Page 23 of A Murder on London Bridge
“Yes, of course.” I turned to my new friend. “Forgive me, Lord Hollingsworth.”
His eyes flickered with … something. Amusement, perhaps. Or curiosity. I could not tell. Before I could puzzle it out, he bowed smoothly and kissed my hand, a twinkle in his eyes. “Until next time, my lady.”
The steward glared at him until he let me go.
I followed the steward back to the withdrawing room with Anne trailing behind. My heart still hammered when the door shut close.
“The courtiers circle like crows,” Anne muttered, tugging my sleeve straight. “Best keep your wits, my lady. Some seek favor, some seek fortune. But all will take what they can.”
Her words chilled me more than the suitors’ advances. If I were to survive in this court, I would need more than borrowed satin and a fever-borne excuse. I would need allies, and I would need them quickly.
“What about Hollingsworth?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Keep him close. A man like that—steady, sharp, and not dazzled by silk and titles—you’ll not find many of his sort here.”
I nodded, though a hundred questions still tangled in my mind. He wasn’t my Hollingsworth. But there was strength in him, and kindness, too, hidden beneath the salt and steel. In a world where everything felt unfamiliar, he was the closest thing to solid ground.
And for now, that would have to be enough.
CHAPTER 12
MURMURS OF TREASON
After the queen, pleading weariness, dismissed her attendants early that evening, Anne guided me from the withdrawing chamber into the long gallery beyond, where the air was cooler and the rushlights guttered in their sconces.
How different the gallery seemed now. With Hollingsworth beside me it had felt almost a refuge, the hush companionable. Tonight, stripped of his presence, the silence pressed like a weight, broken only by whispers sharp enough to cut.
A group of courtiers lingered near the windows, their laughter hushed, as though secrecy were a sweeter wine than the claret in their goblets.
As we neared, one of the men broke away and bowed with a mocking flourish. His satin sleeves brushed the floor as a jeweled pomander swung at his waist. “The queen’s new pet,” he said in a voice loud enough to carry. “Tell us, sweet dove, do you whisper in Her Majesty’s ear as she prays to Rome?”
I froze, my pulse hammering, even as laughter rippled through the knot of men.
Anne tugged my sleeve. “Best we pass quickly, my lady.”
But I lingered, drawn by the low murmur of voices—a sound less like conversation and more like conspiracy. The other men stood close together, their powdered heads bowed, shadows flickering across their faces in the wavering light.
Whispered snippets reached my ears.
“…she weakens him, the Portuguese witch…”
“…the Queen bears no sons—nor daughters either.”
“A barren womb is no foundation for England’s crown.”
“…Arlington has the papers—sealed under the rose…”
“…ships at Dover…a bargain struck…”
“…the King blind as ever, too besotted to see…”
Each phrase reached me in tatters, carried on the breath of wine and malice, but together they painted a picture that chilled my blood.
Another voice, smoother, edged with pride: “There are maids of Protestant virtue enough—one nearer than most would guess. A girl fair, obedient, bred to please a king. My own would serve England better than any Portuguese papist.”
A murmur of approval followed, low and dangerous, like the rustle of silk over steel.
“Speak softer,” another hissed. “Walls have ears.”
