lolling in the doorway, his eyes glittering in the half-light. A single sconce in the room lit his face, making him look almost saturnine. “My lord!” I breathed.

  “I thought we’d decided on ‘Rafe.’ ” He smiled, shrugging himself off the wall and stepping toward me. Trapped, trapped, I thought. Trapped. “What brings you to such a dark and silent room? Did the dancing fatigue you after all?”

  “I . . . ” I swallowed, feeling seventeen inches the fool. I knew what had to be said, and I gathered up my skirts in my fists, willing the words to come out. “It’s just that . . . I saw that you were heading toward the west entrance, and I went out ahead. I’d hoped we could . . . talk.”

  It was honestly the lamest speech I’d ever contrived. I could have died from shame right there on the spot.

  But Rafe merely smiled.

  “You wanted to . . . talk with me?” he asked, taking another few steps forward. At least, I assumed he took actual steps. Somehow he’d glided toward me far too quickly, and he was now near enough to touch. I felt the heat radiating from his body, sweeping over me in a rush.

  “Yes, ah . . . to talk,” I said, my words barely more than a whisper. I took a step back.

  He took another step forward. “And what did you want to say to me, fair maid?”

  My smile faltered, and I stepped back again. “I thought we’d agreed upon ‘Meg,’ ” I said, playing for time.

  “So we did,” he said, his words low. He stepped forward again, even as I moved yet farther back from him—and I came up hard against a damask-covered wall. Rafe stopped in front of me and rested one hand on the wall over my head. He suddenly seemed . . . very tall. And very close. “So, Meg,” he said quietly, smiling down at me. “What did you want to talk about?”

  My head was swimming, but the nearness of him at least helped to instill the urgency that had been sorely lacking in my playacting up to this point. A voice shouted deep inside
me to get this task over with already. So I tilted my head up in the semidarkness, the movement positioning my lips only inches away from his. Exactly where they should be.

  I think . . . I think I should like you to kiss me, Count de Martine, I said, my words soft and subtle and full of promise. I think you should do that right now.

  Well, that was what I wanted to say, anyway.

  Instead I opened my mouth—and stopped breathing.

  Rafe’s gaze seemed to swallow me whole, his dark eyes intent, his own breath suddenly quickening. “I think that’s a very good subject to discuss, sweet Meg,” he murmured.

  And he leaned down and pressed his lips against mine.

  The touch of his mouth was a sparking flint strike, and suddenly heat flooded through me like mead drunk too fast, burning its way through my body and lifting me along a current of excitement and urgency unlike anything I’d ever felt before. I was kissing Rafe!

  Lest you think I handled the rest of that moment well, let me assure you, I did not.

  This, of course, was not my fault. Despite the very generous nature of my fellow actors in the Golden Rose acting troupe, up until the moment I’d been unceremoniously hauled off to the Queen’s dungeon, I’d had yet to have any success in getting any of the men to kiss me. First, of course, there had been their fear of my grandfather—and I could understand no one wanting to run afoul of the old man. But Grandfather had passed away in the early fall, and I had increasingly been asked to act like an experienced woman as I moved through the crowds. How was I to act like I was knowledgeable in the ways of women and men if I’d never been kissed? I’d demanded. It was just a kiss, for heaven’s sake!

  Still, no one had been willing to indulge me. Not even Troupe Master James, who’d looked positively sick when I’d asked.

  All of this is why, I am sure, I was so unforgivably poleaxed by such a straightforward event as one young Rafe Luis Medina, Count de Martine, pressing his soft, luxurious, heavenly lips against mine. It felt dangerous. It felt glorious.