“Will you kill me now, Emerald Lily?” he said roughly.

He slid his clasp to her hand, drawing her arm straight as he peeled back her sleeve to reveal the small blade strapped to her forearm. She had forgotten it was there, forgotten all but his kiss. She pulled her arm away, shaking the sleeve into place. “If I wanted to kill you tonight, you would have been dead long ago.”

“So, why am I not? What is it you want?” His accent, usually so faint, so lightly musical, was hoarser, rougher. He stepped back from her, wiping his lips with the back of his hand as if to erase the very taste of her.

Marguerite turned away, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. She forced herself to laugh mockingly. “La, monsieur, I only desired a kiss! A kiss from a handsome man, is it so much to ask? So odd to you that it must be madness?”

He stood there in silence, just watching her as if to say he knew her too well now to believe that. To believe that her only motive could be a stolen kiss in the moonlight.

His voice lowered to a whisper, “You know well this is not over.”

Ah, yes, she knew that all too well. This, whatever it was, would not be over until one of them was dead.

Praise for Amanda McCabe

Let award-winning author Amanda McCabe enchant you with this sensual tale of Venetian perfume, passion…and deadly peril!

“The immensely talented Amanda McCabe” —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“Amanda McCabe is one of the freshest voices in the Regency genre today” —Rakehell

“Amanda McCabe…has a tremendous knack for breathing robust life and gentle humour into her loveable characters” —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“Miss McCabe’s talent for lively characters and witty dialogue is always a winning combination” —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

A Sinful Alliance

by

Amanda McCabe

MILLS & BOON®

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Amanda McCabe wrote her first romance at the age of sixteen – a vast epic, starring all her friends as the characters, written secretly during algebra class. She’s never since used algebra, but her books have been nominated for many awards, including the RITA®, Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award, the Book-sellers Best, the National Readers’ Choice Award and the Holt Medallion. She lives in Oklahoma, with a menagerie of two cats, a pug and a bossy miniature poodle, and loves dance classes, collecting cheesy travel souvenirs and watching the Food Network – even though she doesn’t cook. Visit her at http://ammandamccabe. tripod.com and http://www.riskyregencies.blogspot.com

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Previous novels by the same author:

TO CATCH A ROGUE*

TO DECEIVE A DUKE*

TO KISS A COUNT*

*Linked novels

and in Mills & Boon® Super Historical: A NOTORIOUS WOMAN

Prologue

Venice, 1525

Her quarry was within her sight.

Marguerite peered through the tiny peephole, leaning close to the rough wooden wall as she examined the scene below. The brothel was not one of the finest in the Serene City, those velvet havens purveying the best wines and sweetmeats, the loveliest, cleanest women—for the steepest prices, of course. But neither was this place a dirty stew where a man should watch his purse and his privy parts, lest one or the other be lopped off. It was just a simple, noisy, colourful whorehouse, thick with the scent of dust, ale and sweat, redolent with shrieks of laughter and moans of pleasure, real or feigned. A place for men of the artisan classes, or travelling actors here for Carnival. A place where the proprietor was easily bribed by women with ulterior motives.

She had certainly been in far worse.

Marguerite narrowed her gaze, focusing in on her prey. It was him, it must be. He matched the careful description, the sketch. He was the man she had seen in the Piazza San Marco. He did not look like her vision of a coarse Russian, she would give him that. Were they not supposed to be built like bears, and just as hairy? Just as stinking? Everyone in France knew that these Muscovites had no manners, that they lived in a dark, ancient world where it was quite acceptable to grow one’s beard to one’s knees, to toss food on to the floor and blow one’s nose on the tablecloth.

Marguerite wrinkled her nose. Disgusting. But then, what could be expected from people who lived encased in ice and snow? Who were deprived of the elegance and civility of France?

And it was France that brought her here tonight, to this Venetian brothel. She had to do her duty for her king, her home.

A bit of a pity, though, she thought as she watched the Russian. He was such a beauty.

He had no beard at all, but was clean shaven, the sharp, elegant angles of his face revealed to the flickering, smoking torchlight. The orange glow of the flames played over his high cheekbones, his sensual lips. His hair, the rich gold of an old coin, fell loose halfway down his back, a shimmering length of silk that beckoned for a woman’s touch. The two doxies in his lap seemed to agree, for they kept running their fingers through the bright strands, cooing and giggling, nibbling at his ear and his neck.

Other women hovered at his shoulder, neglecting their other customers to bask in his golden glow, in the richness of his laughter, the incandescence of his skin and eyes.

And he did not seem to mind. Indeed, he appeared to take it all as his due, leaning back in his chair indolently like some spoiled Eastern lord, his head thrown back in abandoned laughter. He had shed his doublet and his white shirt was unlaced, hanging open to reveal a smooth, muscular chest, glimmering with a light sheen of sweat. The thin linen hung off one shoulder, revealing its broad strength.

No lumbering Russian bear, then, but a sleek cat, its power concealed by its grace.

Oui, a pity to destroy such handsomeness. But it had to be done. He and his Moscow friends, not to mention the Spanish and Venetian traders he consorted with, stood in the way of French interests with their proposed new trade routes from Moscow to Persia, along their great River Volga and the Caspian Sea. It would interfere with the French trade in silks, spices, furs—and that could never be. It was even more vital now, after the king’s humiliating defeat at Pavia. So, Nicolai Ostrovsky would have to die.

After one last lingering glance at that bare, golden skin, Marguerite turned away, letting the peephole cover fall into place. She had her task; she had done such things for France before, she had done worse. She could not hesitate now, just because the mark was pretty. She was the Emerald Lily. She could not fail.

There was a small looking glass hanging on the rough wall of her small room, illuminated by candles and the one window. She gazed into it to find a stranger looking back. Her disguises often took many turns—gnarled peasant women, old Jewish merchants, milkmaids, duchesses. She had never tried a harlot before, though. It was quite interesting.

Her silvery blonde hair, usually a shimmering length of smooth waves, longer even than the Russian’s, was frizzed and curled, pinned in a knot at the back and puffed out at the sides. Her complexion, the roses and lilies so prized in Paris, was covered with pale rice powder, two bright circles of rouge on each cheek and kohl heavily lining her green eyes.

She was not herself now, not Marguerite Dumas of the French Court. Nor the lady who had strolled, modestly veiled and cloaked, through the Piazza San Marco in the bright light of day, watching Nicolai Ostrovsky in his guise as an actor. An acrobat, who juggled and jested and feinted, always hiding his true self behind a smile and the jangle of bells. Just as she did, in her own way.

Voila, now she was Bella, a simple Italian whore, come to Venice to make a few ducats during Carnival. But hopefully a whore who could catch Nicolai’s eye, even as he was the centre of attention for every woman in the place.

Marguerite stepped back until she could examine her garb in the glass. It was scarlet silk, bought that afternoon from a dealer in second-hand garments. It must have once belonged to a grand courtesan, but now the gold embroidery was slightly tarnished, the hem frayed and seams faded. It was still pretty, though, and it suited her small, slender frame. She tugged the neckline lower, until it hung from her shoulders and bared one breast.

Hmm, she thought, examining that pale appendage. Her bosom was good, she knew that; the bubbies were not too large or small, perfectly formed and very white. Perhaps they were meant to compensate for her rather short legs, the old scars on her stomach. But they seemed a little plain, compared to the other whores’. Marguerite reached for her pot of rouge and smeared some of the red cream around the exposed nipple. There. Very eye-catching. For good measure, she added some to her lips, and dabbed jasmine perfume behind her ears. Heavy and exotic, very different from her usual essence of lilies.

Now she was ready. Marguerite lifted up her voluminous skirts, checking to see that her dagger was still strapped to her thigh, its point honed to perfect sharpness.

She smoothed the gown back into place and slipped out of the small room. The corridor outside was narrow, running behind the main rooms of the house, the ceiling so low she had to duck her head. It was also deserted. But even here she could detect the sounds of laughter and moaning, the clink of pottery goblets, the whistle of a whip for those with more exotic tastes. Marguerite hoped that was not a Russian vice. Baring her backside for the lash would surely reveal the dagger.

She turned down a small, steep flight of stairs, careful on her high-heeled shoes. The low door at the foot of the steps led out of the secret warren into the large, noisy public room.

It was like tumbling into a new world. Noises here were no longer muffled, but loud and clear, echoing off the low, darkened ceiling. Smoke from the hearth was thick, acrid, blending with the perfumes of the women, the smell of flesh and sex and spilled ale. The wooden floor beneath her feet was sticky and pockmarked.

Marguerite stood for a moment in the doorway, her careful gaze sweeping over the entire scene. Card games and dice went on by the hearth, serious play to judge by the great piles of coins on each table, the intent expressions on the players’ faces. There was drink and food, plain fare of bread, cheese and prosciutto. But whores were the first commodity, any sort a man could fancy. Short, tall, fat, thin, blonde, brunette. There was even a young man clad in an elaborate blue satin gown. He was quite good, too, with smooth skin and silky, black hair. ‘Twas a shame he couldn’t do something about that Adam’s apple.

Marguerite surveyed them dispassionately, her competition for this one night. She knew she was beautiful, had known it since she was a child, taken to Court by her father. She was not vain about it. It was merely an asset to her work, particularly at times like this. She was fairer than any of the others here, even the boy in blue. Therefore she should be able to catch Nicolai’s attention.

Her competition was less now, anyway. Many of the women who had clustered around him were scattered, sent by the proprietor to see to the other patrons. There were just the two on his lap, half-dressed in their camicias, wriggling and giggling. Marguerite straightened her shoulders, displaying her bosom in its red silk frame, held her head high, and sauntered slowly past the Russian and his harem. She let her train trail over his boots, let him smell her perfume, glimpse her white breast, her half-smile. Once past him, she glanced back and winked. Then she went on her way, seeking a cup of ale.

Now—well, now she waited. In her experience, a touch of mystery worked better than fawning attention, which he obviously got enough of anyway. She sipped at her ale, carefully examining the room behind her in an old, cracked looking glass hanging on the wall. The two whores were still on his lap, but she could tell his full attention was no longer on their full-blown charms. He sat forward on his chair, watching her, a small frown on his brow. She turned slightly toward him, her pretty profile displayed. A slight impatience made her fingers tighten on the cup. He had to come to her before anyone else did! She flicked lightly at her lips with her tongue, and tossed her head back.

Whatever the secret charm, it worked. She turned away again, and in a few moments she felt him close to her side. How warm he was, yet not in a heated, lascivious, overpowering way, as most men were. More like the summer sun in her childhood home of Champagne, touching her skin with light fingers, beckoning her ever closer. He smelled like the summer, too, of some green, herbal soap behind the salty tang of sweat and skin. Of pure man.

She swivelled toward him, smiling flirtatiously. He had eased his shirt back over his shoulders but his chest was still bare, and he stood near enough that she could see the faint sprinkling of wiry blond hair against his skin. Gold on gold.

“Good evening, signor,” she said, every hint of a French accent carefully banished.

“Good evening, signora,” he answered, giving her a low bow, as if they were in the Doge’s palace and not a smoky brothel. His eyes were blue, she noticed. A clear, sky-like expanse where anything, any wish or desire or fear, could be written.

And they watched her very carefully. The laughter he shared with the other women was still there, but lurking in the background. He was a wary one, then. She would have to be doubly cautious.

For an instant, as that blue gaze met hers steadily, unblinking, she felt a prickle of unease. A wish that she had worn a mask, which was ridiculous. The heavy make-up was disguise enough, and he would not see her after tonight.

Marguerite shoved away that unease. There was no time for it. She had to do her task and be gone.

“I have not seen you here before,” he said.

“I am new. Bella is my name, I have just arrived from my village on the mainland to work for Carnival,” she answered, gesturing for more ale. “Do you come here often, then?”

“Often enough, when I am in Venice.”

She laughed. “I would wager! A virile man like yourself, I’m sure the pale, choosy courtesans of the grand palazzos could never keep you satisfied.” The ale arrived, and she handed him one of the goblets. “Salute.”

“Na zdorovie,” he answered, and tossed back the sour drink. “Venice is truly filled with the most beautiful of women, signora. Lovelier than any I have ever seen, and I have travelled to many lands. But I do prefer company more like—myself.”

Marguerite glanced toward the boy in blue. “Yourself, signor?”

He laughed, and she was again reminded of summer and home, of the warm, sparkling wine of Champagne. “Not in that way, signora. Closer to the earth.” She must have looked puzzled, for he smiled down at her. “‘Tis a saying from my homeland.”

“You are not from here, either.”

“Nay. I can see where you might mistake me, though, given my excellent Italian,” he said, giving her a teasing grin. “I am from Moscow, though many years removed from that place.”

“Ah, that explains it, then.”

“Explains what, signora?”

“The virility. For is Moscow not snowbound for much of the year? Much time to spend in front of the fire. Or in a warm bed.”

“Very true, signora.” His arm suddenly snaked out, catching her around the waist and pulling her close. For one flashing instant, Marguerite was caught by surprise and instinctively stiffened. She forced herself to go limp, pliant, arching back against his arm.

Through her skirts and his hose she felt the press of his erection, hard and heavy. “No ice tonight, I see, signor.”

“The Italian sun has melted it away—almost.”

She smiled teasingly up at him, twining her arms about his neck. His hair was like satin spilling over her fingers, cool and alluring. She tangled her clasp in its clinging strands, inhaling that clean, warm scent of him. “I’m sure this Italian sun could finish the job completely, signor. You would never feel the touch of ice again.”

In answer he kissed her, his lips swooping down on hers so quickly she had no time for thought. She could only react, respond. His kiss was not harsh and bruising, but soft, gentle, nibbling at her lips, luring her to follow him into that sunshine and forget all. For a moment, she did forget. She was not Marguerite Dumas, not the Emerald Lily. She was just a woman being kissed by a handsome man, a man who ensnared her with a blurry, humid heat, with his scent, his strong arms, his talented lips. She pressed closer to him, so close the edges of her being melted into his and she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began. His tongue pressed into her mouth, presaging an even more profound joining.

Overwhelmed, Marguerite eased back. She needed her own ice now, the cold thoughts, precise actions. Not this, this—lust. This need. The Emerald Lily did not have needs, especially not carnal ones. Nicolai Ostrovsky was a task, nothing more.

Why, then, was it so very hard to remember that as she stared up into his pale blue eyes?

She made herself smile. “You are hot tonight, signor.”

“I told you the Italian sun has made me so.”

“Then come with me, signor, and I’ll cool you off—eventually.” She untangled her clasp from his hair, reaching down to take his hand. His fingers held hers tightly, holding her prisoner as she led him toward that small doorway she earlier emerged from.

They climbed the narrow stairs, Nicolai ducking to avoid the rafters overhead. The quiet enclosed them again, the loud, bright world shut away, and Marguerite felt her heart thud in her chest, felt her skin grow chilled. The time was almost upon her.

At the entrance to her little room, Nicolai suddenly reeled her close to him, spinning her lightly around to press her to the wall. Marguerite’s heartbeat quickened—had he discovered her, then? Was she caught in a trap of his own?

He did not slit her throat, though. He merely held her there, pressed against her in the half-light, staring down at her with those otherworldly eyes as if he could see into her soul. Her sin-riddled soul.

“Where did you come from, Bella?” he said softly. His accent was more pronounced now, the edges of his words touched with some icy Russian music.

Marguerite smiled at him. “I told you, from the mainland. This is our most profitable time of year, but one has to be in Venice to make the coin.”

“Have you been a whore long, then, dorogaya?”

She laughed. “Oh, yes. Decades, it seems.”

“Miraculous, then. For you still have your teeth, your clear eyes…” He reached down to trace the underside of her naked breast, the soft, puckered flesh. His thumb flicked lightly at the rouged nipple, making her shiver deeply. “Your smooth skin.”

“I was born under a lucky star, signor. My father always said so,” she said, still trembling. And that was one true thing she said tonight. Her father had told her that when she was a child, holding her up on his shoulder so she could see the clear, bright stars in the Champagne sky.

But then her star faded, and here she was in a Venetian brothel. Bound up with this beautiful puzzle of a man.

“A lucky star on the mainland,” he said.

“Just so. You must have been born under an auspicious sign yourself, to be so handsome.” She spoke teasingly, but it was also true. Such beauty and charm should belong to no ordinary mortal. He was blessed. Until tonight.

This was a fateful hour for them both, then.

“If we are both so fortunate, then, Signora Bella, why are we here?” he murmured, as if he truly could read her thoughts. “A whore and an actor, who must both sing for their supper. Can we even afford each other?”

“I am not so expensive as all that,” Marguerite said. She went up on tiptoe and whispered in his ear, “Not for you. I think we are alike, you and I, whores and actors both in one. And we do love our homelands, though we don’t want to admit it.”

He pulled back, staring at her as if surprised by her words, but she wouldn’t let him go. She caught him closer, kissing him with every secret passion of her heart.

“You didn’t come from any human land,” he muttered roughly against her neck, his lips trailing a fiery ribbon of kisses along her throat, her shoulder. “You come from an enchanted fairy realm, and you’ll surely vanish back there at the dawn.”

“‘Tis hours until then,” Marguerite gasped. “We have to make the most of the night.”

Nicolai captured her breast in his kiss, laving the pebbled, rouged tip with his tongue until she added her hoarse moans to the others of the house. That hazy, hot passion descended on her again like a grey cloud, and she felt so weak, so warm and yet shivering. Through that fog, she felt him reach down and grasp her hem, drawing her skirt up.

The cold draught on her bare leg brought sanity crashing down around her. Non! He could not see her dagger, or all would be lost. She pulled away, laughing. “I said we had all night, signor! We don’t have to rut against the wall.” She drew him toward the small cot tucked beneath the room’s one window. Later, when her task was done, she would escape through that portal, vanishing over the rooftops of Venice. Not to any fairy kingdom, but to a curtained gondola where “Bella” would disappear for ever.

She lightly pushed Nicolai, unresisting, on to the sheets, standing above him for a moment, studying him in the moonlight. His golden hair spilled around him on the rumpled, dingy linen. So handsome—so unreal. He smiled wickedly up at her, a fallen angel.

“So, we can rut on a bed like civilised beings?” he said.

“Exactly so.” She leaned over him, tracing the muscled contours of his chest with her fingertips. The arc of his ribs, the flat, puckered discs of his nipples. So glorious, like a map of some exotic, undiscovered country. She felt the pace of his heartbeat, racing under her caress. “We can savour each moment. Each—single—touch.” She kissed his nipple, tugging its hardness between her teeth, tasting the salt of his skin.

Nicolai shivered, and she felt the pull of his fingers in her hair, the shift of his body under hers. He was so hard against her hip, his whole body taut as a bow string. Oui, he was under the spell of desire now. She couldn’t let herself fall prey to it, too.

“How much will this cost me?” he said tightly.

Marguerite eased up his body until she lay prone atop him, pressed close. “Your soul,” she whispered.

Then she acted, as she had before. As she was trained to do. She drew up her skirts and snatched the dagger, in the same smooth motion rising up from his chest and lifting the blade high. She had a quick impression of his eyes, silver in the moonlight, his body laid bare for her to claim. She had only to plunge the dagger down into that heartbeat, and an enemy of France would be gone.

But those eyes—those inhuman, all-seeing eyes. They watched her steadily, not even startled, and she was captured by their sea-like depths.

Only for an instant, one quicksilver flash, but it was enough to lose her the advantage. Nicolai seized her wrist in a bruising grip, tightening until her wrist bone creaked and she cried out. Her fingers opened convulsively, and the dagger clattered to the floor. He swung her beneath him, pinning her to the bed. No lazy, debauched, lustful actor now, but a swift, pitiless predator. Just as she was.

Marguerite was well trained in swordplay and the use of daggers and bows, in courtly fencing and rough street brawling. She knew tricks and dupes to compensate for her small size and feminine weakness. Yet she also knew when she was truly defeated, and that was now. She knew what it was she saw in those eyes. It was doom.

As she stared up at him now, she felt strangely calm, as if she was already hovering above her body, watching the scene from the rafters. Her victim became her murderer, and it was no less than she deserved for her sins. This day had been long in coming. If only she could not die un-shriven! She would never meet her mother in heaven now.

But she did see her avenging angel, rising above her in the darkness. He scooped up her dagger, examining the blade while he held her firmly down with his other hand, his strong body. She felt the full force of that lean strength; the smooth, supple muscles that held him on a tightrope or in a backflip now held her easily in place.

He stared at the dagger, so thin and perfectly balanced. So lethal. The small emerald embedded in the hilt gleamed. “Why me?” he said roughly. “Why try to kill a poor actor?”

“You are not a poor actor, Monsieur Ostrovsky, and we both know it,” she said in French. “You have secrets to equal my own.”

“What are your secrets, mademoiselle?” he answered in the same language.

Marguerite laughed bitterly. “It hardly matters. I have failed in my task, but I take my secrets to the grave.”

“Do you, indeed? Well, that might be a long time from now, mademoiselle. I have the feeling that fairies, like cats, have many lives. You are young; I’m sure you have some to go.”

Marguerite stared up at him, baffled, but his face gave nothing away. He was as beautiful, as cold, as the marble statues in the piazza. Her passionate lover was gone. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, mademoiselle whatever-your-name-is, that this is not your night to die. Nor mine, though you would have had it otherwise.” The dagger arced down, but not into her heart. It sliced into her skirt, cutting away thick strips of silk. Holding the blade between his teeth like a corsair, he bound her hands and feet tightly, with expert knots.

“What are you doing?” Marguerite cried, bewildered. This was not how the game was meant to be played! “I would have killed you! Do you mean you won’t kill me? You won’t take your revenge?”

“Oh, I will take my revenge, mademoiselle, but not on this night.” He tied off the final knot around her wrists, so firm she could not even wriggle her fingers. “It will be some day when you least expect it.”

Once she was trussed up like a banquet goose, he leaned down and pressed one gentle kiss to her lips. He still tasted of herbs, ale and her own waxen rouge. And he still smelled of an alluring summer day. Quel con!

“I just can’t bring myself to destroy such rare beauty,” he whispered. “Not after your fine services, incomplete though they were. Adieu, mademoiselle—for now.”

He tied the last strip of silk over her mouth, and opened the very window Marguerite had planned for her escape. As she stared, infuriated, he gave her a wink, and with one graceful movement leaped through the casement and was gone.

Marguerite screamed through her gag. She arched her back and kicked her legs, all to no avail. She was bound fast, caught in her own scheme. And the cochon didn’t even have the decency to kill her! To follow the code all spies and assassins adhered to. At least French ones.

“Have his revenge,” would he, the beautiful, arrogant Russian pig? Never! She would find him first, and finish this task, no matter what. No matter how far she had to go, even to the frozen wastes of his Russia itself.

For the Emerald Lily never failed.

Chapter One

The Palace of Fontainebleau, January 1527

Marguerite Dumas walked slowly down the corridor, gaze straight ahead, hands folded at her waist, her face carefully blank as she ignored the whispers of the courtiers loitering about. In her fingers she clutched the summons of the king.

She had known this day would come. A new assignment. A new mission for the Emerald Lily. If only this one ended better than the last, that night in Venice!

Marguerite paused at the end of the corridor, where a shadowed landing became a narrow staircase. Here, there was no one to see her, and she closed her eyes against the spasm of pain in her head. It was no illness, but the memory of Venice, the thought of the handsome Russian encule. The coppery, bitter taste of humiliation and failure.

The king had said nothing when she returned to Paris with her report of the Russian’s escape. He had said nothing when he sent her back to her “legitimate” duties as fille d’honneur to Princess Madeleine, her ostensible reason for being at Court in the first place. There she had languished for months, walking with the other ladies in the gardens, reading to the princess, dancing at banquets. Fending off the advances of useless, arrogant courtiers.

They could do her no good, those perfumed popinjays who pressed their kisses on her in the shadows. Only one man was useful here, King François himself. And he maintained his distant politeness, merely nodding to her when they happened to pass in the garden or the banquet hall.

Marguerite knew the whispers, that she and the king had been lovers who were estranged now that he was involved with the Duchesse de Vendôme. If they only knew the truth! They would never believe it. Not of her.

She scarcely believed it herself, in these days of quiet leisure in the princess’s apartments. Had she truly ever been sent to the far corners of Europe, to defeat the enemies of France? Had she once used her wits, her hard-learned skills, to find a secret victory over those who would defy the king? It did not seem possible.

Yet at night, alone in her curtained bed, she knew it was true. Once, she had had adventures. She had won a place for herself in the wider world. Had one mistake, one instant’s miscalculation, cost her all she worked for?

It had made no sense to her that she would be dismissed in only a moment, when now more than ever her special skills were needed. Since the king’s humiliating defeat against the forces of the Holy Roman Emperor at Pavia, since his two sons were sent to Madrid as hostages, dark days had descended on France. Her enemies were becoming ever bolder.

Marguerite knew she could be of use in these new, dangerous games. Why, then, was she relegated to dancing and card playing? All because of the Russian, damn his unearthly blue eyes!

But those days seemed to be at an end. She held the king’s note in her hand, so tightly the parchment pressed her rings into her skin. It was time for her to redeem herself.

As she climbed the narrow, privy staircase, the sounds of hammering and sawing grew louder, more distinct, shouting of the king’s new mania for building. Since his return from Spain in defeat, François had thrown himself into a frenzy of remodelling, of making his palaces ever grander.

Fontainebleau, one of his favourite castles thanks to the seventeen-thousand hectares of forest ripe with deer for hunting, was his latest focus. Since the Christmas festivities, so muted without the presence of the Dauphin and his brother, work was begun in earnest. The old keep of St Louis and Philipe le Beau was being demolished, replaced by something vast and modern.

Marguerite lifted the hem of her velvet skirt as she stepped over a pile of rubbish. A shower of stone dust from above nearly coated her headdress, and she hurried to the relative safety of the great gallery.

This was one of the few rooms in the place to be almost finished. A long, echoing expanse of polished parquet floor swept up to walls of pale stuccowork, inlaid dark wood in the panels of the boiserie. A few of the many planned flourishes of floral motifs, gods and goddesses, fat little Cupids, were in place, with blank spaces just waiting to be filled.

At the far end of the gallery, leaning over a table covered with sketches, was King François himself. He was consulting with one of the Italian artists brought in to take charge of all this splendour, Signor Fiorentino, and for the moment did not see her. Marguerite slowed her steps, studying him carefully for any sign of his thoughts and intentions. Any hint that she was truly forgiven.

François was very tall, towering over her own petite frame, and was all an imposing king should be, with abundant dark hair and a fashionable pointed beard. His brown eyes were sharp and clear above his hooked Valois nose, missing nothing. After Pavia and his captivity, he seemed leaner, more wary, his always athletic body thin and wiry.

But his famous sense of fashion had not deserted him. Even on a quiet day like this, he wore a crimson velvet doublet embroidered with gold and silver and festooned with garnet buttons, a sleeveless surcoat of purple trimmed with silver fox fur to keep the chill away. A crimson cap sewn with pearls and more garnets covered his head, concealing his gaze as he bent over the drawings.

“There will be twelve in all, your Majesty,” Fiorentino said, gesturing toward the empty spaces on the gallery walls. “All scenes from mythology, of course, to illustrate your Majesty’s enlightened governance.”

“Hmm, yes, I see,” Francois said. Without glancing up, he called, “Ah, Mademoiselle Dumas! You surely have the finest eye for beauty of any lady in my kingdom. What do you think of Signor Fiorentino’s plans?”

Marguerite came closer, peering down at the sketches as she tucked the king’s note into her tight undersleeve. The first drawing was a scene of Danaë, more a stylish lady of the French Court in a drapery of blue-tinted silk and an elaborate headdress than a woman of the classical world. But her surroundings—broken columns and twisted olive trees, her attendants of fat cherubs and even more fashionable ladies—were very skilfully drawn, the scene most elegant.

“It is lovely,” she said. “And surely the dimensions, the way the scene is framed by these columns, make it perfect for that space there, where the afternoon sunlight will make Danaë’s robe shimmer like a summer sky. You will use cobalt, signor, and flecks of gilt?”

“You are quite right, your Majesty! The mademoiselle has a most discerning eye for beauty,” Fiorentino said happily, clapping his paint-stained hands. Perhaps he was just glad he wouldn’t waste expensive cobalt.

“Bien, signor,” the king said. “The Danaë stays. You may commence at once.”

As the artist hurried away, his assistants scurrying after him, François smiled at Marguerite. Try as she did to gauge his thoughts, she could see nothing beyond his courtly smile, the opaque light of his eyes. He was even better at concealing his true self than Marguerite herself.

“Shall we stroll in the gardens, Mademoiselle Dumas?” he asked lightly. “It is a bit warmer, I think, and I should like your opinion on the new fountain I have commissioned. It is the goddess Diana, a great warrior and hunter. A favourite of yours, I believe?”

“I would be honoured to walk with you, your Majesty,” Marguerite answered. “Yet I fear I know little of fountains.”

“Egremont will loan you his cloak,” he said, gesturing to one of his attendants, who immediately presented her with his fur-lined wrap. “We would not want you to catch a chill. You have such important work, mademoiselle.”

Important work? Was this truly a new task, then? A chance for the Emerald Lily to emerge from hiding? Marguerite was careful not to show her eagerness, settling the cloak over her shoulders. “Indeed, your Majesty?”

“Oui. For does my daughter not depend on you, since the death of her sainted mother? You are her favourite attendant.”

“I, too, am very fond of the princess,” Marguerite answered, and she was. Princess Madeleine was a lovely child, charming and quick-minded. But she was hardly a challenge. She could not offer the kind of advancement Marguerite’s ambition craved. The kind she needed for her own security. She thought of the stash of coins hidden beneath her bed, and how they were not yet enough to gain her a vineyard, a life, of her own.

“Indeed?” François led her down the stairs and out into the gardens, now slumbering under the winter frost. They, like the palace itself, were in the midst of upheaval, their old flowerbeds being torn up to be replaced by new plantings, a more modern design. For now, though, everything was caught in a moment of stasis, frozen in place, overlaid by sparkling white like an enchanted castle in a story.

François waved away his attendants, and led her down a narrow walkway. The air was cold but still, holding the echo of the abandoned courtiers’ voices as they lingered by the wall.

“It is most sad, then, that my daughter will have to do without your company for a time,” the king said.

“Will she?”

“Yes, for I fear you must journey to England, mademoiselle. And the Emerald Lily must go with you.”

England. So the rumours were true. François sought a new alliance with King Henry, a new bulwark against the power of the Emperor.

“I am ready, your Majesty,” she said.

François smiled. “Ma chère Marguerite—always so eager to serve us.”

“I am a Frenchwoman,” she answered simply. “I do what I can for my country.”

“And you do it well. Usually.”

“I will not fail you. I vow this.”

“I trust that is true. For this mission is of vital importance. I am sending a delegation to negotiate a treaty of alliance with King Henry, and to organise a marriage between his daughter Princess Mary and my Henri.”

Marguerite considered this. Despite flirting with English alliances in the past, including the long-ago Field of the Cloth of Gold, which was so spectacular it was still much talked of, naught had come of it all. Thanks to the English queen, Katherine of Aragon, aunt of the Emperor, England always drifted back to Spain. Little Princess Mary, only eleven years old, had already been betrothed to numerous Spanish grandees as well as the Emperor Charles himself, or so they said.

“What of the Spanish?” Marguerite asked quietly.

“I have heard tell that Henry and his queen are not as—united as they once were,” François answered. “Katherine grows old, and Henry’s gaze has perhaps turned to a young lady who was once resident of the French Court, Mademoiselle Anne Boleyn. Katherine may no longer have so much influence on English policy. Since the formation of the League of Cognac, Henry seems inclined to a more Gallic way of seeing things. I will be most gratified if this treaty comes to completion.”

Marguerite nodded. An alliance with England could certainly mean the beginning of brighter days for France. Yet she had dealt with the Spanish before. For all their seeming piety and austerity, they were just as fierce in defending their interests as the French, perhaps even more so. It was said that in their religious fervour they often employed the hair shirt and the scourge, and it seemed to sour their spirits, made them ill humoured and dangerous as serpents.

“The Spanish—and Queen Katherine—will not let go of their advantage so easily as that,” Marguerite said. “I have heard Katherine seeks a new Spanish match for her daughter.”

“That is why I am sending you,” François answered. “I have assigned Gabriel de Grammont, the Bishop of Tarbes, to head the delegation, and I am sure he will do very well. As will his men. But women can see things a man cannot, go places a man cannot, especially one as well trained as my Lily. Keep an eye on the queen, and especially on the Spanish ambassador, Don Diego de Mendoza. It is entirely possible they have plans of their own, of which Henry is not aware.”

“And if they do?”

François scowled, gazing out over his frozen gardens. “Then you know what to do.” He drew a small scroll from inside his surcoat and handed it to her. “Here are your instructions. You depart in two weeks. I will have dressmakers sent to you this evening—you must order all that you require for a stay of several weeks.”

With that, he turned and left her, rejoining his waiting attendants. They all disappeared inside the château, leaving Marguerite alone in the cold afternoon. There were no birds, no bustle of gardeners or cool splash of fountains, only the lonely whistle of the wind as she unfurled the scroll.

The words were brief. The king’s kinsman, the Comte de Calonne, was to be part of the delegation, along with his wife Claudine. Marguerite was ostensibly to serve as companion to Claudine, to accompany her when she called on Queen Katherine and attended banquets and tournaments.

But Marguerite knew well what was not written there. At those banquets, she was to flirt with the English courtiers when they were in their cups, draw secrets from them they were not even aware they were sharing. To watch the queen and the Spanish ambassador. To watch King Henry, and make sure the notoriously changeable monarch did not waver. To watch this Anne Boleyn, see if she had real influence, if she could be turned to the French cause.

And, if anyone stood in France’s path, she was to remove them. Quickly and neatly.

It was surely the most important task she had ever received, a test of all her skills. The culmination of all she had learned. If she did well, if the treaty was safely signed and the betrothal of Princess Mary and the Duc d’Orléans sealed, she would be handsomely rewarded. Perhaps she would even be given leave to travel, to seek out the one man who had ever defeated her and thus finally have her revenge.

The Russian. Nicolai Ostrovsky.

The soft crackle of a footstep on the pathway behind her startled her, and she spun around, her knees bending and hands forward in a defensive position.

It was Pierre LeBeque, a young priest in the employ of Bishop Grammont. His eyes narrowed when she turned on him, and he fell back a step, watching her warily.

Marguerite dropped her hands to her sides, but still stood poised to dash away if need be. She did not often see Father Pierre, for he was usually scurrying about the Court on errands for the bishop, but when she did encounter him she didn’t care for the sensations he evoked. That prickling feeling at the back of her neck that so often warned her of “danger.”

What danger a solemn young priest, tall but as thin as a blade of grass, could hold she was not sure. He seemed to bear nothing but dutiful piety on his bony shoulders. Yet he always watched her so closely, and not as others did, in admiration and awe of her beauty—it was as if he was trying to see all her secrets.

And she well knew how often appearances were deceiving.

“Father Pierre,” she said calmly, drawing her borrowed cloak closer around her. “What brings you out on such a chilly day?”

He did not smile, just stared solemnly. His face, white as the frost, was set in stony lines too old for his youthful years. “I am carrying a message to the king from Bishop Grammont, mademoiselle.”

“Indeed? Such industrious loyalty you possess, coming out on such a day, when everyone else is tucked up by their fires.”

“You are not,” he pointed out.

“I felt the need for some fresh air. But I am returning to my warm apartment now.”

“Allow me to escort you back to the palace, then.”

Marguerite could think of no graceful way to decline his company, so she merely nodded and turned on the pathway. Pierre fell into step beside her, the hem of his black robes whispering over the swept gravel.

“I understand from the bishop that you are to join our voyage to England,” he said tonelessly.

Alors, but news did travel fast! Marguerite herself had only just learned of her assignment, and here this glorified clerk already knew.

What else did he know?

“Indeed I am. The Comtesse de Calonne requires a companion, and I am honoured that my services have been requested.”

“You are very brave then, mademoiselle. They say the English Court is coarse and dirty.”

“I have certainly heard of worse.”

“Have you?”

“Oui. The Turks, for one. And the Russians. I have heard that the Muscovites grow their beards so very long, and so tangled and matted, that rats live in the hair with their human owners none the wiser.”

Father Pierre frowned doubtfully. “Truly?”

Marguerite shrugged. “So I have heard. I have seldom met a Russian myself, except for the ambassadors who sometimes visit Paris. Their fur robes are antique, but their grooming is fine.” And there was one, who had no beard at all, but hair as golden and soft as a summer’s day. One who always popped into her mind at the most inconvenient moments. “Surely the English cannot be as crude as rats in beards. I am certain our weeks there will be most pleasant.”

“Nevertheless, we will be in a foreign Court, with ways we may not always understand. I hope that you will feel free to come to me for any—counsel you might require, Mademoiselle Dumas.”

Counsel? As if she would ever need advice from him! Marguerite curtsied politely and said, “It is a comfort to know there is always a French priest ready to hear my confession if needs be. Good day, Father Pierre.”

“Good day, mademoiselle.”

She left him at the foot of the grand staircase, now a bare expanse of marble waiting to be refurbished, reborn. As she made her way up, dodging workmen and stone dust, she could feel the priest’s cold stare on her back.

Tiens! Marguerite rolled her eyes in exasperation. Would she have to avoid that strange man the whole time they were in England, in addition to all her other duties? It was sure to be a most challenging few weeks indeed.

Chapter Two

The sea was calm at last, after cold storms that had lengthened what should have been a short voyage into one that seemed endless. Today, though, the sun struggled to break through the thick banks of grey clouds, casting a strange amber glow over the sky, over the choppy, pearly waves. The air was chilly, humid, smelling of rain, but blessedly none yet fell. Hopefully it would hold off until they made landfall.

Nicolai Ostrovsky leaned his elbows on the ship’s railing, staring out over the vast water. Soon they would land at Dover, and have to make good time if they were to arrive at Greenwich before the French. It would be a hard push, with women and servants and baggage, yet it had to be done.

Nicolai laughed at his own foolishness for setting out on this task in the first place. It was folly indeed to travel across the continent, when wise people were tucked up by their firesides to wait for spring! Friendship got him into trouble wherever he went.

He reached inside his quilted russet doublet and drew out the letter from his friend Marc Velazquez, which had arrived most inopportunely when Nicolai had just settled down for a peaceful winter of wine and beautiful women in a small town in the Italian Alps. He had just finished an onerous task, one that nearly cost him his life—again. Surely he deserved a few months of ease and pleasure!

Then the messenger knocked on his door, that door he thought so well hidden from the outside world.

“I cannot trust anyone but you, my friend, with such a task,” the letter read, the black ink words now stained and mottled with salt sea spray. “My mother has recently left her retirement at the Convent of St Theresa and remarried. Her husband, the Duke de Bernaldez, has been sent to join a mission to England with the new ambassador Diego de Mendoza, who is his kinsman. Their errand is very delicate, as the French are trying to negotiate a new treaty with King Henry, and they must be defeated at all costs—according to my new stepfather.

“My mother insists on joining him in England, and I worry greatly about how she will fare there. She is so very gentle, and her years in the convent since my father died have not prepared her for a royal Court. I must beg that you accompany her, and look to her welfare, as I must stay close to Venice at this time. Julietta will give birth to our first child any day now.

“My friend, I know this is a great deal to ask, but I trust no one as I do you. I will be deeply in your debt, even more so than I already am.”

Nicolai refolded the letter, staring again at the cold, grey expanse of sea. How could he refuse? The claims of friendship and the protection of a gentle lady were his two greatest weaknesses. So, he had written back to Marc, stating that he expected this new baby to be named Nicholas if a boy, Nicola if a girl, and set out to meet Dona Elena Maria Velazquez, the new Duchess de Bernaldez.

And he found that his friend quite underestimated his mother. Yes, she was sweet and lovely, but the convent had not softened her core of iron. Her current mission was to see Nicolai wed to one of her ladies by the end of their time in England, and she was most determined. His protests that he led an aimless, mercenary life, most unsuited to fine ladies, made not a whit of difference.

“A good wife would settle you, Nicolai, make a home for you, as Julietta has for my son,” she said. “Do you not desire a family?”

Fortunately, he was saved from her matchmaking by a round of seasickness that overcame Dona Elena and many of her ladies. He did not have time to fend her off and plan for their troubled mission in England!

Ostensibly, he was meant to be a sort of Master of the Revels to the Spanish party, devising entertainments to impress the English Court and the French, to show off Spanish wealth, piety and strength in the face of all their challenges. His years as a travelling player and acrobat would stand him in good stead in such a task, and in his less obvious assignments as well. Not only was he to protect Dona Elena and her new husband, he was to keep an eye out for the interests of the Tsar of Russia. Tsar Vasily III had seen much success in his new trading schemes with the East, and now thought to expand westward as well.

Tricky, indeed, to balance France, Spain, England, Venice, Russia on an acrobat’s tightrope. And a far cry from the pleasurable winter he had once envisioned! But it was blood-stirring, as well. Masqueing was his life’s work, and there was none better at it than he was. This English meeting was a challenge greater than any he had faced in a long time, and he was ready for it. And, if he had his way, it would be his last dangerous mission, as well.

Nicolai reached for the sheath at his waist and drew out a dagger, balancing it on his gloved palm. The emerald in the hilt gleamed in the pale light, glinting with a silent threat—a promise—that had yet to be answered.

He tossed it lightly into the air, catching it so he could see the tiny lily etched into the finely honed steel. He carried the dagger everywhere, a reminder that once he had met the notorious Emerald Lily, the shadowy French assassin feared throughout Europe. Met her—and bested her, though more by luck than any great skill on his part.

He never spoke of that strange night in a Venetian brothel to anyone, not even Marc and Julietta. For one thing, except for this dagger, he could not be sure it was not a dream. For another, he could never convey the power those eyes, as green as this emerald, held over him, from the first moment he glimpsed them through the smoke and haze of that whorehouse’s common room.

She was beautiful, truly, like an angel or a fairy with that silvery hair, yet her allure that night was far more than mere loveliness. A thousand women possessed that. It was those eyes. So hard, so cold, yet with a spark underneath that could not be extinguished.

It was foolish of him to leave her alive, to show a mercy that was so unlike him, and that she would never have shown him. The Emerald Lily was rumoured to be ruthless, and she would not take well to being made a fool of. She would come after him again one day, probably when he least expected it.

Perhaps that was what made him leave her there, trussed up on the rumpled bed. The knowledge—or was it hope?—that they would one day meet again. She would want her dagger back, after all.

The trouble was, another meeting would surely leave one or both of them mouldering in the grave.

Nicolai tossed the blade in the air again, catching it with a light twirl of his fingertips. Until that fateful day, he had more to worry about than beautiful, green-eyed killers.

And his chief worry was coming toward him right now.

Dona Elena appeared on deck, followed by two of her ladies who had recovered from their mal de mer. She certainly seemed the pious Spanish matron, her coffee-brown hair, only lightly streaked with silver, smoothed back beneath a pearl-edged, veiled cap, garnet-crusted cross clasped around her throat. A black cloak covered her dark red gown, shielding her from the salty wind, and her gloved hands held a gilt-edged prayer book. But her soft brown eyes were full of determination.

Her son, Marc, surely got that from her. The Velazquez family always got their own way.

“Ah, Nicolai, there you are!” she said, joining him at the rail. “The captain says we will without doubt make land today.”

Nicolai gestured toward the horizon, where towering, stark white cliffs were just peeking through the mist. “At any moment, Dona Elena.”

“Thanks be to God.” She quickly crossed herself. “This voyage has not been enjoyable.”

“It is seldom a good idea to set out in the middle of winter.”

Elena sighed. “Especially for someone as accustomed to the comforts of land as me! I know Marc would have preferred I stay at home in Madrid and wait for Carlos to return, yet he does not understand. He and his wife are always together now, but it has been a long time since I enjoyed the pleasures of marriage.” She frowned, and Nicolai knew all too well what was coming. “The comforts of a home, Nicolai, are inestimable. If you only knew the great benefits…”

By the time he had fended her off, and sent her and her ladies below decks to finish their packing, the ship had drawn closer to the rocky shore, those cliffs looming like a stark white welcome.

The rough sea voyage was ending at last, yet Nicolai feared his travails were only just beginning.

Chapter Three

Marguerite sat bundled in her cloak at the back of the barge as they made their way along the Thames, her sable-edged hood eased back so she could observe the scenery as it glided past. The English were so proud of their little river, lined with the estates of their nobles! Their escorts, a brace of Henry’s courtiers sent to guide them to Greenwich, gestured toward stone towers and brick halls, declaring them the abodes of the Carews, the Howards, the Poles.

Marguerite sniffed. If they could only see the vast, fairy-tale spires of the châteaux along the Loire! They would not be so quick with their boasts then, these swaggering English boys.

She had to admit, though, they were handsome enough. Rumour said that Henry enjoyed being surrounded by young people, full of energy and fun and high spirits, and their escorts seemed to confirm that. Tall, strong men, bright-eyed, lavishly dressed—if not as stylish as Frenchmen, of course. Quick with a jest as well as a boast, and with a keen eye for a pretty face. Each of them had already bowed before her, and she was one of the least of the French party.

Still pretending to study the river, she actually watched them from the corner of her eye, those exuberant young men. If they were full of guile and trickery, as all men were, they hid it well. There was no hint of suspicion on their handsome faces, no flicker of deception in their laughing voices.

Her task here was either going to be easier than she expected, or far harder.

“Have you even been to England before, Mademoiselle Dumas?”

She turned to see that one of the English courtiers, the raven-haired Roger Tilney, had sat down beside her on the narrow bench.

She smiled at him. “Never. I have been to Italy, but not your England. It is fascinating.”

“Wait until we arrive at Greenwich, mademoiselle. The king has prepared a great surprise there, and there will be many entertainments every day from dawn until midnight.”

Marguerite laughed. “Many entertainments? And here I thought you men had most important business to see to!”

“One cannot work all the time, especially with such welcome distractions in sight.”

He leaned closer, and she found Englishmen did not smell like the French, either. His cologne was spicy rather than flowery, overlaying the crisp cold of the day, the scent of wool and leather.

Hmm. Surely this Master Tilney was correct—one could not work all the time.

Yet that was exactly what she had to do. Work all the time. For it was in the instant she let her guard down that all went awry. The Russian had taught her that.

“I do love to dance,” she said. “Will there be time for such frivolous pastimes?”

Tilney laughed, and she felt the swift, warm press of his hand on her arm through her thick cloak. “Dancing is one of King Henry’s greatest delights.”

“I am glad to hear it. A Court that does not dance or make merry music could be called…”

“Spanish, mayhap?”

They chuckled together at the naughty little dig. As Marguerite pressed her hand to her lips to hide her giggles, she noticed Father Pierre watching her, a frown on his pale, thin face.

She turned resolutely away from him, determined that his stares would not distract her today.

“I do hear that the Spanish care little for such worldly pursuits,” she murmured. “But is your own queen not Spanish? What does she think of dancing?”

Tilney shrugged. “Queen Katherine is usually of good cheer. She is most indulgent, and famous for her serene smile and even temper. She may no longer dance herself, but she is a gracious hostess.” “Usually?”

He opened his mouth to reply, then seemed to think better of it. Instead he smiled, and gestured to the bank of the river. “See there, mademoiselle. Your first glimpse of the palace of Greenwich.”

Marguerite leaned to the side, watching closely as the barge slowed on its approach. Greenwich was not pale and graceful, as François’s plans for Fontainebleau were. It obviously did not intend to convey a deceptive delicacy. It was long and low, and pretended to nothing but what it was—a strong palace, a home yet also the receptacle of power.

The pitched roof was as grey as the sky above, blending with the wispy smoke that curled from its many chimneys, but the walls were faced in red brick in the old Burgundian style.

There was no moat or fortifications; that would have been too old-fashioned even for the English. Instead, narrow windows, glinting like a thousand watchful eyes, stared out over the river.

“It is very pretty,” she said. “A fit setting for revels, I would say.”

“It is built around three courtyards,” Tilney said. “Perfect for games of bowls. And there are tennis courts and tiltyards.”

Marguerite laughed. “It does sound a merry place. Dancing, bowls, tennis…”

“Ah, mademoiselle, I fear you will think us nothing but frivolous! Look you there, the Church of the Observant Friars of St Francis. The queen is their patron, and they are always there to remind us of a higher purpose.”

“And to immediately take your confession when needed?”

“That, too.” Tilney was summoned to join the English courtiers as the barge docked, and Marguerite went to see if Claudine, the Comtesse de Calonne, required her assistance. The young comtesse was enceinte, and the voyage was not a comfortable one for her. She bore it all well enough, her face so pale that her golden freckles stood out in stark relief, but she spent most of her time with eyes tightly shut, listening to one of her ladies read poetry aloud while another massaged her temples with lavender oil. She did not often need—or want—Marguerite’s assistance.

The rumours of her handsome husband’s many infidelities could not help her temper, either. The comte and comtesse were cousins, married very young, but it was said Claudine cared more for her husband than he did for her.

“We have arrived, madame la Comtesse,” Marguerite said, kneeling beside Claudine to help her gather her gloves and smooth her cloak and headdress. “Soon you will be tucked up in your own feather bed, with a warm fire and a cup of spiced wine.”

Claudine smiled tightly. “Or more likely pressed into a cold room with ten other people and only ale to drink! These English—pah. They do not understand true hospitality.”

“Then we must teach them, madame!” Marguerite nodded to one of Claudine’s maids, and between them they helped her to her feet so she could join her husband in disembarking. “We will set a fine French example.”

“At least they sent a cardinal to greet us,” Claudine said, gesturing to the man in scarlet who awaited them, surrounded by so many attendants in black he seemed enmeshed in a flock of crows. “Not some mere clerk.”

“I am sure King Henry has a better sense of protocol than all that,” Marguerite replied, examining the man. It had to be Wolsey himself—the dangerous, all-powerful Wolsey—for he had the wide girth and long, bumpy nose of his portraits.

She had heard tell that the great Cardinal, Archbishop of York, the one man Henry relied on above all others, wore a hair shirt beneath his opulent scarlet velvets and satins. And Marguerite could well believe it, to judge by his pinched, grey face. He did not look like a well man. Still, she would not like to cross swords with him. It was fortunate he promoted the French treaty so assiduously.

Marguerite fell into step behind Claudine as they all left the barge and the play commenced at last.

Claudine’s fears proved to be unfounded, for she was given an apartment to herself, albeit a rather small one almost beneath the eaves of the palace. Marguerite had an even tinier room tucked behind, a closet with scarcely space for a bed and clothes chest, and one tiny window set high in the wall. But the insignificant space was perfect for her needs—private, quiet, and, as the page told her, near a hidden staircase that led to the jakes and then out to the gardens.

Ideal for secret errands.

Left to her own devices while Claudine rested before the evening’s festivities, Marguerite set about unpacking her travelling cases. All the velvet gowns and silk sleeves, the quilted satin petticoats and jewelled headdresses, were shaken, smoothed and tucked with lavender into the chest. The high-heeled brocade shoes and embroidered stockings, her small jewel case and fitted box of toilette items, were arrayed on top.

Once the case was emptied of its fine, feminine cargo, Marguerite lifted out the false bottom. There, carefully swathed in cotton batting, were her daggers and her sword.

The blades were made to her own specifications in the king’s own forge, smaller and lighter to fit her size and strength, perfectly balanced, delicate as a dancer, strong as marble.

Holding her sword outstretched, she took up a fighting stance and thrust once, twice at the air. The steel sang in the cold breeze, a quick, fatal whine, then perfect silence. It was truly a thing of beauty.

Smiling, she tucked it safely away, where it could rest until needed. She took up one of the daggers, a thin blade that appeared almost as dainty, and useless, as a lady’s eating knife. But it was designed to slip quickly, neatly, between a man’s ribs, leaving only a fatal drop of blood behind.

The hilt was set with tiny rubies, winking in the hazy light like serpent’s eyes. For a moment, she remembered her old blade, her favourite, with its rare emerald.

She remembered, too, how she had lost it. But one day she would get it back.

Marguerite lifted the hem of her skirt, tucking the blade into a sheath attached to her garter. She couldn’t think about him now. He had no place here. She had her errand laid out before her, and it would begin with tonight’s formal banquet to welcome their delegation. She needed to bathe and change her gown, to don her disguise of velvet and pearls.

Why, then, did it seem like the Russian followed her everywhere she went, and had for more than the last year? Those icy blue eyes…

Marguerite slammed the lid of her case and pushed it beneath the window, as if she could break his memory in two. The tiny pane of precious glass was so high she had to climb atop the case to see out. Her room looked down on one of the three courtyards Tilney had told her of, a carefully laid-out garden that slumbered in the winter chill. The square and diamond-shaped flowerbeds were brown and brittle, the trees bare, the fountains still. Yet she could clearly see that come summer it would be spectacular, a riot of roses, lilies, violets, gillyflowers, scented herbs, green vines twisting over the low railings and trellises.

The gardens were hardly dead now, for people strolled along the white gravel pathways, their Court raiment as bright as any flower could hope to be. Were they English, French, Spanish? She could not tell from her high perch. But she would know all soon enough.

Chapter Four

“And you see there, Master Ostrovsky, the king’s newly built banquet house. And, over there, at the other end of the tiltyard, the theatre,” Sir Henry Guildford, the king’s Master of the Revels, said, waving toward a long, low wooden building as they strolled through the gardens. Even at this late moment, as the sun set on the first day of this vital meeting, workmen scurried about, hammering, sawing, putting the last details in place on these new structures.

“That space shall be for the planned pageants and masquerades,” Guildford said, leading Nicolai toward the theatre. They ducked around a crowd of servants building two towering silk trees, a Tudor hawthorn and a Valois mulberry. “The king is also very fond of spontaneous disguisings, but one never knows when those will occur, no matter how organised my office strives to be.”

The tightening of Guildford’s mouth in his plump face was the only sign of the vexation such “spontaneous” displays engendered. The Master of the Revels was meant to oversee all the Court’s entertainments, even to keeping account of all the costumes and properties, the casting of various roles. That could not be easy when the one person most meant to be impressed by these careful displays kept subverting them!

Nicolai had a hard enough time herding his own small troupe on their travels. He did not envy Sir Henry his task of shepherding an entire Court. “It must be a fine thing to have your own space for this great task, Sir Henry,” Nicolai said, nodding toward the new theatre.

“‘Tis not only my space, Master Ostrovsky. We must share it with the Master of the King’s Minstrels and his musicians,” Guildford answered. “But there is room for us to store our properties, which is a blessing. Usually they must be fetched from a great distance.”

Nicolai’s props were often stored in a painted wagon, with more dangerous items hidden among the masks and bells. Items for more—discreet tasks. But he merely nodded understandingly.

“We are very glad to welcome you here, Master Ostrovsky,” Guildford went on. His smooth tone gave no hint of curiosity about what Nicolai, a player and a Russian to boot, might be doing among the Spanish party. “Assistance with our revels is always greatly to be desired, and Señor Mendoza tells us you have much experience with Italian pageants. All things Italian are very fashionable, you know.”

“It is true I am recently come from Venice,” Nicolai answered.

“Ah, yes, the Venetians. They do enjoy their masquerades and fêtes, do they not? Excellent, excellent! I have so very many tasks, and most of my idiotish assistants can do naught unless I watch them at every moment.”

“I am happy to assist in any way I can, Sir Henry.” In Nicolai’s experience, it was often the actors at Court—both the professionals from the Office of the Revels and the courtiers who so often took on roles—who knew most of the secrets. The hidden plans and desires. If he could do what he did best, insinuate himself into a play, his task would be that much easier.

“The king has ordered a different entertainment for almost every evening. I will be happy of your assistance in directing some of our players.” Sir Henry shook his head, muttering, “The ladies all want to take part, but they do not want to work, you see. Merely gossip and giggle together without learning their lines and postures.”

Nicolai laughed. “I am told I work well with the ladies, Sir Henry.”

“I would wager you do. They always seek to impress a handsome face. Well, here we are at the theatre, then. Just long enough for a quick glance round, I think, before the sun quite vanishes.”

Sir Henry opened the tall double doors of the new theatre, the rich wood carved with vines and flowers, surmounted by the king’s Tudor roses and portcullises, the queen’s pomegranate of Granada and arrow-sheaf of Aragon.

How long, Nicolai wondered, would those badges remain, if the rumours were true? The tales of a certain Mistress Boleyn and the king’s anguish over his lack of a son. And what vast trouble would their removal cause?

Today, though, the pomegranates were firmly in place, boasting of a long, solid marriage, a firm dynasty. Sir Henry led Nicolai into the interior of the theatre, so new it still smelled of paint and sawdust. It was beautiful, unlike any place Nicolai had ever performed in before. Long, soaring, lit with a profusion of flickering torches, the theatre gave the impression of a celestial realm. The ceiling was painted the pale blue of a summer sky, while below was hung a transparent cloth painted in gold with stars, moons and the signs of the zodiac.

Seats rose in tiers along the walls, while at the far end a large proscenium arch marked the performance space. Workmen were still putting in place terracotta busts and statues.

“‘Tis a most glorious space, Sir Henry,” Nicolai said truthfully. “And yet you say it is just temporary?”

“Oh, I am sure we will find a use for it once the French depart,” Sir Henry said. “But it is all wood and gilt, meant to deceive.”

He led Nicolai behind the arch, where several trunks were stacked. Scrolls, lengths of bright satin, cushions and spangles spilled forth in a confusing jumble. As Sir Henry dug through the glittering array, a chorus of angelic voices rose up somewhere in the shadows, a tangle of silvery sound that grew and expanded, soaring up to the ceiling-sky. Nicolai turned his head to listen, enchanted.

“The chorus of the Chapel Royal,” Sir Henry said. “They are to give a recital after tonight’s banquet. Fortunately, they are not my responsibility. Ah, here we are!”

He drew out a scroll, untidily bound with a scrap of ribbon, and handed it to Nicolai. “This is to be the pageant to follow the king’s great tournament a few weeks hence. With your permission, Master Ostrovsky, I put you in charge of it.”

Nicolai quickly read over the programme. “The Castle Vert?”

“The Green Castle, yes. An old piece, perhaps, but always a Court favourite. As you see, there are roles for all of sixteen ladies.”

Sixteen? “Are the parts already cast?”

“Not at present. Lady Fitzwalter and Lady Elizabeth Howard must have a turn, of course. And Mistress Anne Boleyn, who at least knows how to sing and dance already. Oh, and they say there is a lady among the French who is uncommonly lovely. A veritable angel, according to Master Tilney. Perhaps it would be a diplomatic gesture to cast her as Beauty. But, Master Ostrovsky, I leave it all up to you. I must work on The Fortress Dangerous, which fortunately only calls for six ladies.”

Sir Henry clapped Nicolai affably on the arm, and turned to hurry off on some new task. “Good fortune, Master Ostrovsky, and my deepest thanks! I will send some of my staff to assist you on the morrow.”

Nicolai grinned ruefully, slapping the scroll against his palm. Fifteen English Court ladies, and one French angel, all vying for their selected parts. All of them with the force of family and faction behind them.

Oh, Marc, Nicolai thought. I hope you appreciate what I do for the sake of friendship!

The French delegation was to gather in Queen Katherine’s presence chamber before progressing to the great new banquet hall. Once Marguerite was bathed and dressed, in a gown of emerald green velvet over an embroidered petticoat of gold satin, her wide oversleeves turned back to reveal more gold and a sable trim, she joined the others in Claudine’s apartment to wait for Bishop Grammont and his officers, including Claudine’s husband, the Comte de Calonne.

A rest seemed to have done Claudine some good, Marguerite observed. She was not as pale, and even looked a bit rosy in her dark crimson silk gown, her stays loosely laced over her swelling belly. That was very good. If she was confined to her chamber, then Marguerite, her ostensible attendant, would be hard pressed to find excuses to go about in Court.

Claudine’s maid was putting the finishing touches to her gingery red hair, lowering a stiffened gold headdress into place. Marguerite’s own headdress was the newer, lighter nimbus shape, of green velvet trimmed with pearls, her silvery hair falling free down her back under the short, sheer gold veil.

Claudine’s gaze narrowed when she saw Marguerite in her fine raiment. “How very youthful you look, Mademoiselle Dumas,” she muttered.

“Merci,” Marguerite answered lightly, smoothing down her sleeves. “I am sure we will all put the English and their rustic garments to shame!”

“And especially the Spanish,” Claudine’s husband, the Comte de Calonne, said, as he came into the room with his own richly clad attendants. “Michel tells me they are all in black, like a flock of crows!”

Everyone laughed, and fell into their places to be led into the English queen’s presence. There could be no Spanish jests there, naturellement!

Marguerite did not know what she expected of this lady, who had been daughter to the legendary Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain, Queen of England for nearly twenty years. A lady renowned for her piety and great learning, beloved by her subjects. A woman who, as aunt to the Emperor Charles, stood in the way of France’s interests on these shores.

Yet she did not look so formidable as she greeted them with a gracious smile, a few polite words in perfect French. She looked like a settled, contented matron of middle years, not very tall, stout from a plethora of pregnancies that had only produced one living child, Princess Mary. Her once fair hair was liberally streaked with grey, drawn back under a peaked pearl cap and gauze veil. She wore a fine gown of red-and-black figured brocade, flashing ruby jewels and a pearl-encrusted cross, yet all the finery did not conceal the deep lines of worry and care on her round face.

She took them all in with a sweeping glance of her dark eyes. “How very kind you are, Bishop Grammont, to relieve our winter doldrums with your presence!” she said, holding out a be-ringed hand for Grammont’s salute. “We have a great deal of merriment planned for your stay.”

“We thank your Majesty for such a gracious welcome,” the bishop answered. “Our two nations are united, as ever, in the warmest bonds of friendship.”

After a few more pleasantries, Grammont offered Katherine his arm, and they led the whole party along a gallery hung with tapestries of the story of David, lit on their way by green-and-white clad pages bearing torches.

“May I escort you, Mademoiselle Dumas?” a quiet voice asked, as Marguerite moved to take her place behind Claudine.

She turned sharply to find Father Pierre LeBeque standing close, his arm in its black woollen sleeve politely extended. His eyes glowed in the dim light, and he watched her with a tense expectation.

Marguerite glanced hastily around, but there was no one to come to her rescue. At any second it would be their turn to move forward, and she could not fall behind.

She nodded, and placed her hand lightly on his arm. It was coiled beneath her touch, stiff and bony. Was he frightened of something, then, to be so tense?

She had little time to ponder the oddities of Father Pierre. The long gallery opened to a vast banquet hall, where it seemed all the world waited in glittering array.

For a moment, her eyes were dazzled. This must be an enchanted kingdom, like in tales her father told her when she was a child! A land of gods and goddesses, powerful witches and princesses, not the stolid red-brick English world she saw outside. Roger Tilney had told her this space was newly built for this meeting, at vast dimensions of one hundred feet long and thirty feet wide, and she well believed it. The walls and floor were painted to look like marble, with gilded mouldings, the low, timbered ceiling covered with red buckram and embroidered with roses and pomegranates. Tiered buffets lined the walls, displaying a vast amount of gold plate. Bright banners hung from the ceiling.

And the people were clad in such sparkling raiment they added to the golden dazzlement. Many of the Spanish were in black, or wine red or burnt amber, but they served as an outline, a counterpoint to the English in their violet purple, silver tissue, sky blue, vivid rose, tawny and turquoise and sunny yellow.

And, at the end of the room, rose a triumphal arch painted with a large scene of—non! It could not be.

But it was. A painting of Henry’s long-ago victory over the French armies at the Battle of The-rouanne.

Alors! That was not so very diplomatic of the English king. Marguerite’s dazzlement faded into cold clarity. That audacious scene was just the reminder she needed of why she was really here. Why they were all here. To protect France from just such another defeat.

“Welcome, welcome!” a stentorious voice boomed, soaring above the hum of laughter and conversation. All other voices echoed away, and the crowd parted. “Bishop Grammont, for the great love we bear our brother King François, welcome to our Court.”

And the king himself appeared, for it could be none but the legendary Henry. He leaped down from a dais set up beneath the arch, a tall, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested figure swathed in cloth of gold trimmed with ermine and diamonds. He, unlike the queen, was just what Marguerite imagined. His redgold hair cut short in the French style, covered by a crimson velvet cap, his square face framed by a short beard.

He was all bluff heartiness, tremendous good cheer as he greeted the French. All lighthearted welcome. Yet Marguerite saw that his small, shining eyes missed nothing at all. They moved over her—and widened.

She gave him a deep curtsy, and he grinned at her. So, his rumoured regard for the ladies was true! But was it also true he now had attention only for Mistress Boleyn?

Which one was she? Marguerite wondered, studying the array of ladies behind the queen. She saw none there whose beauty could rival her own, but there would be time to look for Anne Boleyn later. They were shown to their seats, at a long table to the right of the hall. The Spanish were to the left, and Henry escorted Katherine back to the dais where they were seated with Grammont and Ambassador Mendoza.

The tables were spread with white damask cloths, embroidered with roses, crowns, and fleurs-de-lis; the benches where they sat were lined with soft gold velvet cushions. In the centre of the table was a golden salt cellar engraved with the initials H and K, and each place boasted a small loaf of manchet bread wrapped in a cover of embroidered linen and a tall silver goblet filled with fine Osney wine from Alsace. Servants soon appeared with great golden platters of venison, capons, partridge, lark and eels, game pie with oranges and King Henry’s favourite baked lampreys. A peacock, redressed in its own feathers, was ceremoniously presented to the king amid copious applause.

A lively song of recorders, lutes and pipes struck up from a gallery hidden behind one of the tapestries, and the conversation grew in vast waves around Marguerite. She nibbled at a piece of gingerbread painted with gold leaf, listening with half an ear as Father Pierre talked to her. All around her were the people she would have to get to know, would have to guard against and fend off, and perhaps even destroy in the end. Her first glimpse of the opposing army.

She knew she was not likely to learn much of use tonight. Everyone was on their best, most guarded behaviour, despite the flowing wine. They, too, were unsure of their surroundings. Unsure of the enemies’ real strength. In a few days, when everyone had settled into long days of delicate negotiations and longer evenings of revelry, when enmities and flirtations had both sprung to full flower, she would be better able to gauge the atmosphere. Better able to take full advantage of rivalries and passions.

Tonight she could only observe, perhaps begin to collect precious droplets of gossip.

An acrobat in motley livery and bright bells performed a series of backward flips along the aisle between the tables, followed by a gambolling troupe of dwarves and trained dogs. Pages poured more wine, carried in yet more platters of fine delicacies. Marguerite laughed at the antics, nibbled at what was put before her, yet always she watched. Watched and listened, as the voices grew louder and the laughter heartier as the night went on.

King Henry, she saw, betrayed no hint of ill will toward the queen. Indeed, he was all solicitude, making sure her goblet was full, that she had the choicest morsels of venison and capon. He laughed heartily at his fools’ jests, and listened intently when Wolsey murmured in his ear.

Princess Mary, the proposed bride of the Duc d’Orléans, sat by her mother, pale-faced and bright-haired, small for her age in her fine white brocade gown. She seemed shy and serene, speaking only to her mother, or to the Spanish ambassador in perfect Castilian Spanish.

The Spanish party across the aisle were not as raucous as the English, but neither were they so dour. They talked and jested just as everyone else did, led in conversation by a pretty woman of near Queen Katherine’s age, a lady with a ready smile and soft brown eyes. As Marguerite watched, the lady laughed gently, holding out her goblet for a man seated next to her to refill.

He leaned forward, illuminated by the rich amber glow of the candelabra. His loose, long hair, golden as the summer sun, fell forward like a curtain, and he swept it back over his shoulder in one smooth movement. His profile, sharply etched as an ancient cameo, was limned in the light.

Marguerite gasped, and shook her head hard, certain she was dreaming! That she had imbibed too much of the fine Alsatian wine and was imagining things. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut.

Yet when she opened them, he was still there. The Russian. Laughing boldly, and just as beautiful as that night in Venice. The fallen angel she had vowed to kill if ever their paths crossed again. There he was, mere steps away, in the last place she ever expected.

She banged her goblet down on the table so violently that vivid red wine splashed over its etched lip, spilling on to her fingers. Bright spots, like blood, bloomed on the white damask cloth.

“The bold cochon,” she muttered roughly.

“Are you ill, Mademoiselle Dumas?” Father Pierre asked solicitously.

Marguerite shook her head. “I am quite well, thank you. Merely tired from the journey, I think.”

“Perhaps a bit more wine will help,” he said, gesturing to one of the pages.

As the boy refilled her goblet, Marguerite surreptitiously studied Nicolai Ostrovsky. He did not appear to have noticed her yet. He sat there laughing and jesting with his companions, making sure the lady had the finest sweetmeats on her plate.

He was certainly far better dressed than in Venice! Or at least more elaborately so. Nor was the motley he wore to walk the tightrope in the Piazza San Marco in evidence. He was clad in a fine silk doublet of dark red trimmed with dull gold braid, his only jewel a single pearl in one ear, half-hidden by that shining golden hair.

What game did he play now?

She would just have to find out. Very soon, before he found her out first.

Chapter Five

The palace was quiet as Marguerite slipped out of her chamber, muffled in a hooded cloak. It was surely somewhere near morning, for the banquet and recital had gone on for long hours. And it was no easy thing to persuade hundreds of courtiers to retire! But all was silent now, almost eerily so in the purple-blackness of deepest night. The only sounds, so soft they were almost imperceptible, were the shuffles of the pages who slept on pallets outside doors, the whispers of Claudine’s maids in their truckle beds.

Marguerite crept down the narrow back stairs, lit on her way by the smoking torches set high in their sconces. She had changed her heeled brocade shoes for soft-soled leather boots and left off her cumbersome petticoats, tucking her skirts into a kirtle to keep them out of her way. Her progress was swift as she dashed down the stairs and out into the gardens.

She had bribed one of the pages into telling her where the Russian was lodged, but it was in a section of the palace off one of the other courtyards, behind the Spanish apartments. She hurried along the twisting pathways, so crowded only that afternoon but now completely deserted. Only the stars and the moon, like tiny crystals in the violet velvet of the sky, watched her progress. The darkened windows of the buildings were blank, turning away from her actions as they had so many others in the past. The doings of humans were swiftly gone, those windows seemed to say, and of no interest at all. Only bricks and mortar, and the river beyond, were eternal.

Or perhaps it was all her own fancy, Marguerite thought, her own imagination taking strange flight. Well, she had no time for fancy now. This was the moment for action.

She had not expected to see Nicolai Ostrovsky again so soon in her life, to have him dropped before her like a ripe prize plum. She had watched him throughout the banquet and during the recital in Henry’s fine new theatre, observing him closely while staying out of his sight.

How very careless he seemed, how caught up in laughter and jokes, the doings of his own companions! How had he ever survived his life of travel and intrigue? She had heard tell of how deftly he moved through the treacherous Courts of Venice, Mantua, Naples, Madrid. Yet he seemed to take no notice of the danger swirling around him.

He could not be so careless and still live, Marguerite knew that well. He and she were two of a kind in many ways, making their way in a cold world with only their wits, their blades, their good looks—their ability to pretend, to be all things to all people. But in his eyes she saw no flicker of awareness, no tense watchfulness like she always felt in herself. And she had watched him very closely all evening.

She finally had to conclude he had indeed taken no notice of her, and that was all to her advantage. Seldom had she found a task so easy. And now it was near to completion. She saw the wing housing the Spanish party just ahead, its silent brick hulk slumbering peacefully.

She slowed her steps, automatically rising on to the balls of her feet as she rounded a marble fountain. The faun poised at its summit stared down at her knowingly, her only witness as she slid the dagger from its sheath beneath her skirt. The hilt was cold and solid in her grasp, a stray beam of moonlight dancing down the polished blade. She was so close now…

Suddenly, a hand shot from behind the fountain, closing like a steel vise on her arm. Startled, Marguerite opened her mouth instinctively to scream, but another hand clamped tight over her lips. She was jerked off her feet in one quick movement, dragged back against a hard chest covered in a soft silk doublet.

Marguerite twisted in that steel trap of an embrace, kicking back with her heels. She managed to work her hand free, and stabbed out with her blade. The sound of tearing fabric echoed loudly in the cold, silent night, but she felt no solid thud of dagger meeting flesh.

“Chert poberi!” her captor cursed roughly. His grasp slid down to her wrist, squeezing until her fingers opened and the knife fell to the pathway.

Of course. She should have known. The Russian. Had she not been sure no one could be as careless as he appeared? Now it seemed she was the careless one.

Her anger at herself, at him, flared up like a white-hot shooting star, and she lashed out madly, kicking and squirming like a wild animal caught in a steel trap.

“Couilles!” she cried out behind his hand.

“Parisian hellcat,” Nicolai growled, his arms tightening around her in a vise. She remembered, in a great fireworks flash, that night in Venice. The coiled, lean strength of his chest and abdomen, the way his long, lazy body, so lithe from years of backflips and somersaults, concealed a core of steel. Her only weapon against such hidden strength was speed and surprise, and she had squandered those with her own carelessness.

She had underestimated him twice now. She could not do so again.

If, that is, she ever had another chance. He could very well slit her throat now, and leave her for the English crows.

The thought was like a cold, nauseating blow to her stomach, and she bent forward in one last struggle to break free. He was too lithe to let her go, though, his body moving with hers.

“We meet again, Emerald Lily,” he said in her ear, his voice full of infuriating amusement. “Or should I say Mademoiselle Dumas?”

“Call me whatever you like,” she said, as his fingers at last loosened over her mouth. “I shall always think of you as cochon. A filthy, barbaric Russian!”

He clicked his tongue chidingly. “How you wound me, mademoiselle. And one always hears of the great charm of the French ladies. How sad to be so disillusioned.”

“I would not waste my charm on you. Muscovite pigs have no appreciation of such delicacies.”

“How you wound me, petite.” He spun her around, backing her up until she felt the solid brick wall at her back, chilly through her velvet. He was outlined by the moonlight, his hair a shimmering curtain, falling in a golden tumble over one shoulder. His face was in shadow so she could not read his expression, but his breath was cool on her cheek, his clean, summery scent surrounding all her senses. He wore no wrap against the cold, and his body in the thin silk was hot where it pressed against her.

She shivered, suddenly frightened beneath her anger.

“I should be the one hurling angry names about,” he said chattily, as if engaged in light conversation in the banquet hall. “After all, mademoiselle, you are the one who tried to kill me. Twice now, if I am not mistaken.”

“You have something that belongs to me.”

“Your pretty dagger, you mean? Ah, but I believe it belongs to me now. I claimed it as a forfeit that memorable night in Venice.”

Marguerite twisted again, overcome by the nearness of him, his heat and strength. She hated this sensation of losing herself, of falling into him, of drowning! “You should have died then.”

“Perhaps I should have, but it seems I have one or two lives yet to go. Fate, mademoiselle, has other plans for me. For us both, it would seem, for here we meet again. What are the odds of that?”

“Fate? Do you believe in it?”

“Of course. Do you not?”

“I believe in skill. In hard work. We all make our own fate, monsieur.”

“Ah, ‘monsieur’ rather than cochon! I must advance in your estimation.”

Marguerite tilted her head back against the hard wall, staring at him in the moonlight. He was certainly still handsome, the sharp, symmetrical angles of his face softened by that mocking half-smile, his pale blue eyes glowing. His hair, his lean acrobat’s body—all perfection. But beauty, as Marguerite well knew, was only a tool, a weapon like any other that a person could learn to wield with skill. She was usually unmoved by that weapon, both in herself and in others. Unmoved by a handsome man’s touch.

Why, then, did his clasp make her tremble so? Make her thoughts tilt drunkenly in her mind? She had to get away from him, to regroup.

She pressed back tight against the wall, but he followed, his hair trailing like silk over her throat, her bare décolletage above the velvet bodice. “I have esteem for any worthy enemy.”

“Am I a worthy enemy?”

“You have defeated me twice now, which no one else has ever done. You are obviously strong and clever, monsieur. Yet you will not defeat me three times.”

His smile widened. “I see I shall have to watch my back while I am in England.” “At every moment.”

“I shall consider myself fairly warned, mademoiselle.”

They stood in silence for a long moment, studying each other warily. Marguerite glanced away first, her gaze shifting over his shoulder to the stone faun, who seemed to laugh at her predicament.

“What are you doing here?” she asked tightly. “Do you work for the Spanish now? Was your task in Venice complete?”

He laughed, a low, rough sound that seemed to echo through her very core. “Mademoiselle, you must know I work for no one but myself. As do you. And as for what I am doing here at Greenwich—well, I must keep some secrets, yes?”

Secrets. That was all life was. Yet Marguerite had spent her own life keeping her own secrets, and discovering those of other people. Even ones they thought so well hidden. She would find his, too.

He seemed to have read her very thoughts, for he leaned closer, so close his breath stirred the fine, loose curls at her temple, and his lips softly brushed her cheek. “Some things, petite, are buried so deeply even you cannot dig them out again.”

“Secrets are my speciality,” she whispered back. “I have not met a man yet who could withhold them from me. One way or another, I always fulfil my task.”

“Ah, but I am not as other men, Mademoiselle Dumas.” He pressed one light, fleeting kiss to her jaw, so swift she was not even sure it happened. “I shall look forward with great anticipation to our next battle. Do svidaniya.”

Then he let her go, his hands and body sliding away from her as one long caress. He melted away, vanishing into the night as if he had never been there at all. Except for the spot of fire that marked his kiss.

Marguerite spun around, but she could find no glimpse of him, no trace of his bright hair or red silk doublet. She was completely alone in the cold garden.

“Abruti,” she muttered. Her whole body felt boneless, exhausted. She longed to fall to the walkway in a heap, to sob out her frustration, to beat her fists against the jagged gravel until they bled!

But there was no time to give into such childish, useless tantrums. Womanish tears would never gain her the revenge she sought, would never achieve her goals for her. So, she scooped up her dagger where it had fallen and hurried back toward the palace, running up the stairs to her quiet little room.

Soon, very soon, a new day would dawn. A new chance to at last best the Russian and get back her emerald dagger.

This time, she would not fail.

Nicolai closed the door to his small chamber, sliding a heavy clothes chest in front of it. He was wary enough to take the Emerald Lily at her word. She would be coming sooner or later for her dagger. At least this way she would have to make a great deal of noise forcing the door open. Unless she could somehow transform herself into a column of mist and come down the chimney, which would not surprise him in the least.

She was not like any woman he had ever met, this French fairy-sprite. She looked so very delicate, so angelic, and yet she was a veritable hellcat. A powerful, shrieking vodyanoi, a sea witch, just like the terrifying tales his nurse told him when he was child.

Perhaps her claws only came out in the moonlight, though, for at the banquet she was all smiles and light charm, even with the dour young priest who sat beside her. None of the men in the vast hall could turn his eyes from her, and that included him, though he carefully did not let her see that. He pretended not to notice her at all, to let her think herself safe, yet in truth he had seen her as soon as she walked in at the end of the French procession.

How could he help it? It was as if she was surrounded by a silvery pool of light. His Emerald Lily. The woman who incited his lusts and then tried to murder him.

He knew she would come for him. She was rumoured to be ruthless to the enemies of France. Such as what had happened to a certain Monsieur Etampes, who dared attempt to be a double agent for Spain! A grotesque end indeed. And Nicolai had slighted her by daring to live.

But over the long months since Venice, he had forgotten how very potent her presence was. Her exotic perfume, the cold light in her eyes—they were like a strong wine, lulling and lovely. He would have to be more cautious in the future, and find a way to fight her from a safe distance. Or he would end up like poor Etampes, or Signor Farcinelli in Milan. Another bad end.

Nicolai laughed, suddenly exhilarated. He was always buoyed by a good fight, and the Emerald Lily—or Marguerite Dumas, as he had learned she was called—certainly gave as good as she got. Despite her small size, it took a great deal of strength for him to hold her still, to keep her from kicking and clawing. It also took all his strength to ignore the feel of her in his arms, the press of her soft body against his.

He unfastened his doublet, and tossed it along with his shirt over the narrow bed, letting the cold breeze from the open window wash over his face, his naked chest. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, a thin line of pinkish-gold light that promised bright hours ahead.

He would have to write Marc and thank him for sending him on this fool’s errand. This English meeting seemed suddenly full of colour and interest. Surely anything at all could happen in the days ahead.

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