Free Maid of Secrets by Jennifer McGowan Page B

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 crept 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 hefairly 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.
    At long last, de Feria and Count de Martine took their leave of each other, and I felt my shoulders relax. I held my position another ten minutes until I felt Jane move up beside me. Of all the maids, her walk was the most distinctive, no matter her gown. Her gait was long-limbed and fast, but with a strange efficiency that seemed the exact opposite of Beatrice’s elegant extension. Jane always seemed to be prepared to leap from a crouch, even when she was standing still.
    She stood surveying the dancing couples alongside me for a moment before she spoke. “You cannot find this as fascinating as you appear to,” she said.
    “I don’t.” I shook my head. “Has de Feria left the room?”
    “Not yet. He’s now talking with Cecil and Walsingham.”
    “Walsingham?” I half-turned, but Jane’s warning hand made me swivel my gaze back to the dance floor. “And Count de Martine?” I asked.
    “Charming his way through a gaggle of lords and ladies as we speak. Beatrice is about to eat her own ruff, even with Cavanaugh panting after her. It almost makes the evening worthwhile.” I felt Jane’s glance upon me. “Did they say anything of import?”
    “I couldn’t say.” I gave her a weak smile. “How well do you know Spanish?”
    “Not as well as Anna,” Jane admitted. “Should you speak to her before you meet with