Page 21 of A Murder on London Bridge
So this gentle-faced girl, scarcely older than I, held the king at bay while still enjoying his favor? The thought unsettled me. It spoke of a court where women wielded beauty and wit as weapons and innocence could be turned into a kind of power.
Anne’s lips curved faintly, almost proud. “She is the only lady who can check Lady Castlemaine’s triumphs. The queen suffers much, but she takes comfort in Lady Frances Stuart, for she vexes the king without ever meaning to.”
The name rang through me. Stuart. A coincidence? Or another thread woven into the manuscript’s enigma?
Before I could dwell on it, Catherine pressed a folded letter into my hand. The wax seal bore the king’s crest. “Read,” she said simply.
My stomach dropped. The lines on the page swirled in an elaborate seventeenth-century hand, all flourishes and ink blots. Panic rose hot in my throat.
I fumbled, then lifted my gaze with what I hoped was convincing humility. “Majesty… forgive me. The fever left my sight weak. Perhaps another?—”
Her eyes searched mine for a long beat, then shifted to Lady Frances, who took the letter and read it aloud. The contents were banal enough—an account of supplies readied for the Queen’s household—but Catherine’s fingers tightened on her rosary as though hearing something else beneath the words.
When Frances finished, Catherine dismissed her with a nod but did not release my gaze. “Your eyes will mend. For now, you sit with me. Speak with me. Yes?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” I said.
She leaned closer, her breath carrying the faint scent of cloves. “You are not like the others. You listen.” A pause. “I am glad of you.”
The words—hesitant, imperfect, but unmistakably sincere—struck me with unexpected force. Here was a queen, lonely in a hostile court, choosing me as confidante. Me, a fraud in borrowed satin.
As I watched them—Catherine small but dignified beneath her canopy, Castlemaine smirking like a cat at the cream, and Frances glowing with youth and untouchable innocence—I felt the threads of a deadly tapestry tightening around the queen. The murdered antiquarian’s manuscript had spoken of conspiracy, of treason whispered in dark corners. I did not know who plotted against Catherine of Braganza, or how far the venom reached, but I knew this—I was here for a reason.
Whatever strange fate had carried me into the seventeenth century, it had placed me at the queen’s side. And I would not stand idle while she was surrounded by enemies. If I must play the part of a court lady, then so be it. But behind the silks and pearls, my eyes would be sharp and my ears sharper still.
For Catherine’s sake, I would find the truth—and make certain no harm came to her.
CHAPTER 11
UNWANTED ADMIRERS
After some time, the queen dismissed me so she could attend to her private prayers. To my surprise, I found myself swept into the outer chamber, where a dozen courtiers lounged about as though the palace were their private tavern—perfumed with clove-scented smoke, echoing with flirtatious laughter, and glittering with more jewels than a Bond Street window.
I kept close to Anne, hoping to slip quietly away, but it was no use. A pair of young gallants descended at once, all satin and swagger.
“My lady,” one drawled, bowing low enough to let his periwig graze the floor. “Word flies faster than pigeons in this palace. Her Majesty favors you. Permit me, then, to offer my own humble service.” His eyes, however, strayed not to my face but to the pearls at my throat.
Before I could frame a reply, his companion pressed closer, the scent of cloves and musk nearly overpowering. “Humbleservice, bah! What the lady requires is a man of means. I own estates in Kent, and my mother swears there is no finer orchard in England. Come walk with me, and I’ll tell you of every apple in it.”
I had thought the Restoration court was famed for its elegance. Evidently, it was more fruit market than fairy tale. Pressed between cologne and cloying compliments, I summoned every ounce of my dignity and clutched Anne’s arm as though she were a lifeline tossed to a drowning woman. Orchards in Kent indeed. If the man had two thoughts to rub together, they’d both be sticky with pomade.
Anne’s elbow found my ribs. “Smile,” she hissed.
So I did, though it was closer to a grimace. “How… generous. Alas, I fear I am still recovering from my illness.”
The words tasted like chalk, but I delivered them with all the tremulous sweetness of a convalescent lamb. If I’d learned anything from my time in polite society, it was that men like these preferred their women wan and grateful. Or, failing that, too polite to laugh in their faces. My smile wobbled at the corners. But if either of them noticed, they took it for an invitation rather than irony.
“That makes two of us,” the orchard-owner purred. “But my remedy is swift—a glass of Canary, taken in pleasant company.” He leaned so close I could count the stitches in his embroidered doublet.
Another voice cut through the air. “Stand aside, you jackanapes. You press too near.”
The courtiers fell back a step, muttering, as a tall man shouldered through their circle. His skin was bronzed from sun and salt air, his dark hair tied back loosely, his coat plain compared to the peacocks around him. He moved with the easy balance of a sailor more at home on deck than in a gallery.
My breath caught. “Hollingsworth?” The name flew from me before I could stop it.
His head snapped toward me, brows lifting in surprise. For the briefest moment, he looked as startled as I felt.
Of course it was him. Or rather, it should have been. The same angular jaw, the same confident carriage, even the same sardonic gleam in the eye. But the hair was darker, sun-touched and threaded with gray, and he bore the weathered look of a man a decade older than the Hollingsworth I knew. Still, the resemblance was uncanny enough to make my breath hitch. What trick of fate—or bloodline—had placed a man with that face in the court of Charles II? I stared, half-expecting him to vanish like a mirage, and wholly unprepared for the slow, knowing smile that curved across his lips.
