Even when I know better, I slip and think I can rely on at least one small piece of his information. All it does is put me on the back foot.
“And what does Latimer think of this?”
I go cold.
Mary’s ignored me this whole meeting. But the way she’s staring directly at me says she’s hoping I say…something.
Something Latimer’s real proxy would’ve known to say.
Ah, shit.
I take a step forward, shoulders back and chin high. Not all the way to the throne but so I’m not hiding behind any of the men.
Mary’s paused in her sewing, her fabric gone slack in her lap.
That earlier way she looked at me, flirty and giggly, is gone. She’s regal now, looking down her nose at me. Alyth, just beside the throne, is shooting me a glare.
“Your Highness.” I bow low. As I rise, I run through everything I recall being said about getting rid of Darnley.
And not just about Darnley but the way Mary reacted to what was said.
What support is she looking for?
But more than that—how best do I go about getting what I need out of this meeting, which is to figure out whether Mary’s actually got those fae items Cecil sent me after?
By the time I’m upright, my face is grim. “Lord Latimer is of a similar mind as Lord Bothwell.”
It’s a risk. A big one.
The man himself cocks his head at me, overly pleased. “Ah, Latimer always was smart,” Bothwell says.
Time for an even bigger risk.
My focus stays on Mary. “And my master believes we have evolved beyond the old ways of eliminating such obstacles and that surely Your Highness has resources for disposing of your husband in ways that would be far more…elegant.”
Talk about fae weapons you have, I want to shout. If you’ve got magic, now’s the time to use it.
Those lords still standing around me shift uneasily. I’m pushing her, and even if no one else really knows why, they all know my words are implying the queen’s holding something back.
Mary looks down at her sewing, plucks the needle through the fabric, and drags the thread out.
“You mention your master,” she continues. “Latimer, you mean, not the king, my husband?”
A muscle jumps in my brow, but the rest of me stays still. “Your Highness?”
“I have been told, secretary,” Mary says, still watching her sewing, “that you and my husband are on friendly terms.”
“I barely know the man, Your Highness.”
“That is not what was reported when he arrived earlier today.”
My hands ball against my back, and I force them loose. “He’s taken an interest in me, it seems,” I tell her, unaffected.
That makes Mary flare angry eyes at me. I have to brace not to react, the mood of the room tight with anticipation.
Instinct has my mind flooding with escape routes: the door at the rear of the room. Maybe I can pry open a window.
No chance I’d make it past this horde of loyal men, though, if Mary’s turned against me.
