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  Wondering why Lucien shared this with her at all, Kat waited for an explanation.

  “Saviolo taught me the botta secreta.”

  Kat drew in her breath, despite her panting, and stared at Lucien in disbelief. “Tricks, you mean? Like the thrust?”

  She knew the fencing thrust, usually advanced on a pass, had only been recently acknowledged as an acceptable movement Some of the old school — noblemen in particular — still refused to accept the thrust as dignified or fair play.

  Lucien nodded, still seeming preoccupied. “There are a number of thrusts described in Saviolo’s book. Stoccata, imbroccata, punta riversa. These, then, are not genuine secrets. I speak of another movement entirely; one of the botte secreta the master never divulged in print. Lunge flèche, a running attack that culminates in a carry of the forward foot to its fullest extent. It is one of the swiftest and deadliest movements a fighter can execute.”

  “Designed for defense?”

  “Designed to kill.” Lucien’s sober blue gaze bored into hers. “Make no mistake, ma petite, it is a risky and dramatic endeavor. It is the last resort for a cornered man — or woman. One misstep or miscalculation, and you will plunge onto your foe’s sword. Once the attack is launched, it cannot be withdrawn.”

  Kat listened with respect. “Why share this with me?”

  “Because I never again want to see you at the mercy of animals like Cobble,” he said. “I despised myself then for not doing more, and this is one way I know to make it up to you.”

  Touched by Lucien’s words, Kat reached out and patted his arm. “Merci.”

  “You will continue to practice?”

  “Aye, Master Lucien, I will.”

  IT WOULD BE THE event of the Season. There was no doubt in Kat’s mind, as she entered the great hall on Lucien’s arm, immediately swept away by the grandeur of Tudor England and Elizabeth Tudor. For the two were inseparable, she had learned. At this moment, mayhap for centuries to come, mighty Elizabeth was England.

  Her Majesty presided this evening upon her throne. The raised dais permitted her to view the colorful crowd thronging Whitehall’s gallery. Since Elizabeth had decreed the royal masque, great care had gone into her own costume for this magical event.

  Elizabeth Tudor was garbed in cloth-of-gold from head to toe, her voluminous skirts fanned out so that tiny diamonds, arranged in a sunburst pattern, were visible from the farthest bench in the gallery. Long ropes of pearls and golden filigree adorned the queen’s neck; a white ruff, embroidered with metal thread, reflected the lights around the room.

  Displaying her infamous sense of humor, Elizabeth wore a mask tonight, as did everyone else in her Court. Hers was of finely beaten gold, shaped to resemble the face of Apollo.

  Kat drew in her breath at the queen’s magnificent display. Quite purposefully, Elizabeth had chosen to represent the Sun — the god Apollo, a male figure. Perhaps it served as a sharp reminder to those who tried to control Bess, or marry her off to some paltry prince from another land, Kat thought.

  Standing beside Elizabeth’s throne was the Earl of Essex, her latest favorite. When Elizabeth removed her mask briefly to fan herself in the hot hall, Robert Devereux bent to whisper some bit of nonsense in his monarch’s ear, and Kat saw the aging queen blush like a girl.

  A knave with rich auburn locks and keen black eyes, Devereux needed no costume to foil his good looks. Tonight Essex wore an outfit of purled tawny satin, the sleeves slashed with gold panes and a velvet doublet stitched with fat jewels. His matching jerkin hung heavy with a dozen rich gold chains — no doubt, another sign of favor from their besotted liege.

  The rest of the Court was presently distracted by the festive madrigal singers performing one of Thomas Morley’s famous songs, “Now is the Month of Maying.”

  As the lilting voices rose in perfect harmony, Kat saw Elizabeth Tudor nod her austere approval. Kat also noted one of the queen’s bejeweled slippers tapping in time with the rhythm, revealing their monarch’s renowned love of music — one thing Elizabeth had inherited from her sire, Henry VIII, besides his infamous temper.

  Tonight the entire Court seemed a palette of exotic creatures and swirling hues. Lucien and Kat blended into the crowd with ease. They had planned their costumes together. Kat decided they had accomplished a fair success, as evidenced by the surprised looks cast their way.

  Playing upon the unique differences in each of their colorings, Kat had suggested the idea. Lucien agreed with her notion. All of this had been done in advance of the masque, without any knowledge of the queen’s costume. Yet now Kat saw they complemented Elizabeth’s theme, as well.

  Clad in sky-blue velvet to match his eyes and foil his golden hair, Lucien represented “Heaven.” His white silk, spangled half-mask did not fully conceal his handsome features. Kat declared his costume a success. She overheard several jealous courtiers making snide remarks. But the good ladies of the Court seemed most appreciative of Lucien’s dazzling appearance this night.

  Kat found use for a gown of dark green silk. It was one of Merry’s discards and dark enough to serve as mourning garb, though she could not honestly mourn a man she did not remember. Altered by a clever sempster into a billowy-sleeved, corsair-style shirt, she wore it with bottle-green velvet breeches, a wide silver satin sash cinching her waist.

  She sported a modest ruff with a slashed green velvet doublet, the latter puffed and padded to broaden her shoulders and hide her breasts, but still with cloth-of-silver peeking through the panes. A cloth-of-silver cloak adorned with an occasional black pearl completed the look. Her hair was braided and tucked out of the way under a flat velvet cap rakishly sprouting feathers. She depicted “Hell,” and, to emphasize the likeness, Kat wore her gleaming rapier at her side. Her mask was crafted of the same silk as her gown; unlike Lucien’s, however, hers obscured her whole face to better carry off the ruse of a lad.

  Kat smiled at the reaction her unusual costume provoked. She did not doubt Bess’s Court would be shocked to learn the “young Spanish lad” with Lucien was, in truth, not one of his fencing students but one of the ladies of the court. Dozens of eyes widened at her approach and narrowed at her passing. Spain was not, after all, a favorite here. The wit behind her theme, however, was appreciated by Bess herself, as evidenced by her comments. Having bowed beside Lucien and received the royal blessing, and escaped recognition thus far, Kat relaxed somewhat.

  “You are a success, ma chère,” Lucien murmured in her ear as they squeezed through the throng. His grasp tightened somewhat possessively around her arm. “I am not certain I approve, however.”

  Kat chuckled. “You have no reason to be jealous, Lucien. There is no competition for my affections.”

  “Ah, would it were true,” he sighed.

  “Remember, I found out I am a widow, hence too worldly for you. Besides, you are too poor yet to seek a bride. You must wait until you are promoted again in the queen’s guard, and then a bevy of proper young maids shall flock to your side.”

  Lucien laughed at her advice. “Will you pick one for me, chère?”

  “If you promise to consider the wisdom of a dear friend.”

  Kat glanced about as the Court adjourned to the banqueting hall. Gazes were still riveted upon her and her escort — some envious, others admiring. She was certain the novelty of her costume would fade, once the Court got a glimpse of her sister. Merry had planned her costume for nearly a year, only Kat and Jane were privy to the surprise.

  The pair paused beside an ornate table where refreshments were arranged. Lucien pushed his mask up onto his head so he might sample the fare. Kat dared not lest she spoil the ruse of her costume, but she looked longingly at the little pears swimming in rosewater, one of Merry’s favorite treats.

  Thinking of her sister again made Kat pause and look about the hall in vain. It was not like Merry to be so late in making an entrance. She was getting worried.

  Lucien distracted her with a reminder of another sort.
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  “You wished to know something of Count Saville,” he said low, under cover of another madrigalists’ song. “I received word from Paris just this morn. Your instincts were right, ma chère Katherine.” He paused. “There is no such person.”

  “I knew it,” Kat exclaimed with triumph.

  “Listen, ma petite. It does not mean he is not from another province, perhaps in the north.”

  “Nay.” Kat shook her head. “Saville mentions Paris and Fontainebleau often. There is no doubt in my mind. The man is dangerous. I must warn Merry.”

  “Warn her of what?” Lucien said with a practical, Gallic shrug as he bit into a custard tart. “He has done nothing untoward, has he?”

  “I am trusting my instincts, Lucien. They have saved me before. Just as I once instinctively trusted you, my friend, I disliked and distrusted Saville on sight.”

  “Friend?” Lucien sighed, turning to face Kat so he gazed down into her eyes. “Is this all I will ever be to you, Katherine? A fencing instructor, mon collègue?”

  Kat hesitated. There was no mistaking the intense look in Lucien’s blue eyes, nor the undercurrent of sadness in his voice. She would do anything to keep from hurting him, but she could not promise a heart already lost to another.

  “Time shall tell,” she said at last, so as not to wound him more. Lucien’s expression brightened; he obviously decided that was good enough for now.

  “I VOW, I SHALL throw myself from London Bridge.”

  Maggie Tanner’s passionate declaration made Merry sigh. She felt cross and lost all patience with her cousin. She shook a finger in a motherly fashion at the rebellious Maggie.

  “I’ll not hear any more of this nonsense, coz. Were Aunt Isobel or Uncle Kit here, they’d quickly shake some sense into your silly head. You agreed to come to Whitehall tonight and enjoy the masque, now y’are ruining it for both of us.”

  “’Twas before the letter arrived,” Maggie sullenly responded. She sat in a dejected heap upon Merry’s bed, the skirts of her costume drawn around her. “What manner of country oaf demands a midnight wedding without waiting for the banns to be read? Worse yet, a hasty exchange of vows at the smallest, drabbest church in the city. Y’know I made plans on a grand ceremony at St. Paul’s. I shall be made a laughingstock!”

  “Ridiculous. ’Tis little matter where you are married when your intended is a respected man,” Merry said, reasoning that was not a total lie. Rather, what she had heard at Court was that Maggie’s betrothed was feared by his peers, yet she might naturally assume respect followed fear.

  Maggie was not to be consoled. “He must be a monster, as I’ve heard; mayhap he’ll change into one when the church bells sound.”

  “Nonsense,” Merry said, for what seemed the hundredth time. Realizing Maggie was not listening to her, she wearily changed tactics. In a sweet, wheedling tone, she said:

  “Think not of the man you wed, coz, but the great honor bestowed upon the lady wife of a baron, and the adorable babes you shall have one day.”

  Maggie sniffled. “’Tis hardly any consolation to imagine my children might favor their sire.”

  Throwing up her hands, Merry said, “Y’are not being fair to the man, Maggie. You have never met him nor seen his likeness, and cruel gossip is rarely known to be true.”

  “’Twas true enough, his mother took her own life when he was born,” Maggie said with a shudder. “Even Papa did not deny that tale.”

  “Would good Christian folk blame an innocent babe? La, cousin, you’ve more common sense. Mayhap the superstitious Welsh delight in such myths; here at Court, we are more practical and never lend an ear to such mischievous yarns.”

  “Indeed? Then why is the gossip so rampant here at Whitehall? Why have I heard naught but terrible whispers about the deformity Lord Trelane wears in crown-like fashion? And why, pray tell, if such rumors are untrue, did my betrothed not send a miniature in kind?”

  “Men are not so vain as women. ’Tis not in their nature,” Merry reassured her cousin, with faltering conviction. She pictured the prancing fops who often surrounded the queen.

  “Well, I’m not going,” Maggie repeated firmly. “Milord can come and drag me screaming to the altar, yet he shall have not one whit of my own assistance in the deed.”

  Resigned, Merry asked, “Can I trust you not to hurl yourself from London Bridge if I go to the masque without you?”

  Maggie nodded. “I have neither the courage nor the cruel nature to break Papa and Isobel’s hearts. Nay, I realize they did their best. If only my dear Will had not died! By morning’s light, I shall likely be a married woman, but Trelane will have to find me first.”

  WHAT DEVILRY IS MISTRESS Margaret up to? Morgan wondered when he received the news from Ambergate. A lengthy apology from Sir Christopher Tanner did little to improve his foul mood, nor did a fervent promise that the errant maid would be properly chastened, when and if she was found.

  Morgan reluctantly agreed to attend a masque at Whitehall, with Sir Christopher’s assurance he would be introduced to his future wife there and allowed to escort Margaret directly to the church afterwards. The demand for such a hasty wedding clearly left the Tanner family at a loss, but Morgan knew they dared not question his eccentricities for fear of losing such a great match, altogether.

  Arriving at Whitehall, Morgan set his jaw with the effort of getting through the social crush and whirl. He had missed the formal dinner, and the dancing had already begun — He cared not. He detested Court, though he had visited it when he was a young lad. His father sought to engage him as a page, a common practice among the lesser peerage.

  To this end Morgan received weeks of etiquette lessons and stern instruction in a page’s courtly duties. Once again, Rhys denied his son’s shortcomings. Spurned by his elders and cruelly mocked by his peers, Morgan endured one miserable week at Court before he ran away.

  Rhys was summoned from Wales to help locate him. Morgan was discovered sleeping in the royal stables at Richmond. Horses were far better companions than his fellow pages, and warmer-natured besides. Rhys never forced his shivering son to return to Court. Instead they retreated to Falcon’s Lair in silence.

  Now Morgan found himself ensconced in the masque at Whitehall with no option of escape. He didn’t fear being recognized or scorned by any of his peers, due to the fact of his virtual obscurity and present manner of dress. He had, of course, chosen his costume with care. His black velvet doublet and breeches were unprepossessing, as was the black velvet mask concealing most of his face. It was nothing to draw particular attention to him, other than the fact of his considerable height in contrast to other men.

  If anyone inquired what character or notion he portrayed, Morgan had already planned the dry and somewhat sardonic reply that he represented Lord Satan. That would certainly rock a few courtiers back on their heels, he thought with satisfaction.

  Gazing around at the colorful throng, Morgan felt cool contempt for the entire proceeding, especially for the participants. Most of the ladies — he decided the term must be used loosely at best — were outlandishly garbed, powdered, and bejeweled like the tasteless tarts they were. The half-bare bosoms and stockings sporting naughty designs seemed to be the fashion of the day. Many tottered upon ridiculous pantofles, stilt-like cork heels with which it seemed they either intended to impress others, or to break their own necks in the attempt.

  The men were scarcely an improvement. With rare exception, they, too, wore huge, cartwheel neck ruffs and layers of costly baubles. Their outfits were pinked, paned, and slashed to the point of garishness.

  Morgan had to swallow a laugh at the sight of one elderly fop bouncing up and down in poor imitation of performing a galliard dance, looking more like a barnyard rooster, pecking and hopping about, than the gallant swain he aspired to be. Incredibly, the fellow wore bright yellow satin breeches, a red leather jerkin, and a tuft-taffeta doublet of alternating orange and purple stripes. His stockings were a particularly bilious shade
of green. Nay, mused Morgan, he favors not the cock rooster, but a parrot his former fellow pages had kept in a gilded cage.

  Lord “Parrot’s” partner was a much younger woman, a would-be mermaid garbed in seawater silk. Unlike her aged companion, her goffered ruff was of modest size. When the dance shifted to a lavolta, she lifted her skirts to execute a graceful leap. Morgan noted her stockings were plain. Either Lord Parrot was fortunate enough to have a practical wife, or he kept a modest mistress.

  Morgan’s gaze shifted to the open windows — the sole source of fresh air in a hall reeking of perfume and stale sweat. A thin slice of peach-velvet moon showed the hour was growing late. He had left word at his London residence that when the wayward Mistress Margaret was found, she must be immediately brought to him. They would depart for the church and head back to Wales the next morning. Morgan didn’t intend to waste a moment more than necessary in this odious den of Tudor fops and trollops. By tomorrow, he planned to be a well and married man, hopefully with a son making an appearance in the new year, as well.

  Morgan concealed a yawn behind his gloved hand. As he glanced towards the entrance, he saw a redheaded woman enter the crush. Her furtive stance, and the fact that she seemed to be looking for someone, caught his attention. Her vivid mane of hair was threaded with some sort of ridiculous female frippery he gathered was supposed to resemble leaves.

  The woman’s costume matched the loud hue of her hair, a frenzied mixture of red and orange. Her décolletage was alarmingly deep. Despite such a tasteless display, she proceeded through the crowd, gaining exclamations from the others present. Morgan assumed the women remarked upon her belated appearance and the daring nature of her costume. He didn’t have to guess what the men said. The randy fellows swarmed about the redhead, ogling her breasts as they bowed over her little white hand. Morgan felt his cheeks burning with outrage beneath his mask.

  He didn’t stop to reason further. He recalled the face from the miniature. Though this young woman wore a mask, the red hair was distinctive enough to make her identity obvious; Mistress Margaret Tanner had made her tardy, albeit dramatic appearance, and he intended to set her straight.