“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 the area.

Then she said softly, “It has been many years since I, too, left Lincolnshire. I scarcely remember it.”

She had indeed left quite young, as she appeared to be in her early twenties, not much older than me. I was relieved.

“And how do you find England,” I asked, “after so long an absence?”

Her eyes met mine-piercing, like a cat’s. “I hardly know. I am still a stranger here.”

At that moment Rochester called from behind the room’s curtain, “Majesty, His Excellency Simon Renard requests audience.”

Sybilla cast another enigmatic smile at me before she curtsied and returned to the ladies. As she sat beside Mistress Dormer, I saw the girl clutch her spaniel closer. Sybilla reached out to caress the dog’s ears. It did not snarl at her.

“Ah, Don Renard!” Mary beamed as a trim man in somber black came into the room. “Am I late for our appointment?”

“Majestad.” The Emperor Charles V’s envoy, Simon Renard, raised her hand to his lips. “If you are not ready for me, then it is I who must be early.”

As I saw Mary smile, I took a moment to gauge the ambassador. He had the effortless carriage of a career court official, with everything about him-from his perfect spade-shaped beard to his polished shoes and manicured doublet of expensive black velvet-denoting a man accustomed to moving in circles of high power. He was of moderate height, unimpressive physically, but his small brown eyes were discerning in his modestly handsome face, and I noticed how he scanned the room with expert dissimulation, taking note of each of its occupants, including me.

This was a man who might appear at ease but was always on his guard.

Mary pouted. “I’ve been looking at samples all morning and having quite a time of it. I do so want to look my best when the time comes. What do you think of this?” She thrust the plum velvet sample at him. “Master Beecham says it suits, and my ladies seem to agree. But will His Highness like it?”

Half-glancing at the cloth, Renard froze. Mary seemed utterly unaware of what she’d just said aloud, but as the ambassador shifted his hooded gaze to me, I understood. The portrait in the corner that the queen’s lady had hastily covered: It was of Philip, the emperor’s son, and this preoccupation about her apparel-it must have something do with the prince as well. Was Mary seeking the right hue for her wedding attire?

“Any shade would suit Your Majesty, though I find this one a bit dark.” Renard straightened his shoulders. “You say this … gentleman here selected it for you?” He turned to me. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

Mary blinked in evident disappointment that he hadn’t endorsed my choice, obliging her to return to the tedium of looking through more samples. She barely hid her dejection as she said, “Don Renard, this is Daniel Beecham. You recall my mentioning him to you before? He’s the one Cecil sent with the warning that Robert Dudley was coming after me. Because of his message, I was able to escape to Framlingham Castle, gather my troops, and defeat Northumberland.”

“Ah, yes.” The ambassador’s practiced smile did not touch his eyes. “So, this is the mysterious Master Beecham. I understand you undertook significant risk to assist Her Majesty in her time of need.” He paused. “Do you still work for Secretary Cecil?”

Mary’s terse look indicated she was as interested as Renard in my answer.

I shrugged with deliberate nonchalance. “I left his employ some time ago. Given his reduced circumstances, he could no longer afford my services.”

“I see.” Renard’s stare bored at me. “And these services consisted of…?”

I paused, glancing at the queen. As far as I was concerned, what had gone between us remained confidential. I had no idea how much she had told Renard.

“If Her Majesty would grant me leave, I’d be happy to elaborate,” I said. “Though given our present company, I fear it would make for tedious conversation.”

“I doubt that,” said Renard sharply, but Mary let out a guffaw.

“Now, now, Don Renard,” she chided. “Not everyone from the past is a potential enemy. Master Beecham may have served the duke’s secretary, but so did many others, and with far less integrity, I might add. I have assured him he’s welcome here.” She went silent, her brow creasing. “Perhaps we might find him a position on your staff? You, of all men, are best positioned to appreciate his talents.”

Renard’s smile vanished. The opportunity was too perfect to pass up.

“I do have experience working for men of distinction, Excellency,” I offered, “and I am literate in several languages, including Spanish.”

I was, too, at least partially. I could only hope he’d not put me to the test.

“Is that so?” The ambassador’s tone was icy. “As impressive as it sounds, I regret to say I’ve no need for another English clerk at this time.”

No, I thought, clerks, especially English ones, tend to gossip; and it would not do for there to be more speculation concerning his dealings to betroth Mary to Philip.

“Begging Your Excellency’s pardon, but I do not seek a post as a clerk. Unlike most men, I prefer to work outside confined spaces. Perhaps we could come to an arrangement?”

Renard regarded me with slitted eyes. He’d not expected me to press my suit so boldly.

Mary said, “Indeed. And I owe him a debt I wish to repay.” Her insinuation was not lost on Renard. While he’d clearly rather see me cleaning cesspits, he could not gainsay the queen. He inclined his head to her. “I am your devoted servant.”

“Good. I’ll leave you to settle it.” Mary motioned to her women. “Now, I must change for the council meeting. Don Renard, wait for me. We’ve business to discuss beforehand. Master Beecham,” she said, as I bowed once more, “it’s been a pleasure. I hope we’ll have the chance to meet again. You must let me know how you get on in your new post.”

Without awaiting my response, she swept through an opposite doorway, her women behind her, the little fleet of dogs yipping at their heels.

All of a sudden, I was alone with the ambassador.

“It seems you’ve more talents than I supposed,” Renard remarked.

“And I hope to employ them all in Your Excellency’s service,” I replied.

“We’ll see about that. Shall we say tomorrow, at around nine?” It was not a request. As I lowered my head, he abruptly crossed the space between us to seize my hand. He had an unexpectedly strong grip, more suited to a sportsman than one who made a living with his quill. “No need for that,” he said. “We’re just ordinary men who wish to serve, yes?”

I stepped back. His cordial words were anything but. He’d been maneuvered into a position of compliance, and he didn’t like it. But I had achieved my aim. I now had the chance to infiltrate his office and discover his plans.

“Rochester can give you directions,” he added, moving to the queen’s sideboard. He poured himself a goblet from the wrought-silver decanter. He did not offer me one.

It was a dismissal. I had already turned to leave when a voice said, “Master Beecham?”

I looked over my shoulder. Sybilla stood in the doorway of the queen’s private chambers, a folded paper in her hands. “Her Majesty is holding a banquet tonight for the Hapsburg delegation and hopes you can join us.” She gave me the paper, stamped with the royal seal. “This invitation from her will secure you a seat,” she explained.

As I took the note, I felt her fingertips graze mine.

Renard drew in an audible hiss of breath.

“Until tonight,” murmured Sybilla, and she retreated.

I did not realize I was still looking at the empty doorway through which she’d disappeared until the ambassador said coldly, “Are you also in the market for a noble-born wife, Master Beecham?”