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The door closed.Daingead. Would they have to withstand listening to two lovers? He was still hard as Scottish stone.
“I can’t believe Richard is dead,” the woman said. “’Tis a sad shock. How could our plan have gone so wry, Simmons?”
Simmons? Plan?Greer could feel Lucy shift against him, trying to see, but they were up near the door.
“The court is a dangerous place.” Now Greer could easily recognize Lucy’s housekeeper’s voice.
“I would rather you return to Cranfield House for our further plans,” the woman said. “Jasper says he won’t be seen talking with us at Whitehall. That the three of us being together could be noted.”
“Cranfield House has children now, and I don’t want to involve Lady Lucy further,” Simmons said.
Greer’s breath stuck in his chest, the heat in his body turning cold.Involve Lady Lucy further?
“We need to move forward. That hasn’t changed since Richard died,” the woman said.
Greer heard bottles being dragged out of their tipped-over positions. “I will keep watch from the kitchens. We want nothing to happen to the queen until we’ve devised the best strategy.”
“Before Twelfth Night,” Simmons said. “Jasper says she’s at her most vulnerable while making merry.”
The two opened the door and walked back out quietly. Darkness fell over them once more.
Greer kept his hand shackled around Lucy’s wrist, turning to her in the tight aisle. “What did he mean,involve Lady Lucy any further?” His voice was rough, the heat turning to suspicion.
“I…I do not know,” she said, and she sounded truly perplexed. But she was an excellent liar.
He leaned toward her until he could tell her face hovered right before his, her back against the wall. “Lucy Cranfield, are ye working with Simmons and that woman to assassinate the queen of England?”
*
Lucy’s entire bodystood tense, her eyes wide even though it didn’t help her see. She blinked as if making sure they were open.
“No,” she said, feeling the closeness of Greer’s face. He held her against a wall, in a nearly sound-proof room where no one knew she was, but she wasn’t afraid. Not of Greer. “I am not plotting to kill the queen or anyone.”
Her palms lay against his chest, and she could feel his warmth through the tunic, and the rising and falling with his breaths.
“What were they talking about?” he asked.
She sighed. “If I tell you, you cannot tell anyone. Not yet.”
“Tell me,” he said.
“They are planning to petition the queen to allow them to own land together.” Her words came out in a rush. “Richard Whitby, Mistress Catolina Wakefield, Simmons, and I guess this other man with whom I have not yet been acquainted.” Her hand slid down his arm where it hung by his side, and she yanked at it, but couldn’t move it much. The man was a mountain of iron. “They asked me for advice, and I suggested they work through Richard since he was closest to the court.”
“Work through him to petition the queen?” Greer asked, and she could hear the doubt in his voice.
She frowned, jabbing him in the chest. “Don’t sound like that. Yes, to petition the queen. You know, not every plot about Her Majesty ends in her death.” She threw her arms out, knocking her bare knuckles against the wooden shelf. She gasped softly and pulled it back in to rub. “Why would they want her dead if they want her to grant them the ability to purchase some of the crown’s land?”
“They want land?” he asked, fumbling in the dark until he found her hand, rubbing his thumb across her bruised knuckles.
“Yes. Mistress Wakefield owns her late husband’s shop on Gracechurch Street. Master Whitby own’s his late wife’s small townhouse. Simmons owns nothing but has been saving his pay for years.” The more she spoke, the angrier she became.
She growled softly. “You suspected me, and still… We…” She poked him in the chest again. “You think I’d kiss you, and… well, more… That I would seduce you while also helping the assassins you’re looking for?”
She heard him exhale through his nose. “Assassins are known to be excellent liars.”
“Holy Mother Mary!” She shoved Greer’s chest, and he backed up, allowing her to charge off into the dark. She bumped a shelf, making the bottles rattle. “God’s teeth, where is the dratted door?”
“Don’t charge out there.” Greer’s voice came from behind somewhere, so she strode forward, her hands sweeping the dark.
