Free Maid of Secrets by Jennifer McGowan

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 fingers 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 movedlike 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