Keeper of the King's Secrets by Michelle Diener

plan to do?” Parker wondered if Wolsey had foreseen this kind of trouble.
    “Fight him. In the courts if we have to. Through Parliament. Whatever it takes.”
    “Is he in there?” Parker jerked his head in the direction of Wolsey’s door.
    “We think so. We saw him come in here, but he won’t come out.”
    Parker moved toward the door and gave a short, sharp rap against it.
    There was silence. The men in the room had gone quiet, too.
    Parker cupped a hand over his mouth. “It’s Gittens, my lord. Message from the King.”
    He heard the thud of footsteps and a scrabble in the lock. The door swung open, and Parker ducked beneath Wolsey’s arm.
    As the men in the antechamber surged forward, Wolsey slammed the door shut and turned the key.
    “Parker.” Wolsey stared at him stony-faced, his lips as thin and mean as a stale crust of bread. His eyes were bloodshot, with dark circles under them. His face was sheened in sweat as though he had a fever, and he was the deathly white of a funeral shroud.
    “You tried to molest my betrothed last night, Wolsey. Did you think I would let it go?”
    Wolsey started. “Your betrothed? I had heard the King has given you leave to marry, but I did not realize—” He cut off. Rubbed his temple with a plump, ink-stained finger. “I remember hearing something, but I have been overwhelmed recently and did not comprehend …”
    Parker said nothing, and the silence stretched out between them.
    One of the men in the antechamber slammed a fist into the door, and Wolsey jumped at the sound.
    He caught himself, seeming to realize what he looked like, hiding in his own chamber.
    “Get out, Parker.” Those thin lips twisted in a snarl and he lifted his arm dismissively. “There is nothing you can do to me, and the wench is fine, although why you would want a harridan like that—”
    Parker pinned Wolsey to the door with a forearm under his neck.
    Wolsey gave a shout of surprise, tried to pull himself free. He stopped as Parker’s knife came up to his throat, and hiseyes widened as the blade came to rest lightly against his skin.
    “I want to kill you. It won’t be easy to do, but if you try anything like that again, I will find a way.” Parker tugged his other knife from his boot and stepped back, a blade in each hand.
    Wolsey sagged against the door. “Be gone, Parker. I can hire a blade to run you through far easier than you would be able to kill me without repercussions.”
    “You mean your French assassin?” Parker thought Wolsey’s knees gave a little more. He put his knives away. “I wouldn’t count on him anymore.”
    “What?” The question came out in a croak. Wolsey stepped away from the door and used the wall to keep himself steady.
    Parker dipped his head in farewell, turned the key, and threw the door open. “Gentlemen, he’s all yours.”

    H arry was looking more dangerous every time Susanna saw him. It disturbed her, made her chest tighten.
    His hair had been a dark, matted mess when she’d first met him, his face dirty and his clothes rags. Now that Parker was paying him, and providing him and his little gang of lads with lodgings a few streets away, he didn’t look like a feral urchin anymore.
    His hair was clean and a beautiful golden brown. His clothes were warm and serviceable, just the right quality and cut for an apprentice or a merchant’s aide. He was filling thoseclothes out better, too. They no longer hung on him like a scarecrow’s wardrobe.
    She’d invited him into the study when he’d arrived at the back door, and he was watching her now with eyes as keen and sharp as they’d ever been.
    Eyes like Peter Jack and Eric. Eyes like old men.
    “Parker could find you a real apprenticeship, Harry.” Susanna sat and gestured to Parker’s chair.
    “The arrangement I have with him seems very real to me.” Harry sat stiff and straight, not the slightest bend in his back.
    “It is so real, you must surely be the image of him at the same age,