do you think?”
I started. The queen tapped her foot. I caught Lady Clarencieux’s amused regard. Was the queen offering me a post in her wardrobe? “It’s … rather bright,” I said helplessly.
“At last, someone who speaks the truth, Majesty,” said a rough-silk voice, and a woman unlike any I had ever seen stepped forth.
She must have been sitting, hidden, in one of the window bays, for I would have noticed her. I couldn’t have done otherwise; she was the kind of a woman I could not help but notice. She wasn’t beautiful in the popular sense. Her figure was too slim, despite the shapeliness of her breast and hips, and her features too distinctive in their chiseled perfection. Her luminous skin enhanced deep-set eyes of startling violet-blue, a thin nose, and angular cheekbones that gave her face an almost feline cast. The overall effect of aristocratic frigidity was softened by her seductive, full-lipped mouth, which hinted of voluptuous promise just simmering under her surface. Hair the color of autumn gold was coiled into an elaborate coiffure under her small pearl-edged cap, showing off her fashionably plucked brow. As she glided to the queen’s side I noted her elegance of movement, as well as her distinctive cap sleeves and stiff triangular skirts. She wore a fashion that set her apart from the other ladies present.
Mary groaned and let the sample drop at her feet. “What, then?” she asked. “It’s been hours already and I’m weary of all this.” She waved her hand at the mess in the room.
The woman turned to me. I heard a hint of challenge in her voice. “Perhaps we can impose on Your Majesty’s friend for a suggestion? He is a man, yes?”
The queen frowned. “I hardly think Master Beecham is in a position to…” Her voice faded as I moved assuredly to a nearby table heaped with samples. I scrutinized them, lifting and discarded several before I settled on a plum velvet shot with gold.
“This one,” I said.
Mary took it from me. As she held it up to her face, the ladies
oohed
in chorus. It was, thankfully, a perfect choice, the rich purple hue distracting from Mary’s wan skin while lending her faded hair luster. It didn’t hurt that it was also the preferred color of royalty. When in doubt with a queen, always choose purple.
“All this time and all we needed, it seems, was a man.” The woman laughed-a delicious throaty laugh that issued from low in her chest. She extended her hand to me. “Allow me to present myself. I am Mistress Sybilla Darrier.”
I leaned over her extended fingers, detecting a unique scent. “A pleasure, my lady,” I said. “Have you been in France? You smell of lilies.”
Sybilla’s eyes widened.
Mary said, “I see you are as perceptive as ever, Master Beecham. Indeed, Mistress Darrier has recently returned to England after many years abroad.”
I assumed as much. Besides the unusual scent, it explained her distinctive apparel.
“She hails from Lincolnshire,” added Mary, turning again to the looking glass to assess the sample against her complexion. “Master Beecham, weren’t you also born there?”
I went still. She had not forgotten a thing about me, it seemed.
“Indeed.” I smiled to hide my consternation. “But as Your Majesty may recall, I left following my parents’ deaths. The Sweat,” I added, with a sad shake of my head in Sybilla’s direction. “I was left an orphan while still a child.”
“How terrible,” she murmured. If I’d hoped to gain a revelation from her in return, I was disappointed, but I thought I caught a flash of interest in her eyes. My alias was one Cecil had assigned me, the persona of the sole surviving son of a client family of his. The real Daniel Beecham, like the rest of his kin, was dead. The family had been minor gentry, unlikely to have mingled with someone of Sybilla’s evident rank, but I couldn’t be too cautious. I didn’t want this woman to see me as a fellow shire man, well versed in
I started. The queen tapped her foot. I caught Lady Clarencieux’s amused regard. Was the queen offering me a post in her wardrobe? “It’s … rather bright,” I said helplessly.
“At last, someone who speaks the truth, Majesty,” said a rough-silk voice, and a woman unlike any I had ever seen stepped forth.
She must have been sitting, hidden, in one of the window bays, for I would have noticed her. I couldn’t have done otherwise; she was the kind of a woman I could not help but notice. She wasn’t beautiful in the popular sense. Her figure was too slim, despite the shapeliness of her breast and hips, and her features too distinctive in their chiseled perfection. Her luminous skin enhanced deep-set eyes of startling violet-blue, a thin nose, and angular cheekbones that gave her face an almost feline cast. The overall effect of aristocratic frigidity was softened by her seductive, full-lipped mouth, which hinted of voluptuous promise just simmering under her surface. Hair the color of autumn gold was coiled into an elaborate coiffure under her small pearl-edged cap, showing off her fashionably plucked brow. As she glided to the queen’s side I noted her elegance of movement, as well as her distinctive cap sleeves and stiff triangular skirts. She wore a fashion that set her apart from the other ladies present.
Mary groaned and let the sample drop at her feet. “What, then?” she asked. “It’s been hours already and I’m weary of all this.” She waved her hand at the mess in the room.
The woman turned to me. I heard a hint of challenge in her voice. “Perhaps we can impose on Your Majesty’s friend for a suggestion? He is a man, yes?”
The queen frowned. “I hardly think Master Beecham is in a position to…” Her voice faded as I moved assuredly to a nearby table heaped with samples. I scrutinized them, lifting and discarded several before I settled on a plum velvet shot with gold.
“This one,” I said.
Mary took it from me. As she held it up to her face, the ladies
oohed
in chorus. It was, thankfully, a perfect choice, the rich purple hue distracting from Mary’s wan skin while lending her faded hair luster. It didn’t hurt that it was also the preferred color of royalty. When in doubt with a queen, always choose purple.
“All this time and all we needed, it seems, was a man.” The woman laughed-a delicious throaty laugh that issued from low in her chest. She extended her hand to me. “Allow me to present myself. I am Mistress Sybilla Darrier.”
I leaned over her extended fingers, detecting a unique scent. “A pleasure, my lady,” I said. “Have you been in France? You smell of lilies.”
Sybilla’s eyes widened.
Mary said, “I see you are as perceptive as ever, Master Beecham. Indeed, Mistress Darrier has recently returned to England after many years abroad.”
I assumed as much. Besides the unusual scent, it explained her distinctive apparel.
“She hails from Lincolnshire,” added Mary, turning again to the looking glass to assess the sample against her complexion. “Master Beecham, weren’t you also born there?”
I went still. She had not forgotten a thing about me, it seemed.
“Indeed.” I smiled to hide my consternation. “But as Your Majesty may recall, I left following my parents’ deaths. The Sweat,” I added, with a sad shake of my head in Sybilla’s direction. “I was left an orphan while still a child.”
“How terrible,” she murmured. If I’d hoped to gain a revelation from her in return, I was disappointed, but I thought I caught a flash of interest in her eyes. My alias was one Cecil had assigned me, the persona of the sole surviving son of a client family of his. The real Daniel Beecham, like the rest of his kin, was dead. The family had been minor gentry, unlikely to have mingled with someone of Sybilla’s evident rank, but I couldn’t be too cautious. I didn’t want this woman to see me as a fellow shire man, well versed in
Similar Books
