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Lucy turned to Greer. “When were you talking about me to Cordy?”
“When I stopped by your room this morn, but ye were with Darby.” Greer stared out at the coop. He exhaled. “When he was inspecting your battle wounds, telling ye to hide them.”
He crossed his arms. “Even so, he quite clearly loves ye. He will profess his love, asking ye to wed. Because ye are insecure about your scars, ye will probably say yes to his proposal. Your sister will be happy that ye are marrying an Englishman. Ye will live your days in comfort and luxury at the court, while sneaking out to feed the hungry and rescue animals.”
She didn’t make a sound as anger licked up inside her. Her relaxed face pinched, her eyes narrowing when Greer looked back at her. “You think you can deduce the complexity of my life into simple predictions.” She poked him hard in the chest. “I am not so easily seen; no one is. And your coolness about it makes you arrogant.” She poked him a second time. “Of all people, I would think that you’d know nothing about me is predictable.”
“You haven’t told Simmons about Richard?” Cordelia’s voice cut in before Greer had time to reply to her scorn.
“Richard is dead?” Simmons had followed Cordelia and William outside into the snowy yard. “I cannot believe it.”
With one last scathing look, Lucy turned away from Greer, hurrying back to the butler, who was more like a family friend. “I didn’t want to ruin your meal, sir,” she said, taking the old man’s hands in her gloved ones.
Simmons’s gaze slid over the snow and dead plant fronds.
Greer walked up to them. “What was Richard Whitby doing here the night we brought the dogs?”
“Master Buchanan,” Lucy said, “he has just had a startle of the most grievous kind.”
“And ye know, Lady Lucy, that I am investigating this murder to find the assassin before the queen is injured.”
Simmons lifted his gaze to him but then looked away as if nervous. “I had some friends come by for a nip of brandy.” He looked at Lucy. “Your mother would have allowed it at Christmastide.”
“Of course,” Lucy said, whether her stern mother would have allowed it or not.
“So the other man and woman are also friends of yours?” Greer asked, digging into the distraught man.
“Yes,” Simmons said, again not looking at Greer as he answered.
“Richard Whitby, visiting with your butler for a nip of brandy?” William asked, obviously not believing him. “He lived at court.”
Simmons shuffled his feet. “We were friendly before his position there.”
Simmons looked at Lucy. “What happened to him?”
“Poison,” William said, making Lucy frown at the abruptness of the word.
Lucy squeezed the elderly man’s hand. “We think it was poison meant for the queen. Richard was elected the Lord of Misrule and was sampling everyone’s wine and sweets at the Christmas feast.”
Simmons let out a sad huff. “That man couldn’t turn away from a treat.”
“I’m fairly certain it was arsenic powder,” William said with confidence.
“Really, William,” Cordelia said. “The details are not helping poor Simmons.”
“Pardon,” he murmured.
“And now,” Cordelia continued, walking closer, “our very own Lucy is the Lady of Misrule.” She glanced at the sky. “Who should be heading back to Whitehall to change into the brightly festive gown to play the jester.”
“Is there one?” Lucy asked.
Cordelia smiled. “I have found you something that could do, and Margaret and Anne have altered the jester hat into a type of hood.”
“I can make you a scepter,” William said.
Lucy threw her arms around the old man. Simmons was stiff but didn’t pull away. “I am sorry,” she said and leaned near his ear. “I will still help you and Lady Wakefield with your plans.” Their scheme was a delicate one, but she wouldn’t let him give up his dream.
He nodded. “Don’t you eat or drink anything there,” he said as she pulled away. “You can come back here to eat.”
