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“Sneaking out of the house?”
“He was afraid I would be angered by the guests.”
Greer frowned, studying her. “We should return to Whitehall before ye’re missed.”
Nick scooped up a wiggly Pip in his arms and closed his eyes and mouth as the dog licked his face.
Lucy hugged Alyce and Catherine, scratched each pup, and closed the door behind Greer and her. Simmons was nowhere to be seen. “He’s probably gone to bed,” Lucy whispered.
“I would like to ask him some questions.” Greer’s gaze slid about each wall and corner.
Lucy shrugged. “We can return on the morrow.”
Greer tipped his head back under the chandelier in the entry. “Ye grew up in this house?”
“Yes. With my mother, father, Cordelia, and Simmons. Father died about ten years ago, which is when I think Mother became involved with scheming.”
“’Tis a rich home.”
“We are comfortable. Luckily the crown did not take it away from Cordy and me.”
They left Cranfield House, striding in silence along the snowy lane and turning up the road that would take them to King Street. The shadows didn’t seem sinister with Greer walking beside her. He was large and well-muscled. And that sword—
“Do ye think Simmons supported your mother’s treasonous cause?” Greer asked.
“What?” she said, the word sounding too loud in the quiet street where only a few drunks walked in haphazard lines.
“Your butler was close to your mother, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, but he seemed surprised that she was involved with Ridolfi and Norfolk.”
“Surprised or afraid of being caught?”
Lucy wrapped her arms around herself. “No one mentioned Simmons by name.”
“Your mother died before she could implement him.”
Lucy frowned at Greer. “Simmons confides things to me, and he’s never mentioned wanting to harm the queen.” she whispered.
Greer continued walking. “He is still on my list of possible assassins.”
“Well, that must be a very long list indeed,” she said. Was she on it? She opened her mouth to ask but closed it.
Giles stopped them at the gate, his brows rising when he realized it was Lucy in the hose and jerkin. “I was out feeding the poor who couldn’t find room at an almshouse,” she said.
“With him?”
She leaned in toward the man, ignoring the smell of onions on his breath, and smiled. “Can you think of a fiercer man to chase away the thieves? Apart from you of course.”
Giles snorted but grinned, waving them through. “Next time, ask me to accompany you, milady.”
She smiled but sighed softly as they walked across the bailey. “He will talk of this,” she whispered.
They strode past the posted guards at the doors of the palace and down the shadow-filled corridor.
“How now? Lady Lucy and a northern warrior.”
Lucy jerked around. Richard Whitby was born into the gentry, but his family no longer owned land. He’d risen in the court because Elizabeth found him humorous, and she’d chosen him as Lord of Misrule for the upcoming Christmastide. Master Whitby sauntered toward them, his cane wrapped in ribbons for his jester role. The elderly man had always worked at his humor, making it almost painfully forced, but he was pleasant and sincere.
