NOTORIOUS in the Tudor Court

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.

Chapter Six

Marguerite bent her head over her embroidery, pretending to be absorbed by the tiny flowers in blue-and-yellow silk as she listened to the soft murmur of voices around her. Queen Katherine had invited Claudine and her ladies to sit with her in her privy chamber for the afternoon, while her husband and the other men were occupied with their “dull” business in the council chamber.

In truth, Marguerite was sure that far more of interest was happening here than in the king’s group. The men, with their bluff deceptions, their great egos that convinced them of their imminent victory, could learn a great deal about prevarication from their ladies, whose gentle smiles and soft, flattering words were veritable poniards.

Queen Katherine sat by the fire in her carved, cushioned chair, stitching on one of the king’s fine batiste shirts. She had sewn his shirts and embroidered the blackwork trim on them since the early days of their marriage, and she would never surrender the task now. At her feet, her pet monkey, clad in a tiny blue doublet, frolicked, while lovebirds chattered away in a cage by the windows. The animals’ high-pitched exclamations blended with the giggles of the ladies, their whispers and the crackle of the flames, the sound of a lute being played by the queen’s chief lady, Maria de Salinas.

Thus far the talk had all been of fashion, of household matters, of Claudine’s forthcoming baby and Princess Mary’s education. Little enough to glean there, but Marguerite was patient. She had to be.

She drew her needle through the fine, white cloth, embellishing a petal on a cornflower. One stitch, then another and another, and the scene would soon be whole. It was the same with listening. One seemingly insignificant detail built on another until the greater vision was apparent.

“That is quite lovely, Mademoiselle Dumas,” one of Queen Katherine’s younger ladies, Lady Penelope Percy, said. She held out her own work, a hopelessly crooked pattern of Tudor roses and diamond shapes. “It is meant to be a cushion cover, but I fear I lack the skill you possess. No one will ever want to sit on it!”

Marguerite laughed ruefully. “In truth, Lady Penelope, needlework is not a favourite pastime for me. I find it rather dull.”

“You do it so well, though.”

“In my position at Court, serving Princess Madeleine, there is little else to do all day. I had no choice but to become proficient. See, Lady Penelope, if you pull the thread thus, it keeps the tension in your needle and makes a neater stitch.”

“So it does! How very clever.” They sewed in silence for a moment, then Lady Penelope leaned closer to whisper, “Your normal place is not in the household of the comtesse, then?”

“No. She needed extra assistance to travel such a distance in her condition, and I was the most easily spared of the princess’s household. I confess I was glad of the opportunity to travel, to see England.”

“As I wish I could see Paris! Alas, I fear I will be here in the queen’s service until my father finds some whey-faced squire for me to marry. I shall never have much merriment in life at all,” Lady Percy said, her lower lip protruding in a distinct pout.

Ah-ha, Marguerite thought. A dissatisfied lady was always the best confidant of all, if she could persuade them to confide in her. Some were simply too jealous. But Lady Penelope Percy was quite pretty herself, and obviously lonely. “How very sad for you. Everyone should enjoy themselves when they are young, yes?”

“Exactly so! Time enough for dullness later, when one is as old and fat as…” Her voice trailed away, but she glanced at the stout, complacent queen.

“We all must dance while we can,” Marguerite said. “Yet I have seen few signs of dullness here at your English Court. The banquet last night was most delightful.”

“That is because we must entertain you French!” Lady Penelope said with a laugh. “When we are alone it is much quieter, aside from a bit of hunting and dancing.”

“No flirtations? In a Court so full of handsome gentlemen? Come now, Lady Penelope, I cannot believe it of a pretty young lady like yourself! You must have a favourite among all these charming courtiers.”

Lady Penelope giggled, ducking her head over her untidy sewing. “I think the most handsome men are among your own party, Mademoiselle Dumas. The comte de Calonne, for instance.”

The comte? Marguerite had scarcely noticed Claudine’s husband, but she supposed he was handsome. Certainly nowhere as attractive as Nicolai Ostrovsky…

Marguerite closed her eyes against the sudden lurch of her stomach that the thought of the Russian inspired. That sick, nervous, excited feeling she hated so much. She remembered last night, the hot feeling of his body pressed against hers in the dark, his breath, his kiss on her skin. The vivid aliveness of him.

Why did he haunt her so?

“You admire the comte, then?” she said, opening her eyes and going back to her embroidery. Her stitches were now distinctly less even.

Lady Penelope shrugged. “He has such fine, broad shoulders! I would wager he is a very good dancer. Yet his wife seems so sour.”

Marguerite glanced at Claudine, who did seem pale and out-of-sorts in her ill-chosen tawny silk gown. “Many women are out of humour when they are in such a condition.”

“Perhaps so.” Lady Penelope giggled, as carefree as only a girl who had never been pregnant could be. Or a lady who could not become pregnant, such as Marguerite herself. “But it leaves their husbands in such great need of consolation!”

Marguerite laughed. That was certainly all too true. In her experience, men needed “consolation” for too many things far too often. That did not mean she had to be their consoler.

“Who do you think the handsomest man is, Mademoiselle Dumas?” Lady Penelope asked.

“I fear I have not been here long enough to judge.”

“Well, just guess, then. From the ones you have met.”

Marguerite thought again of Nicolai, of his golden hair against that red doublet. He looked like a flame, one that threatened to consume her if she got too close. “Perhaps your own King Henry.”

Lady Penelope shook her head. “He still looks well enough, I suppose, for his years. But you would have to battle for him with Mistress Boleyn, and that I would not care to try. Her tongue is as sharp as her claws.”

“I have not yet had a glimpse of this famous Mistress Boleyn. She must be quite beautiful.”

“I would not say beautiful. Not like yourself, Mademoiselle Dumas! She is—interesting, rather. She was in France, you know, when the king’s sister was Queen of France, and is much more fashionable than the rest of us.”

“I wonder when I shall see her.”

“Tonight, no doubt. They say there is to be dancing after supper, and she never misses the chance to show off her dancing skills.” Lady Penelope lowered her voice even further to whisper, “She is meant to attend on the queen, but she is usually far too busy with her own pursuits.”

“Indeed?”

Lady Penelope nodded. One of the other ladies, a pale young woman named Jane Seymour, began to read aloud from The Romance of the Rose, and everyone else fell silent. There was no chance for Marguerite to ask Lady Penelope what those “other pursuits” might be, yet she was sure she could guess. Most interesting.

She also ruminated on the comment about how Mistress Boleyn had been in France and was thus “fashionable.” Had not the Russian himself said she, Marguerite, lacked the famed French charm? It was hard to be charming in a knife fight, but she knew she had charm a-plenty when she needed it. Maybe it was time to employ it…

Nicolai reached up to test the tensile strength of the tightrope, to make sure it was taut and firmly anchored. From outside his small, hidden nook in the theatre, he could hear Sir Henry Guildford directing his assistants. Their voices, the sounds of hammering and sawing, seemed far away, as if he hid in a cave where the real world could not touch him.

If only there was such a place, a single, hidden spot of peace. Yet if there was, he had never found it in all his travels. Everywhere—Moscow, Venice, England, Holland, Spain—people were the same. Noisy and striving, beautiful and cruel, strutting about in all their vanity and longing until everything was extinguished in only a moment.

Only in friendship had he found a true haven, a reminder of grace and kindness that could be found, if one searched hard enough. Cherished it when it was discovered, like rubies and gold. Nicolai had lost his family so long ago, had wandered the world alone until he discovered a new family—Marc and Julietta, Marc’s long-lost brother Balthazar, Nicolai’s own acting troupe.

Only these bonds, so precious and fragile, could have brought him to this nest of French, Spanish and English vipers, all spitting and hissing. Yet, now that he was here, he felt some of the old excitement coming back to him. The soaring exhilaration only danger could create.

He felt restless today, filled with a crackling energy. A good fight would take that edge off, yet thus far at Greenwich everyone was behaving with disappointing civility. Except for Marguerite Dumas, of course, but she was nowhere to be seen. Probably she was safely ensconced with the other French ladies in Queen Katherine’s chamber, where she could hopefully cause very little trouble.

And she was part of this restlessness, if not its entire cause.

So, that left acrobatic tricks. Nicolai shed his fine velvet doublet, his Spanish leather boots, and, clad only in shirt and hose, swung himself up on to the rope. He balanced there on his bare feet, tall and straight, carefully centred, and took a few steps.

He was stiff from the long, idle days aboard ship and on horseback, out of shape after too much rich food and fine wine. It was fortunate the Emerald Lily was not able to overpower him last night, when he was foolish enough to ambush her in his poor condition!

But as he traversed the length of the rope, balancing on one foot and then the other, he felt his muscles warm, felt them grow pliant and supple again. His mind, too, was centred, leaving England and Marguerite Dumas and Marc’s mother behind, until there was only his body and the thin rope.

Nicolai tucked and rolled into a forward somersault, springing up to do a backflip. One, two, then he was still again, his arms outstretched.

A flurry of applause burst the shimmering, delicate bubble of his concentration. He glanced up to find Marguerite standing in the curtained doorway, clapping her jewelled hands.

He would have expected to see sarcasm written on her face as she watched him, cold calculation. Yet there was none of that. Her cheeks glowed pink, and her eyes were bright, clear of their usual opaque green ice. Her lips parted in a delighted smile.

How very young she looked in that moment, young and free and alive. If he had thought her beautiful before, he saw now he never knew what real beauty was.

“Oh, Monsieur Ostrovsky, how very extraordinary that was,” she exclaimed. “How can a human being perform such feats?”

Nicolai swung down from the rope, landing lightly on his feet. He stayed a wary distance from her, not trusting that she did not conceal a blade up her fine brown velvet sleeve. Not trusting himself to be near her, to step into the circle of that silvery glow she seemed to carry everywhere.

“‘Tis merely practice, mademoiselle,” he answered. “Many years of it.”

“You must have a great gift,” she said. “Anyone else would have cracked their skulls open!”

“And so I did, a dozen times.”

“Yet you lived to tell about it.”

“I have a very hard skull.”

“And so you do. Thick-headed, indeed.” She stepped closer to the rope, reaching up tentatively to test its strength. “Why, it’s as thin as my embroidery silks.”

“It’s harder to find your balance if the rope is too wide.”

“Truly?”

“Would you like to try it? It would not be easy in those heavy skirts, but you could surely stand.”

She looked toward him, her eyes wide. That impression of youth, of wonderment, still clung about her, and Nicolai was surprised to notice she could not be more than two and twenty. What could have happened to such a girl, so lovely and graceful, so full of a wonder she hid even from herself, to run her to such a hard life, to the shadowy, sinful existence of a spy and assassin?

He suddenly had the overpowering desire to take her in his arms, to hold her close until whatever those hardships were faded away and she was only that young girl again. His cursed protectiveness. It always got him into trouble.

“Come,” he said, holding out his hand. “I can help you.”

But she stepped back from the rope, tucking her hands into her wide sleeves. She laughed cynically, and he could see the veil fall again over her eyes. “Nay, Monsieur Ostrovsky! I am sure you would let me drop at the first opportunity. I am too fond of my neck to see it broken on these paving stones.”

He let his own hand drop, and turned away to fetch his doublet and boots. “How very suspicious you are, mademoiselle.”

“One has to be, to survive.”

Nicolai shrugged into his doublet, fastening the tiny pearl closures. The room had suddenly grown very cold. “What do you do here, Mademoiselle Dumas? Are not all the ladies attending on the queen today?”

“I was, but they have joined the Spanish ladies for a stroll in the garden. And I received a note from the Master of the Revels summoning me here. Lady Penelope Percy says he wants to cast me in one of the pageants.”

Ah, yes, the pageant. Nicolai had forgotten about it for a blessed five minutes. “I should have known you were the French angel.”

“The French angel?”

“It seems one of Henry’s attendants suggested that a lady of the French party, one who was ‘beautiful as an angel,’ should be given a role as a diplomatic gesture.”

Marguerite laughed. “I know little of acting.”

“Oh, mademoiselle, I beg to differ. You played the Venetian whore to perfection.”

Her lips tightened, but other than that she betrayed no emotion. “I suppose I could always come to you for advice, Monsieur Ostrovsky. I’ve seldom met such a consummate player as you.”

“I am at mademoiselle’s disposal if you ever need advice, as always.” Nicolai reached back for his hair, tied with a narrow black ribbon to keep it out of his face while he worked, and started to plait it. It was such a bother, the thick fall of it halfway down his back.

Marguerite’s eyes widened and she took a step closer to him. “It does seem such a shame to confine it,” she murmured.

“It is tangled, and I haven’t the time now to see to it properly.”

“Here, I will help you. If there is one thing I am good at, it’s a proper toilette.”

“I would wager you are good at many things, the least of which is wielding a comb.”

A smile twitched at her lips. “I was told only this morning that my embroidery is rather fine. Now, sit here, and I will see to your hair before you hurry on your way.”

She gestured toward a stool, which Nicolai eyed warily. “You will just take the chance to slit my throat, I fear.”

Marguerite laughed, a clear, sweet sound. “Indeed I will not! I will appear as avenging angel when you least expect it, Monsieur Ostrovsky. At this moment I am only a woman who appreciates masculine beauty.” She turned back the edges of her fur-trimmed brown velvet sleeves. “See, I have no daggers today.”

“Except for what might be hidden in your garters,” Nicolai said, quite beguiled against his will. Beguiled by her smile, the glow in her eyes.

“You shall not be allowed to search there, sirrah! Come, I give you my word, no sneak attacks today.”

Nicolai slowly sat down, holding himself tense, ready to spring up if she made any lethal movements. She merely stepped behind him, her hands gentle as she untied the ribbon and spread his hair over his shoulders.

“Any lady would envy such hair,” she murmured, running her fingers through the strands, untangling them slowly, massaging his scalp as she went. “You do not use a lemon juice solution on it? Or saffron?”

Nicolai laughed. “Why would I squeeze lemons on my hair? I am not a baked salmon.”

“To brighten it, of course. Many ladies do, you know.”

“Do you use such things?”

“Not usually.”

“Nay. You would use your dark arts to capture moonbeams to colour your hair, and sunsets for your cheeks.”

“Shh, Monsieur Ostrovsky! You give away my secrets.” She hummed softly as she worked, a low, gentle lullaby that emphasised the quick, light movements of her fingers.

Nicolai slowly relaxed, lulled by her voice, her touch, the scent of her exotic lily perfume that seemed to curl around him in a silken net. He would hardly have guessed, after Venice, after their encounter in the garden last night, that she possessed such softness. What endless facets she had, like the fine emerald set in her dagger.

How very easy she must find it to winnow secrets out of men, who were so vulnerable to gentleness and sweetness. And he was a man like any other. His body stirred at her touch, becoming hard and hot, and he longed to fall into her arms, bury himself in her complex beauty and never emerge again.

Was this truly what she wanted, then, what she worked for? His complete eradication? If so, in that moment he would have happily given it to her.

Her fingertips lightly skimmed over his temples, his cheekbones, down his throat to rest on his shoulders. “There, Monsieur Ostrovsky, you are quite tidy now.”

“You are indeed most gifted at the toilette, mademoiselle,” Nicolai muttered, slowly coming back to the hard ground, to himself. It was a bit like emerging from the spell that overtook him on the tightrope.

“And a woman of my word, too, yes?”

“My throat does seem to be intact.”

Marguerite laughed. “For now, monsieur.”

Nicolai stood and gave her a bow, his hair falling forward like a shining length of silk, all knots removed. “I am most obliged to you, mademoiselle, for sparing my poor life one more day.”

“I do not have time to deal with you properly,” she said, sounding quite surprised as she seemed to recall her original errand. “I must find Sir Henry…”

“No need, Mademoiselle Dumas, for he is here,” Sir Henry’s voice called from the doorway, where he had thrown back the curtain. Nicolai turned to find the Master of the Revels standing there, the crook of his arm filled with scrolls, a page behind him laden with russet satin costumes. “I am very glad to see that the two of you have already met.”

“Already met?” Marguerite said.

“Ah, yes, for Master Ostrovsky has generously offered to supervise the great pageant of The Castle Vert,” Sir Henry said, obviously eager to be on his way. “And you, Mistress Dumas, must take the most important role, that of Beauty, for I see now that you are perfect for it. I am sure the two of you will work together marvellously well! Master Ostrovsky will tell you all about it, as I fear I must now take my leave. The play for tonight, you know.”

As Sir Henry hurried away, Nicolai smiled at Marguerite, who watched him with narrowed eyes. “Well, mademoiselle,” he said. “It seems we are to be colleagues…”

Chapter Seven

That did not go at all as she planned.

Marguerite stalked along the garden pathway, her hands balled into tight fists against her skirts. She didn’t even feel the chilly breeze, for her cheeks burned hot! She hurried around the corner of one of the buildings, away from the better-travelled thoroughfares. No doubt her face was as red as it felt, and she did not want anyone commenting on her agitation.

Here, close to the kitchen herb gardens, there were only a few servants, maids and pages too intent on their own errands to question hers.

She sat down on a stone bench, drawing out a book and pretending to read as she drew in deep, steadying breaths. What a fool she was! She had sought Nicolai out to use her “charm,” her femininity, to beguile him, lull him into trusting her. Into telling her what his true errand was in England.

Instead, she came away far more beguiled than he could ever be.

When she went to that doorway in the theatre, she was determined to coldly draw him in. But she was brought up short by the vision of him balanced on that rope, so graceful and strong. He took feats that should have been impossible for any human body and made them appear effortless. He seemed to fly lightly through the air, as naturally as any bird.

Any bird of prey.

She stared, hardly daring even to breathe, as he leaped backwards, landing perfectly straight and unwavering on that flimsy rope every time. It was surely magic!

And she was swept away, her errand completely forgotten in the flurry of his movements, the musical flexibility of his body. She watched, completely mesmerised, out of all time, until he landed on the ground. He scarcely seemed even out of breath, and only when she drew near did she see the faint, glistening sheen of sweat on his bronzed skin, the tangle of his tumbled hair. He appeared golden all over, an ancient god flown down to earth.

Marguerite had met many men in her life, men with high opinions of themselves—some even deserved, by force of their great intellect, their fine looks or their artistry. Many who were fools, but never knew it. But never had she met a man who had her so entranced as Nicolai Ostrovsky. What was behind his lightness and ease, his lazy, graceful sensuality? What did he hide in those pale blue eyes?

She found she wanted his secrets, not to use as weapons, not to gain the power that secrets always bestowed, but just to know.

She lost her careful concealment in that little room, giving in to the force of her wonder and awe, her attraction for his glittering goldeness. Only for a moment, yet long enough to show her the graceful danger he posed.

When he offered to help her walk the tightrope herself, when he held his hand out to her, she was seized by such longing. Longing to feel the freedom he must know when he flew high above the sordid world. Longing for things she knew could never be hers.

She did avoid that temptation, the desire to feel the rope under her feet, his hand in hers. But she gave in to a darker desire—she actually touched his hair.

Marguerite groaned, burying her face in her book as she remembered that compulsion which would not be denied. That rush of need to feel the cool silk of his hair against her skin. Pressed close to him in that dim, dusty space, inhaling the scent of him, the green, herbal freshness of his soap overlaid by the salty tang of honest sweat, she had wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around him, throw herself into his lap and kiss him, until they drowned in the hot tide of passion.