The Lady of Secrets (19 page)

“It was hideous.”

“It was also excessively comfortable and practical, which this gown most definitely is not,” Meg complained.

Oblivious to Meg’s grumbling, Seraphine merely ordered her to hold still. Meg subsided, feeling slightly ashamed as she realized how peevish she sounded.

“I am sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to seem ungrateful. The gown is lovely and I do thank you for it. How did you manage to have it readied in only three days?”

“I told you,” Seraphine replied, frowning as she concentrated on the hooks that fastened the demi-cannon sleeves to the bodice of the gown. “I am not without acquaintance in London. When I explained my urgent need, the Countess of Shrewsbury was kind enough to lend me the use of her seamstresses, and by court standards, this is not a very elaborate dress.”

It seemed quite elaborate to Meg and costly. She asked uneasily, “And did the countess lend you money as well?”

Seraphine laughed. “Bess Throckmorton? Hardly. That woman did not amass a fortune by doling it out to others.” She sobered as she moved on to the other sleeve. “I am not without funds of my own, Meg. Even though I am separated from Monsieur le Comte, I may draw upon his agents as I please.”

“Another man might have tightened the purse strings in order to bring his wife to heel,” Meg could not help pointing out.

“Gerard would never do that. He has never been mean in that regard. He has always tried to give me anything I wanted. Unfortunately, he cannot give me what I desire the most.”

“And that is?”

“My little boy. I want my son back.” Seraphine’s eyes filled and Meg hoped her friend would at last give vent to the grief she had dammed up for so long. But Seraphine blinked hard. She strode to the bed to fetch the starched cuffs and ruff, and when she returned, she changed the subject.

“This gown would never do at our court in France. The neckline is far too high, but Bess warned me that King James is something of a prude.”

“Did the countess tell you anything else that might be of use?”

“She said that like most monarchs, James likes lavish compliments. Do you have any idea how you should address the king?”

“I assume it would be incorrect to call him ‘Most high and royal witch burner.’ ”

Ordinarily Seraphine would have returned a witty rejoinder, but she frowned instead. “This is no matter for jests, Meg. Royalty, even the most liberal minded of them, are extremely jealous of their position. One must handle a king with care.”

As Seraphine proceeded to educate her in the intricacies of court etiquette, Meg was tempted to remind her this would not be the first time she had been given a private audience with royalty.

But she supposed she could not count when she had been
the prisoner of Catherine de Medici and Meg had been steeling herself to kill the Dark Queen. There could be no question of protocol when one was plotting regicide.

There had also been the time during her childhood days in London when Meg had run away to fling herself, trembling, before Queen Elizabeth. She had idolized the English queen with a youthful adoration, blind to all the woman’s faults, so that meeting had gone well enough. Meg had secured the boon she had desired, the release of her older friend, Lady Jane Danvers, from the Tower.

Elizabeth had been intrigued by Meg’s power to use a gazing globe to peer into the future … intrigued and disconcerted. When she had restored Meg to her father, Elizabeth had commanded Martin Wolfe:

“We would strongly advise you to convey her to this Faire Isle as soon as possible. Besides being a remarkable girl, Margaret is also one of the most unnerving we have ever met. Therefore we think our English climate might not prove at all suitable for such a rare French rose.”

It was as well Seraphine knew nothing of that meeting. If Seraphine had any idea that Meg had been banished from England, her friend would have never allowed Meg to return to London.

But that was over twenty years ago. Queen Elizabeth was dead, most of the ministers who had served her deceased as well or retired from their high offices. Meg doubted that anyone would recollect the encounter between the late queen and an insignificant little girl, but that was a chance that Meg had to take.

Dragging her thoughts back from the past, Meg strove to absorb Seraphine’s instructions.

“… and the king loves flattery. So you should address
him in such terms as ‘O wisest of kings since the great Solomon’ or ‘most royal all-beloved king of hearts.’ ”

“I could never say such a thing and keep my countenance and surely the king would laugh or be disgusted.”

“No, His Majesty will lap it up like honey.”

“Even if I sounded so false?”

“He’d never notice. A royal court is no place for sincerity.”

As Seraphine fixed a golden girdle about Meg’s waist, she went on. “The king fancies himself a scholar, so you might compliment him on his learning. He is fluent in Latin and Greek and very fond of debate.”

“In that at least, I might accommodate him. My own Latin and Greek are—”

“Skills you’d best forget. The king has a very poor opinion of the intellect of women and I doubt he’d welcome being challenged by one.”

“If he thinks so poorly of women, then why would he have taken such pains to have me fetched to him?”

“That is exactly what worries me. That and why it has taken three days for a king desperate to be cured of a curse to grant you an audience.”

“That question has troubled me as well,” Meg admitted.

“No matter how cautious Sir Patrick has been in his arrangements, if he thinks he can keep this all quiet, then the man is a fool. Bess tells me there are already whispers about this strange curse afflicting the king. After this meeting, I fear there will be rumors about you as well, speculation about the cunning woman who journeyed so far to cure the king.”

“I hope not. All I want is to meet quietly with His Majesty and find out what he can tell me of this supposed witch who cursed him.”

“If your aim is to wangle information out of the king, then you’d best learn to flatter him and employ your feminine wiles.”

“You would be far better at that.”

“I know. But thanks to the way Sir Patrick has arranged all of this, I cannot even be there to watch over you. So I must arm you as best I can.”

As Seraphine marched over to the bed to undo the last parcel, Meg said, “If you have bought me a dirk, I hardly think it wise for me to attempt to smuggle a weapon into the king’s presence.”

“It wouldn’t be, especially since I cannot imagine you using it. But to please me, fasten this to your girdle.”

Meg blinked when she saw what it was, an elegant fan with ivory handles. “What do you expect me to do with that, flirt with the king?”

“No, I expect you to use it to keep an eye on your back since I will not be there to do it for you.”

Seraphine unfurled the fan to display a tiny mirror attached to the center. Meg was tempted to laugh, but she checked herself. This seemed a trifle melodramatic, but Seraphine was deadly earnest as she demonstrated how to hold the fan and use the mirror to observe what was happening in the background.

“Take this and practice until you can use it subtly. Now off with you while I summon Louise and Estelle and get ready myself.”

“But ’Phine. You know you cannot accompany me.”

“I am all too aware of that. I intend to find us an ally should this meeting of yours with the king go wrong. Bess has promised to present me to Queen Anne.”

“Does the queen have that much influence with her husband?”

“I don’t know. The king is said to be very fond of his wife. He vulgarly refers to her as ‘our Annie’ even before the entire court. Gerard had his pet name for me, but he reserved it for those times we were alone,
intimate.
” Seraphine’s voice lingered over the last word and her eyes softened with remembrance. Then she hustled Meg out the door.

MEG PACED THE UPPER HALL, PRACTICING, BUT NOT WITH THE
fan as Seraphine had commanded. Meg was far more concerned with her ability to walk in the high-heeled shoes without tripping and making a complete fool of herself. She wobbled along the landing, trying to keep her farthingale from swaying in awkward fashion, and resisting the urge to tug at the stiff ruff that scratched her neck.

Rigging herself out in this finery was a mistake, just as she had feared it would be. The gown, the shoes, the fan, all of Seraphine’s warnings and instructions did little to bolster Meg’s confidence; quite the opposite.

She took another turn about the hall only to draw up short when the door to Sir Patrick’s bedchamber opened and his manservant Alexander emerged.

Meg started to greet him, inquire after his master’s whereabouts, but before she could even get out the words “Good morrow,” Alexander ducked past her, his golden hair falling like a shield over his eyes.

Meg was not surprised or affronted. The Scotsman avoided speaking to her whenever he could. Meg was fully aware that
Alexander regarded her with a mixture of fear and loathing, a natural reaction since the Scot had made it clear from the first he considered her a witch.

It saddened Meg, since in all other respects Alexander seemed a worthy man and slavishly devoted to Sir Patrick.

Gripping the rail, she descended the stairs to the lower hall, which she found deserted. Meg hesitated for a moment before directing her course toward the door that led out to the garden, although she did not know what she expected to find. The cloaked woman, if there indeed had been one, would be long gone. Perhaps Meg might find some trace of her, to prove that Meg had not been imagining things.

As she entered the garden, Meg strove to recollect exactly where she had seen the woman appear to drop something. Over there, beneath the apple tree, she thought. Meg started in that direction when she heard masculine voices. Two men strolled into view from behind the shrubbery. One was the gardener Chalmers, the other Armagil Blackwood.

Meg froze, her heart doing a curious kick against her ribs. She had a strong inclination to retreat. She felt awkward enough in her unaccustomed finery without displaying herself before Blackwood’s cynical gaze.

But it was too late. Both men had already seen her, Chalmers dipping into a bow that caused his belly to double over his belt. Blackwood merely stared, taking in her altered appearance with a lift of his brows that could have betokened anything from surprise to amusement.

Meg held her head high and approached with more grace than she had ever imagined possible. Just as she was congratulating herself, she stumbled, but Blackwood caught her arm to break her fall.

“Steady,” he said. There was no longer any mistaking his expression. His eyes danced with amusement.

Her cheeks firing, Meg tugged free of his grasp, striving to regain her dignity. She was aided by Chalmers’s warm greeting and beaming smile.

“So, milady, you are all ready for your visit to Whitehall. If I may be permitted to say so, you look very handsome.”

“You may, thank you.”

“I have just been speaking of you to Dr. Blackwood. He was good enough to bring me a remedy for my stones, but I was informing him it was no longer necessary. Mistress Wolfe fixed me up a potion that has set me quite to rights.”

“Has she indeed?” Blackwood said, looking none too pleased about it.

Meg lifted her chin in a challenging manner. “There is a certain herbal medication that I have learned to brew that works quite well in the treatment of stones.”

“Most certain it does. This morning, I was able to piss without screeching—” Chalmer’s plump face reddened. “Er—begging milady’s pardon for my vulgarity.”

“Oh, that’s quite all right, Chalmers,” Blackwood drawled. “Any woman who plays at being a doctor can hardly be troubled by feelings of delicacy.”

Before Meg could think of a retort, Chalmers was hailed by one of the maidservants beckoning him toward the kitchen door. With an uneasy glance at Meg and Blackwood, the gardener excused himself.

After Chalmers’s retreat, an awkward silence ensued. No doubt that Blackwood felt that by treating Chalmers, she had encroached upon his territory. But she was not about to apologize for it, especially when she caught sight of the vial clutched in Blackwood’s hand. The small clear glass bottle
held a white beadlike substance that actually appeared to be
moving.

“What is that, Dr. Blackwood?”

Blackwood held the bottle up for her closer inspection. “Lice.”

“No wonder Mr. Chalmers was so grateful for my medicine. You expected the poor man to swallow those?”

“No, the lice are meant to be inserted in the tip of a man’s cock.”

When Meg shuddered, Blackwood snapped, “It may seem repulsive, but it has been known to work.”

“I cannot imagine how. I have never heard of anything so ridiculous.”

“No more ridiculous than some woman who putters with herbs claiming to know better than a doctor trained at Oxford.”

“Perhaps we should ask Mr. Chalmers who knows best. Good day to you, sir.” With a nod of icy dignity, Meg turned to stalk away as best as she was able.