grey expanse of sea. How could he refuse? The claims of friendship and the protection of a gentle lady were his two greatest weaknesses. So, he had written back to Marc, stating that he expected this new baby to be named Nicholas if a boy, Nicola if a girl, and set out to meet Dona Elena Maria Velazquez, the new Duchess de Bernaldez.
And he found that his friend quite underestimated his mother. Yes, she was sweet and lovely, but the convent had not softened her core of iron. Her current mission was to see Nicolai wed to one of her ladies by the end of their time in England, and she was most determined. His protests that he led an aimless, mercenary life, most unsuited to fine ladies, made not a whit of difference.
“A good wife would settle you, Nicolai, make a home for you, as Julietta has for my son,” she said. “Do you not desire a family?”
Fortunately, he was saved from her matchmaking by a round of seasickness that overcame Dona Elena and many of her ladies. He did not have time to fend her off and plan for their troubled mission in England!
Ostensibly, he was meant to be a sort of Master of the Revels to the Spanish party, devising entertainments to impress the English Court and the French, to show off Spanish wealth, piety and strength in the face of all their challenges. His years as a travelling player and acrobat would stand him in good stead in such a task, and in his less obvious assignments as well. Not only was he to protect Dona Elena and her new husband, he was to keep an eye out for the interests of the Tsar of Russia. Tsar Vasily III had seen much success in his new trading schemes with the East, and now thought to expand westward as well.
Tricky, indeed, to balance France, Spain, England, Venice, Russia on an acrobat’s tightrope. And a far cry from the pleasurable winter he had once envisioned! But it was blood-stirring, as well. Masqueing was his life’s work, and there was none better at it than he was. This English meeting was a challenge greater than any he had faced in a long time, and he was ready for it. And, if he had his way, it would be his last dangerous mission, as well.
Nicolai reached for the sheath at his waist and drew out a dagger, balancing it on his gloved palm. The emerald in the hilt gleamed in the pale light, glinting with a silent threat—a promise—that had yet to be answered.
He tossed it lightly into the air, catching it so he could see the tiny lily etched into the finely honed steel. He carried the dagger everywhere, a reminder that once he had met the notorious Emerald Lily, the shadowy French assassin feared throughout Europe. Met her—and bested her, though more by luck than any great skill on his part.
He never spoke of that strange night in a Venetian brothel to anyone, not even Marc and Julietta. For one thing, except for this dagger, he could not be sure it was not a dream. For another, he could never convey the power those eyes, as green as this emerald, held over him, from the first moment he glimpsed them through the smoke and haze of that whorehouse’s common room.
She was beautiful, truly, like an angel or a fairy with that silvery hair, yet her allure that night was far more than mere loveliness. A thousand women possessed that. It was those eyes. So hard, so cold, yet with a spark underneath that could not be extinguished.
It was foolish of him to leave her alive, to show a mercy that was so unlike him, and that she would never have shown him. The Emerald Lily was rumoured to be ruthless, and she would not take well to being made a fool of. She would come after him again one day, probably when he least expected it.
Perhaps that was what made him leave her there, trussed up on the rumpled bed. The knowledge—or was it hope?—that they would one day meet again. She would want her dagger back, after all.
The trouble was, another meeting would surely leave one or both of them mouldering in the grave.
Nicolai tossed the blade in the air again, catching it with a light twirl of his fingertips. Until that fateful day, he had more to worry about than beautiful, green-eyed killers.
And his chief worry was coming toward him right now.
Dona Elena appeared on deck, followed by two of her ladies who had recovered from their mal de mer. She certainly seemed the pious Spanish matron, her coffee-brown hair, only lightly streaked with silver, smoothed back beneath a pearl-edged, veiled cap, garnet-crusted cross clasped around her throat. A black cloak covered her dark red gown, shielding her from the salty wind, and her gloved hands held a gilt-edged prayer book. But her soft brown eyes were full of determination.
Her son, Marc, surely got that from her. The Velazquez family always got their own way.
“Ah, Nicolai, there you are!” she said, joining him at the rail. “The captain says we will without doubt make land today.”
Nicolai gestured toward the horizon, where towering, stark white cliffs were just peeking through the mist. “At any moment, Dona Elena.”
“Thanks be to God.” She quickly crossed herself. “This voyage has not been enjoyable.”
“It is seldom a good idea to set out in the middle of winter.”
Elena sighed. “Especially for someone as accustomed to the comforts of land as me! I know Marc would have preferred I stay at home in Madrid and wait for Carlos to return, yet he does not understand. He and his wife are always together now, but it has been a long time since I enjoyed the pleasures of marriage.” She frowned, and Nicolai knew all too well what was coming. “The comforts of a home, Nicolai, are inestimable. If you only knew the great benefits…”
By the time he had fended her off, and sent her and her ladies below decks to finish their packing, the ship had drawn closer to the rocky shore, those cliffs looming like a stark white welcome.
The rough sea voyage was ending at last, yet Nicolai feared his travails were only just beginning.
Chapter Three
Marguerite sat bundled in her cloak at the back of the barge as they made their way along the Thames, her sable-edged hood eased back so she could observe the scenery as it glided past. The English were so proud of their little river, lined with the estates of their nobles! Their escorts, a brace of Henry’s courtiers sent to guide them to Greenwich, gestured toward stone towers and brick halls, declaring them the abodes of the Carews, the Howards, the Poles.
Marguerite sniffed. If they could only see the vast, fairy-tale spires of the châteaux along the Loire! They would not be so quick with their boasts then, these swaggering English boys.
She had to admit, though, they were handsome enough. Rumour said that Henry enjoyed being surrounded by young people, full of energy and fun and high spirits, and their escorts seemed to confirm that. Tall, strong men, bright-eyed, lavishly dressed—if not as stylish as Frenchmen, of course. Quick with a jest as well as a boast, and with a keen eye for a pretty face. Each of them had already bowed before her, and she was one of the least of the French party.
Still pretending to study the river, she actually watched them from the corner of her eye, those exuberant young men. If they were full of guile and trickery, as all men were, they hid it well. There was no hint of suspicion on their handsome faces, no flicker of deception in their laughing voices.
Her task here was either going to be easier than she expected, or far harder.
“Have you even been to England before, Mademoiselle Dumas?”
She turned to see that one of the English courtiers, the raven-haired Roger Tilney, had sat down beside her on the narrow bench.
She smiled at him. “Never. I have been to Italy, but not your England. It is fascinating.”
“Wait until we arrive at Greenwich, mademoiselle. The king has prepared a great surprise there, and there will be many entertainments every day from dawn until midnight.”
Marguerite laughed. “Many entertainments? And here I thought you men had most important business to see to!”
“One cannot work all the time, especially with such welcome distractions in sight.”
He