Free Love's Labyrinth by Anne Kelleher Page A

retinue would be gone. And then he would have to deal with the women and his brother. Pray that the maze was as effective in reverse, and the two women could be returned to wherever they happened to come from. Without warning, a vision of Olivia’s face rose before him, her expression the soft and earnest one she’d worn to sing before the Queen. Then it rapidly changed to become the determined look she’d had when she confronted him about their unexpected appearance. Fleetingly, he wondered what it would be like to talk to her about her time, and then he instantly dismissed such a dangerous thought. The less he knew about the whole appalling episode the better. And as soon as it was safe to do so, he’d have Geoffrey dismantle that damnable maze. God only knew who—or what—might come stumbling out of it next.
    A soft cough from the side of the room startled Nicholas out of his reverie. He glanced around to see a simply dressed man sitting on one of the long benches that lined the walls of the hall. With a start he recognized the man as Master Christopher Warren, someone he’d assumed was one of Elizabeth’s gentlemen pensioners, the male equivalent of a lady-in-waiting. But the man was dressed nearly as plainly as the Puritan Sir John Makepeace. The thought of Sir John brought an unpleasant taste to Nicholas’s mouth, and he forced the image of the man out of his head even as he walked slowly over to Warren, who clearly waited for him.
    “May I help you, sir?” Nicholas asked, puzzled as to why the man would have followed him into the house, and cold all over at the thought that perhaps he’d noticed the suspicious behavior of Geoffrey and the two women.
    “I wondered if we might have a word, my lord.” Master Warren smiled, and Nicholas noticed that his lips merely folded, and that the expression did not reach his eyes.
    “As you will, sir. Master Warren, isn’t it? Is there something you require?”
    “Not I, my lord, but the Queen.”
    Nicholas frowned, genuinely perplexed. “The Queen is well served, I trust. She seems quite pleased.”
    “Ah, by the feast, yes, of course. Your hospitality has pleased her greatly, and your choice of entertainment is most—most charmingly unconventional. But that’s not what I meant, my lord. There are other matters—matters in which it’s come to our attention that you might have an interest.”
    “What sort of matters?” Nicholas asked.
    “You know of the work of Sir Francis Walsingham?”
    Nicholas’s lip nearly twisted in a grimace, but he forced himself to keep his face smooth. A chill ran down his spine. There had been talk that the Babington plot and the executions that had followed it had been a concoction of Walsingham’s ferocious determination to see Mary of Scotland dead. Any member of any Catholic family, no matter how loosely connected to the Roman faith, knew of Walsingham and his fanatical hatred of Catholics. “Who doesn’t?”
    “We know how hard you’ve worked to establish yourself as a loyal subject of Her Majesty.”
    Nicholas began to frown at the implication that he’d been under scrutiny and just as quickly forced the expression off his face. “Then you know of my implicit and absolute allegiance.”
    Warren spread his hands. “Your valor with Lord Leicester in the Low Countries was remarked upon far and wide. And thus we turn to you, in hope that you will perform another service for Her Majesty, such as can only be performed by a man of courage and discretion.”
    This time Nicholas did frown. There was something about the man that made him wary, something about the flat look in his dark eyes that made Nicholas’s blood run cold. “What sort of service?”
    “Please, my lord. Will you sit?” With a broad sweep of his hand, Warren indicated the empty space beside him on the bench.
    I’d sooner sit beside a snake, thought Nicholas, then instantly suppressed the feeling. Walsingham’s crew might be fanatical but he knew that