Maid of Secrets (13 page)

I lifted my hand self-consciously to my neck. “Ah . . . Yes. I couldn’t very well reenter the Presence Chamber without one.”

“And that is to my advantage. I’ll be rather glad to keep yours.” He grinned, and held out one elegant hand. “Shall we dance?”

And there it was. I was going to dance the Trenchmore with the Count de Martine.

I curtsied (why stop now?) and lifted my hand to his. Heat blazed between us at the touch, but if the young count noticed, he gave no indication. He raised me out of the curtsy and folded my arm into his as if we’d been dancing together for years, and moved us into place on the floor as a couplet facing each other.

“I confess I do not know this dance well,” he said as he took my hands to perform an elegant Honor, the step-and-bow flourish favored before every courtly dance. “Is it challenging?”

“I don’t think you’ll have any difficulty, Count de Martine,” I said, surprised at the strength of my own voice.
The play had begun now, and I scanned his clothing. He was right-handed, and I expected the letters would be in the right-hand slash pocket of his heavily embroidered slops.

We moved up two steps and back two steps, and then cast off, walking down the length of the long line of dancers before meeting up again at the bottom of our row. I saw Walsingham position himself in the shadows of the column he’d specified, but Cecil was not with him. Instead, Walsingham was apparently having a conversation with a bland-faced man, who seemed to turn away just as I glanced at him.
Another of his spies?
I wondered. What other secrets did Walsingham keep?

As I took my place opposite Rafe, I did finally catch sight of Cecil—in earnest and back-slapping conversation with the increasingly ill-looking Count de Feria, both of them turned away from the dancers. Walsingham must have told Cecil to keep the ambassador occupied.

The second verse began, and more complicated steps with it. I held hands with the women alongside me, and we faced the men across the patch of floor. We all took a step toward our partners, and suddenly Rafe’s face was before me, his eyes merry and his lips curled into a soft and knowing grin. I realized with a start that I was nearly close enough to Rafe to kiss him.

Where had that thought come from?

Just as quickly we stepped back again, and Rafe and I joined hands. The heat of the dance must have been getting to me, because I suddenly felt flushed, almost dizzy.
Focus!

This portion of the dance required couples to make arches with their arms while other couples went beneath, and
then the first couple would similarly duck through another couple’s arches. It was a fast-paced process, involving tight turns and a fair amount of laughter, and it presented the chance I was looking for. As Rafe and I pressed up together to slip beneath the arms of a very short couple—no easy feat, that—I sidled my hand along his ornate slops, and slipped it into his slashed pocket.

My fingers instantly found what they were looking for, a tight packet of papers with a rough wax seal. I slipped the packet out adroitly and—

Nearly stopped dead.

I was not wearing my own familiar thieving gown, riddled as it was with enough custom-sewn pockets to store half the ball’s finery. Instead I was wearing a very proper costume befitting a maid of honor, nary a slash pocket to my name. And my waistband was already full of stolen jewels. Only my bodice allowed me any room at all, as it had originally been sized for a much more well-endowed maid.

We turned again, and I palmed the letters, whirling with a grand flourish. There was nothing for it, and as I lifted my hands above my head, I quickly shoved the letters down the front of my bodice, before turning again to clasp Rafe’s light fingertips in mine.

“You’re flushed, fair maid. Is everything well?” Rafe asked.

“Oh,
yes
!” I responded with perhaps a touch too much intensity, my gaze darting to his. Did Rafe suspect? But no, there was nothing but laughing amusement in his eyes. His thumb flicked along the palm of my hand as we allowed another couple to move beneath the arch of our arms, and I
glanced at him nervously.
Had he caught me out?
“Count—” I began.

“You may call me Rafe, fair maid,” he said. We were now doing our part to thread beneath other dancers’ upstretched arms. “Would you do me the honor of your name as well? It is Meg, I believe?”

I jolted, to hear my name on his lips, but of course he’d heard it before. Beatrice had called me by name. “It is, and I give you leave to use it, in appreciation for this dance. It has been a long time since I’ve enjoyed myself so much.”

He gave me a teasing smile. “May it be only the beginning of many dances to come.”

I blinked at his flirtatiousness, but fortunately, the third verse was beginning. We stepped toward each other and back, then toward the dancers on either side of us and back again, which gave me just enough time to collect my thoughts. Then we paired with other partners on down the row, twirling and whirling our way through a complicated series of figure eights that brought us all the way to the end of the line. We cast off again, to walk the length of the row of dancers and eventually resume our regular spots.

As I walked, I clasped my hands to my breast as if to quell my beating heart, and plucked the packet of letters free. Walsingham stepped just into my path at that moment, a specter in the shadows. I slipped the stolen letters to him as easily as if we’d been thieving together for years.

I regained my position next to Rafe, my stomach now as tight as a drum. Walsingham had disappeared back into the throng, and I prayed the man could read quickly, or had collared Anna to do the reading for him. She could decipher
hidden messages in text with almost unnatural speed. The next rotation would be our last move down the line, and my best chance to fetch back the letters. Even now, I was desperately trying to remember how many verses remained in the Trenchmore. After the next stroll down the line, were there two more verses—or three?

“I seem to be making you unaccountably nervous,” Rafe observed, startling me as we stepped forward, then back, following the steps prescribed by the dance.

“Not at all, my lord,” I said, raising my chin as I scanned the crowd.
Where was Walsingham?
“I am only worried about my footwork. I have managed the dance so well to now, ’tis merely a matter of time before I miss a step.”

He chuckled. “I get the distinct feeling that you do not often misstep, fair maid.”

I looked at him sharply, but we were now turning to our partners before us and behind us, and we cast off again, beginning the long walk down to our original spots in the line. During this walk I was to intercept Walsingham and reclaim Rafe’s packet of letters, with just barely enough time left to return them to their rightful owner before the dance came to an end.

Only . . . Walsingham was nowhere to be found.

I passed our appointed rendezvous point, and my heart was in my throat by the time Rafe and I arrived back in our positions. The dance was speeding up, in anticipation of a grand finish, but I did not have the letters!

I replayed my instructions again and again in my mind. I had told Walsingham specifically that he would have very little time to read the letters. He knew that. He knew I had
to get the letters back into Rafe’s pocket
before
the end of the dance. Which was now bearing down upon us like a mad bull.

“Breathe, fair maid,” Rafe whispered into my ear as we came together then to duck under another couple’s lifted arms. “You’ll faint if you keep this up. Should we retire?”

“No!” I said. My mind clamored with thoughts, possible new gambits, none of them any good. This was why I didn’t improvise. I did not have the stomach for it, let alone the heart. The moment Rafe patted his pocket, he would realize that the letters were missing. Would he immediately suspect me, a country lass with no formal education? Beatrice had given him to understand that I was here on the Queen’s charity. Would that be enough to save me?

I realized he was waiting for me to speak. “I’m sorry, my lo—”

“I said, call me Rafe.”

“Rafe.” I blushed, and it had nothing to do with the role I was playing, but it was masterful timing nevertheless. I’d have to call upon these memories if I ever had to play the awestruck girl again. Assuming Rafe didn’t have me thrown before the Queen as a petty thief, of course. Wouldn’t that be quite the irony. “I’m sorry,” I said again. “The dance is coming to an end, and I want to savor every moment of it.”

“Perhaps we—”

His words were lost to me as we began the complicated handoffs, swirling through the other men and women who danced alongside us in figure eights. I brushed by Rafe’s side a half dozen times before the refrain was complete. Any one of those times would have been enough for me to slide the letters back into his pocket, but where was Walsingham?

And suddenly the spymaster was there. His face implacable, his position just outside the whirling rows of dancers. He was no longer hiding in the lee of the column but out in plain sight, just close enough for me to reach him. He was talking to a young woman in apparently earnest conversation, but his body was angled so that he was just open enough . . .

The music picked up speed, and laughter rippled through the lines of dancers. We all swirled yet more vigorously, and I threw my arms out in an expression of exultation just as my turns flung me farthest from the line, as near to Walsingham as I ever hoped to get.

He turned in just that moment, and I felt the whisper of pressure on my fingers, even as his short cloak glided over my outstretched arm in a careless whirl. I had the letters!

Hurriedly I pulled my arm back and pushed the papers into my bodice again, success sparking through me like a leaping fire. I turned to face Rafe, a grin on my face, triumphant.

And then the music stopped.

But I still had the letters.

I stared at Rafe, actually feeling the blood drain out of my face. He backed away neatly from me and bowed, like the proper gentleman he was. I curtsied as well, like the well-taught maid I was trying desperately to be.

The music was shifting into a Volta, but I could not risk that dance. It was too intimate, and required the man to lift the woman off her feet. In lifting me, Rafe’s hands would be positioned directly on the waistband of my dress below my bodice—exactly where I didn’t want them to be. He would feel the lumpy weight of the stolen jewels immediately, and I could not run the risk that he would begin wondering what else I might be hiding beneath my skirts.

I needn’t have worried that I’d have to endure another dance with Rafe, however. Immediately upon my ascent from my curtsy, Beatrice appeared at his side.

“You are kind to favor poor Meg with such a dance, my lord,” she cooed. I felt myself grow hot, and even though it added to my disguise, I was infuriated that she could nettle me with such ease.

“The favor was hers to bestow, my lady,” Rafe said in
return, smiling at me even as Beatrice swanned in front of him, turning smartly so as to block me from Rafe’s view. If it hadn’t been such an elegant move, I would have been outraged by Beatrice’s audacity. As it was, she played it off as if it were merely part of the dance.

“And will you take my favor now?” she asked him, holding out her hand.

Knowing I should retire to figure out how in the name of heaven I was going to get the letters back into Rafe’s pocket, I nevertheless lifted my chin, sliding to the left even as Beatrice shifted to the right, striking her pose for the Honor to commence the dance.

“It was a pleasure, Rafe,” I said with a gentle incline of my head, using his first name quite deliberately. No “my lords” or simpering curtsy this time! “But I suspect you will be far better matched with Beatrice. Her skills at all manner of dance have captured many a gentleman’s fancy at court. Her experience is much remarked upon.”

Rafe’s brows lifted ever so slightly, but Beatrice narrowed her eyes, clearly unsure about whether or not I’d just insulted her. I smiled at them both serenely. I hadn’t
really
just intimated that she’d bedded half the male population at Windsor Castle, not exactly.

But it was close enough.

The music crashed to mark the opening strains of the Volta, and Rafe smoothly swept Beatrice away. I turned as well, and therefore only imagined that her eyes were burning two smoking holes through the back of my gown. For just a moment, I was almost cheerful.

Walsingham was waiting for me before I even cleared the first row of columns.

“Well?” he asked without looking at me.

I stopped, making as if I were straightening my hair after the rush of the country dance. Half-turning, I caught sight of Beatrice’s soft blue dress swirling as Rafe lifted her into the air. I was taller than Beatrice, and more fit, but she had the kind of lithe beauty that men could not resist. I strained to see whether Rafe looked like he was enjoying himself. Surely he could see through Beatrice’s game and—

“Your
report
, Miss Fellowes.” Walsingham’s biting tone cut through my thoughts, and I looked up at him, suddenly peevish.