Free Maid of Secrets by Jennifer McGowan Page A

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. Soattend 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 shewas 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 loosebrooch from