Masked noblemen voiced their admiration and tried to guess our identities as we strode past the avenue of clipped yew trees and into the pre-party zone. Guests hovered in clusters around the low hedges of the knot gardens, drinking wine, nibbling hors d’oeuvres, and dancing merrily in the open spaces. Green-and-white poles topped with heraldic beasts overlooked fragrant beds of primroses, violets, and cherries that masked the river smells. Each square-shaped garden was bordered with an impeccably manicured hedge.
A tall guy with thick, windswept hair sprouting from an ivory mask took my fingers and led me into the volta. I pretended I had no idea it was King Nick, to keep up his charade, and the guests paced backward to give us space. After so many tedious hours of dance practice, I actually didn’t make a total idiot of myself and kept pace with the king’s smooth movements. Cheers sounded as Nick gripped my waist and lifted me to the sky—practically dirty dancing for Tudor times—before concluding the display by dropping to one knee and kissing my hand. A collective gasp at the kneeling king rippled through the crowd, but within seconds, Nick was back on his feet. Holy crap, I just pulled off the volta.
“Do you know me?” he said in a theatrical voice, and I tried not to laugh. Dorky Nick was adorable.
“Are you the Earl of Warwick?” I replied loudly. Alice cracked up—always the first to react over a Francis Beaumont joke.
“Only if I have shrunk by a head,” said Nick, tearing off his mask.
The nobles roared with laughter like it was the funniest joke ever told. Nick beamed down at me, affection pouring from his sea-colored eyes. He slid a hand inside his coat that was the Tudor colors of green and white, extracting a sliver of gold.
“For my lady, most dear, and your promised Queen of England!” he cried, draping the glistening chain over my head. I’d expected more cheers, but there was mostly gentle clapping as my fingers clutched the heart-shaped ruby that pressed against my neck. My mind shot back to Nick sitting beside my mom, dipping sliced bread with orange cheese into ketchup. He must’ve thought my home—my life—was so unimpressive and beggarly compared to this. Enough rubies were hanging off my body to buy a planet. Had he really raised the people’s taxes to pay for all this?
The frazzled Master of the Revels hurriedly cleared a larger space. Two armchairs were carried in for Nick and me, and the rest of the guests gathered behind us on foot. A masque unfolded before us—an iridescent spectacle of actors playing unicorns, nymphs, knights, and damsels, accompanied by lively music and primitive fireworks that could’ve blown us to smithereens. When the performance finished with a lady rescuing the archangel St. Michael from danger, Nick threw me a covert smirk. He’d arranged the surprise feminist ending to impress me. If it hadn’t been the sixteenth century, I’d have kissed him right there.
After our chairs were removed, a mob of waiting nobles and diplomats sucked the king inside their huddle like a whirlpool. I waited on the perimeter, peering around for Lucinda. She had to have her chance to speak with the king, and single mothers didn’t exactly enjoy priority access in this place.
Alice arrived beside me with two cups of wine.
“You’re a good girl,” I said, accepting one. It was sweetened with warmed berries.
I winced at the sight of Bridget trying to engage the visibly uninterested Earl of Surrey in conversation. While it wasn’t my business who the cute earl hooked up with, I suspected that pretty maidens weren’t exactly on his radar. I’d noticed the way he looked at other dashing gentlemen of the court with shining eyes, and his intimacy with his male tennis partner. Not that I’d ever mention my theory to Bridget, or even Alice—this was a dangerously different world to the one I knew.
Just beyond Bridget and Surrey stood Francis Beaumont among a throng of lords.
“How do you think Lord Warwick is going as the king’s right-hand man?” I asked Alice, genuinely curious.
She considered her answer. “It appears that Francis has been a good servant to the king, and he has fairly handled the Spanish threat. However, he has become as single-minded as my father: sparing no end in his efforts to please the king and the lords. I suppose his sense of duty is to be commended, but I fear he will end up like my Papa…wedded to his work.” The longing in Alice’s voice spoke volumes. I’d never have pushed this hard if I wasn’t sure that Alice and Francis secretly fancied the pants off each other.
“Okay, enough,” I ordered, the effects of the wine relaxing my inhibitions. “You and Francis need to get together, like yesterday.”
“What in the high heavens?” she said through a chortle.
“Stop it,” I said like she was a naughty schoolgirl. “You and Francis have had more misunderstandings than Romeo and Juliet, but they’re all cleared up now. Let’s go through this again: Francis was once betrothed to your older sister Violet, but then he called off the wedding, not because he was a jerk, but because he is actually in love with you. The second issue was that you thought Francis had driven me away from court for similar reasons, but that also turned out to be false. Does that cover everything?”
Alice gaped at me, before spinning to face Francis again, her slate-colored skirts rustling against the gravel. Together, we watched Francis brush sweaty black curls from his temples while he listened to a nobleman speaking with wild gesticulations. Francis patted the man’s shoulder before turning to another man who appeared equally as distressed.
Francis’s gaze moved to catch Alice’s stare. Neither of them looked away for several seconds. The irritated noblemen turned away from him, and Francis swayed on his feet, clearly deciding whether to approach us or not. I took Alice’s arm and walked quickly over to him.
“Good evening, and God save you, my ladies,” Francis greeted us with a bow like we were two strangers. Alice dipped into a polite curtsy.
Oh, for goodness’ sake, you two.
“I am grateful for your timely rescue,” he said, guiding us into a quieter space. “Every hairbrain in this palace finds it his duty to make petty complaints without end.” I smelled musk on his skin as he brought his wine cup to his lips.
“Much has changed since you were merely in charge of court entertainment,” Alice said to him with a wry smile.
A torch flame flickered in Francis’s dark eyes. “Make no mistake, my lady, pacifying the nobility is a performance indeed.”
She laughed. “Perhaps if this is all to fall short, you may join the theatre. You would make a fine Narcissus.”
Ha, typical quick-witted Alice. In Greek mythology, I remembered Narcissus to be the hunter who was physically beautiful but utterly self-absorbed.
“I feel I would be more suited to Achilles,” Francis quipped. “And you, my lady, would make a finer Helen of Troy.”
Her cheeks tinted the color of cherries, but she held his gaze. “A lady in a playhouse? I have heard there is much kissing to be observed.”
Francis smiled. “Well, if there is to be kissing, I would then wish to change my part to Prince Paris.”
Biting down on a smirk, I backed away from them. “I’m just going to find the king,” I said. “Sometimes he drinks too much wine before he eats.”
The truth was that no one could stop Nick from drinking or eating whatever the heck he wanted—not even me. But Alice and Francis were finally flirting like they’d been suppressing it for years and I wasn’t going to get in the way.