“I’ve become an actor!” Tommy said in a rush of excitement. “Master James said I should focus on my lines, and ’e won’t even let me lift the purses of anyone but women now. I’m an actor, Meg! Since right after you left!”
“Tommy is showing a talent for the stage,” Master James said hastily, too sincere for believability. “I think he may serve us better on the stage than in the street.”
Realization struck me, and with it a flood of warmth for James’s adroit handling of the situation. Tommy was a hopeless thief, and I suspected he was an equally horrible actor. But as an actor, at least the boy would be safe from the branding irons of the Crown. Since right after you left, Tommy had said. The timing could not have been by accident.
“I’m sure you’re a very fine actor,” I said to Tommy, and he beamed. I glanced up to Master James, not bothering to hide the warmth of my words. “And you are—very wise, Master James, to see where his skills may best serve.”
He shrugged and glanced away, and I saw the faintest flare of red climb up his jawline. Was he blushing?
Before I had time to think on it, Tommy started tugging on Master James’s sleeve again. “We truly must go, Master James. I am already late!”
James resisted being pulled along for just one second more, and his gaze met mine. “As ever, Meg Fellowes, the Golden Rose is at your service,” he said, and he reached out his hand. “Should you need us for aught, you have but to send word.”
Startled, I lifted my hand to his, curtsying. Because, after all, that’s what I did when I was flustered. Master James took my hand into his and brushed his lips over it, his mouth warm even through my thin gloves. A skittering sensation zipped through me at the contact. It was nothing, the height of propriety, and yet . . . somehow, it wasn’t. Master James was four years my senior, but the huge chasm that should have been between us suddenly seemed . . . less so.
I pulled my hand back with as much decorum as I could muster, and James straightened. “You never know when a troupe of rogues and villains might be of service to a fair lady,” he said with a smile. “With words or blades to cut your enemies down.”
“Then do not stray far,” I said, surprising myself with my response. I looked at him, so fierce and sure, and I thought of Jane. Instantly, the cramping in my stomach stopped, a sense of rightness restored. I should introduce him to Jane. That was safe. That was better. That was . . . easier to think about. And yet . . . I suddenly didn’t want what was safer or easier. “You never know when a fair lady might have need of rogues and villains. Or a lady who’s a villain might have need of a rogue.”
He blinked at me, but Tommy’s desperate tugs won out, and the two of them were gone.
I allowed my gaze to swing lazily over the crowd, as if the chance meeting meant nothing to me at all, in case anyone were watching me. Not that I thought Cecil cared what I did with my days, as long as I stayed out of his way. Walsingham, I’m sure, would have preferred me to be applying myself to one of my many assignments, but who was to say that I wasn’t in the Lower Ward for exactly that?
A sudden fear stole through me, far too belatedly. If Cecil and Walsingham were watching, however, would they think I was plotting some escape with the Golden Rose? A midnight flight through the city, down to the river, and then off to Londontown?
The answer to that was chillingly simple.
Yes.
Fool, fool, a hundred times the fool! I kept my manner easy and light, desperately searching through the crowd for another familiar face, someone to explain my presence here in the Lower Ward, someone who would capture the interest of Cecil and Walsingham far more than my encounter with my old friends.
I swung my gaze to the right, and my concerns bloomed into horror. Cecil and Walsingham were out strolling through the Lower Ward as if they were bosom friends. Neither walked with a sense of purpose, but I knew them both well enough not to give their apparent meandering any weight. They could have easily been on their way to a beheading, and their easy strides wouldn’t have faltered a half step.
Had they seen me with Master James or Tommy? Had I risked the troupe’s safety with a simple conversation? And if they hadn’t already, would Cecil and Walsingham realize who was playing to the crowd in the Lower Ward, and draw their own conclusions?
I felt a firm hand close around my arm, and I nearly screeched with terror, my teeth clamping down so hard on my tongue that my eyes sparked with tears. I whirled around, recognizing the familiar face immediately as my heart galloped with the nearness of Cecil and Walsingham’s approach.
A cry of exultation went up from the crowd—act 2 was beginning—and I saw my next move as plain as if it had been written into the script.
I dropped like a stone into Rafe’s arms, my body as limp as a rag.
Not even Sophia could have bettered that swoon.
“What are you about, Meg?” Rafe demanded, staggering back under my not inconsiderable weight. When he realized I was going to slide to the ground, unresisting, he cursed under his breath in Spanish. A few of those words I even knew.
I felt myself hoisted up into his strong arms. I flopped convincingly, and that earned me another curse. It was everything I could do not to grin.
Rafe turned and stalked away from the crowd, and I dared to open my eyes. I couldn’t see much, with my head tucked into Rafe’s chest, but I could reason from the slant of his stride that he would be walking right in front of Walsingham and Cecil. No doubt those two men would be far too curious about what I was doing in Rafe’s arms to give any thought to what I’d been doing before those arms had obligingly shown up.
When Rafe had stomped another twenty feet, I stirred.
“Rafe?” I said weakly, fluttering my hand. I risked a glance, but saw only his jaw for a moment, and a large muscle twitching in his neck. Then he stopped, and I realized we were at a shaded bench, which had no doubt been cleared by his scowl.
“You’ll sit here,” he commanded, and he dropped my feet with surprising gentleness, easing me down onto the bench.
“I’m well, really,” I began, surreptitiously glancing right, then left. A slash of black caught my eye, and I knew without looking more closely that I’d located Cecil. I see you, old goat.
“You are about fifteen strides away from being questioned by your keepers,” Rafe said tersely. “What is the story here? Are you overcome with the heat of the crowd? Sick with the plague? Frightened witless by that man who just kissed your hand?” He quirked his lips. “In love with me?”
I blinked. “Those are my options?”
“Choose, or I choose for you. And that is a god-awful gown you’re wearing.”
“It was the heat!” I hissed at him, and he nodded, sitting down to fan me. I dared not wrench Beatrice’s ruff off, though I wanted to, desperately. “And if you must know, they cannot know I spoke to anyone from the acting troupe. My even being in the Lower Ward with members of the troupe is the world’s worst luck.”
“Not so unlucky for me,” Rafe said with a grin. “And you owe me.” He reached out and clasped my shoulder, as if he thought I would collapse at any moment. “We are skilled actors, Meg. It’s time to act the part.” He snapped his fingers in front of my eyes, as if recalling me to life, and a flash of milky green distracted me. One of his rings?
Rafe glanced up, drawing in a quick breath. “Just follow my lead.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Your lead?” I asked, but just then Cecil and Walsingham were upon us, their censure as chill as death.
“What is going on here?” Cecil demanded. “What are you doing with Miss Fellowes?”
Walsingham spoke up, apparently unwilling to let Cecil steal all of the rebuke. “Should I summon the guard, Count de Martine, or would you like to explain yourself?”
I started to speak, then felt Rafe’s hand tighten on my shoulder in a sharp squeeze.
“I confess, sirs, I don’t know what happened to Miss Fellowes,” he said smoothly. “I met her as she was crossing t
he Middle Ward and offered to escort her through the crowds here in the Lower. At first, it seemed all was well with her. But the moment we crossed into the Lower Ward, she grew concerned, as if she’d seen something to cause her distress. She asked to leave, but I confess I had caught sight of the theatre troupe and thought it to be a grand adventure.” He waved vaguely to where the crowd had assembled, and I shivered quite sincerely. “She protested, and I am ashamed to admit I pressed on. I had no idea—” He broke off, sounding for all the world like a flummoxed courtier unable to figure out the wiles of women. “I had no idea that she would collapse!”
I had to moan to avoid bursting into laughter. Rafe might not have been an actor upon the stage, but he’d clearly had training somewhere. I brought a hand to my head, and I felt, rather than saw, Cecil and Walsingham turn to see the gathering crowd around the players. They made the realization immediately.
Cecil crouched down before me. I looked at him directly, all my feigned terror now gone. I wouldn’t impress Cecil with hysterics. I would impress him by acting hysterical while operating in a coldly rational way.
“I did not realize whose troupe it was, Sir William, until it was too late,” I whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear. Obligingly, Cecil leaned closer to me and made comforting noises, like a father might to his infant child. I would have laughed again at the irony, but I struggled to stay focused. Cecil raised me to my feet, and I did a credible job of looking unsteady.
“I appreciate your attention to the Queen’s maid, Count de Martine,” Cecil said, with just the right touch of frost. “I’ll accompany her back to the safety of her rooms. She has need of rest.”
Rafe looked like he was about to protest, but Walsingham didn’t give him the chance.
“Walk with me, boy,” he boomed to Rafe, turning him around in the opposite direction from the Upper Ward and the Golden Rose acting troupe. He clapped Rafe on the back hard enough to send a lesser lad stumbling, but Rafe had apparently braced himself for the blow.
Meanwhile, Cecil had curled my arm into his and was helping me back toward the Upper Ward. I wanted to shy away, but enough people had seen my inglorious swoon; we had to keep up appearances above all else.
All the court was about nothing so much as it was about appearances.
Still, as we turned the corner, I couldn’t help but be pleased by my thrice-won escape. First from being rendered speechless and uncertain by Master James—then from being disgraced by Sir William and Sir Francis . . . and, finally, from the questioning I knew would have been forthcoming about the Golden Rose troupe from one very confused—but far too intrigued—Count de Martine.
In the space of ten minutes, I’d evaded them all.
But now Cecil was marching me forward with the grim determination of a man on a mission. He had another assignment for me, of that I was certain. One I was equally certain I would not like.
The man would be the death of me.
Close enough, as it turned out.
“He wants me to do what?”
Beatrice regarded me with disbelief. We were sitting in the maids’ chamber, and I’d just stripped off her hideous gown. I’d never been so happy to return a gift in my life.
Then again, I’d not exactly received a great deal of gifts to give back.
“Cecil said that the Queen has requested your elevation to lady of the bedchamber, in the very likely event that Lady Mathilde is unable to perform her duties,” I said, indicating the lady Cecil had chosen as most replaceable. “She has not been feeling well.”
This, of course, was a patent lie. The Queen could have had no intention of favoring Beatrice with this assignment, and Mathilde had looked as strong as an ox in the Presence Chamber this morning. Whatever her fateful malady was supposed to be, she’d not yet incurred it. But I continued on with Cecil’s orders, to the letter, exactly as he had delivered them to me. “The Queen fears Mathilde will grow more ill before she gets better, and Her Grace is concerned that she will in turn fall ill if she remains in Mathilde’s presence.”
“That would be terrible,” Beatrice breathed, though her eyes were bright with excitement. “And she asked for me? Why did Cecil not tell me himself?”
“He felt the request would be less unsettling were it from me.” Another lie, and this even lamer. Beatrice didn’t seem to mind.
“But why?” she demanded, fairly bouncing on her toes. “There are dozens of women who would draw blood to gain this role. Why did the Queen ask for me?”
I looked at her as if she were daft. “Beatrice, you’re by far the loveliest and most noble of the maids, whether inside our select group or outside of it. You are the pinnacle of health and grace, and since you are a member of this inner circle, you are eminently trustworthy. Whyever would she not seek you out in a moment of need?”
Beatrice turned and stared at me wide-eyed. “The Queen said that?” she asked, breathless.
Whoops. No amount of flattery that I could spin would outrank the direct comments of the Queen. I improvised quickly. “That is merely the truth, Beatrice,” I said. “Cecil said that the Queen herself intimated she would trust no one so much as you, to both step into the position and to step out of it again, knowing that your favor with her was constant.” More lies, manufactured by Cecil to, he said, ease Beatrice’s dismay about her “other” assignments. Whatever those were. I hated myself even as I said the words. But I wasn’t done yet. This part was the worst. “At first, Cecil wanted to put me in your place, but I said no—you are the best of any of us for this job.”
“Oh!” Beatrice clasped her hands to her breast, positively radiant.
I felt like a worm. Suddenly, being a rat seemed . . . too clean for what I was right now.
Beatrice sighed happily as she turned away, absently putting the returned (and still quite ugly) dress back into its chest. I’d worn it less than a full day, and over my shift. It was a costume, nothing more. And despite my theatrics with Rafe, I’d not soiled it. I think Beatrice had been secretly disappointed about that. As I saw the gown disappearing back into the cupboard, I rather suspected I’d never see it again.
I let my gaze drift over to Beatrice’s bed. Gowns still lay strewn there from when she’d pulled them out this morning. Her peacock-blue purse lay on top of the pile, its clasp of jade stone and sapphires winking brilliantly even in the indifferent light. Something about the purse nagged at me.
Beatrice cleared her throat, her back still to me. “I owe you an apology,” she said.
I blinked. What did she just say? “You do?” I asked.
“I do.” She stepped away from the cupboard, picked up another gown, and stowed it, still not looking at me. “I know Cecil favors you; he’s never made any secret of that. So for you to position me before your own self speaks volumes of your character.” She sighed as she lifted another dress, smoothing the fine silk beneath her fingers. “I do not know that I would be so generous, were the situation reversed.”
“Beatrice, I—”
“No,” Beatrice said. She straightened and turned her lovely face toward me, sincerity flowing from her in waves. “I do not deserve your grace, when I have given you none in return. I will resolve to trust you more, Meg. It means a great deal to know you have my back. There are so many in this place who are not true, who do things just because they may gain from them politically. Friends like you are very rare.”
She honestly could not have twisted the knife any deeper if she’d tried.
I had hated Cecil violently over the course of my nearly four months in the Crown’s service, but perhaps never quite so much as I did in that moment. I cleared my throat. “I thank you, Beatrice, but really—”
“No,” she cut me off again. “You need say no more.” She clasped the gown she was holding tightly to her, her eyes shining with emotion. “Thank you, Meg. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I swear to you, I will not forget your kindness.”
I felt sick. I wanted to tell her everything in that m
oment. Tell her of Cecil’s orders, of his lies. Tell her that this entire announcement was being staged for Cecil to gain insight into the Queen’s most private activities, so that I would know what to expect when I was set in place to spy. I wanted to tell her that I had had no intention of recommending her to Cecil, that he’d merely told me to act as if I had, to gain her gratitude and ensure that she would not plot against me. I wanted to tell her that I did not deserve her friendship, or her trust, that I had lied.
“You’re welcome, Beatrice,” I said instead.
The door to our chambers was flung open before I drew my next breath, and we both turned, goggle-eyed, to watch Anna tear into the room practically shrieking with excitement.
“He’s coming to the masque, he’s coming to the Masque! Christopher Riley, he’s coming to the masque!” Anna chanted, nearly bowling Beatrice over in her exuberance. “And it’s all because of you, Beatrice!”
I hadn’t thought I could suffer more guilt this day over what I’d just done to Beatrice, but I’d been wrong. I’d never seen such joy upon Anna’s face, not even when she was translating myths back to the original Greek. I guessed what had happened, but I was forced to watch it play out, like a carriage toppling over a cliff.
“I told you he was going to attend, you silly goose!” Beatrice laughed, looking more like twelve than her eighteen years. She rocked with Anna back and forth, encircled by Anna’s stout arms. “Whyever did you doubt me?”
“Because he is only a vicar’s son! And I would have thought him too serious for such a trifle as this.” Anna pulled back from Beatrice, turned to me. “Do you know? Did she tell you?”
“No!” I barely got out, before Anna began speaking again, her words a torrent of excitement and emotion.
“Well, it’s like this—and I canna believe it, I tell you plainly,” Anna began. “The masque that is coming up, half the world will be there, what, but surely not a vicar’s son, with all the nobility from far and wide coming into town, you see?”
Maid of Secrets Page 20
