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Cordelia blinked her tears back inside. “Well I do think I’ve been foolish, and I won’t see you throw away a chance at a good marriage.”
“I don’t plan to marry anyway,” Lucy said. “Mother said no man would risk having children with my disfigurement.”
Cordelia nodded toward the room. “William Darby would.”
Lucy followed her sister’s gaze to where William spoke with Nick. “I’ve already decided I’d rather minister to lepers than marry William.”
“Lepers?”
“Mmhm.”
“Thatisrather telling,” Cordelia said, both of them looking out toward the room.
Lucy’s inhale stuttered as Greer walked back into the Great Hall. Her heart picked up a faster beat, and her stomach flipped. He was so dratted handsome in his bright plaid and crisp white tunic, which he’d fixed after she’d dismantled him in the wine room. His hair lay flat even though she’d run her fingers through it, and his mouth looked hard again even though she knew how soft and teasing it could be on her mouth and skin. Just thinking about the slight brush of his short beard on her breast made her nipples pearl with a shiver. Thankfully her stays hid them.
“Either you didn’t ravage him very much, or he’s fixed himself,” Cordelia said.
Lucy held her hand over her mouth as she laughed, and she saw the corners of her sister’s mouth raise.
Greer’s gaze moved about the room. When he met Lucy’s, he paused. She kept her polite smile in place, still irritated over his suspicion of her, no matter how guilty she looked. The tether between their gazes was a tight cord that plucked sensation through her body. How could he affect her so easily from that distance? It made her knees feel soft.
Whack. Cordelia hit Lucy’s arm. “At least hide your affection or you’ll be the subject of every jest here at court when he leaves.”
Lucy tore her gaze from Greer’s intense eyes and stepped out into the room. She held her scepter over several ladies who looked like they needed to be kissed.I should hold it over myself. Would Greer kiss her again, or had she ended anything between them by not revealing Simmons’s plan?
“Lady Cranfield?”
Lucy turned to look at Mistress Catolina Wakefield, the woman from the wine cellar. The prosperous businesswoman was dressed in what was probably her best gown of gray silk.
“Good eve, Mistress Wakefield.”
The woman lowered into a curtsey as if Lucy were the queen herself. Lucy squeezed the lady’s arm. She’d met with her several times at Cranfield House as they made plans for pulling their moneys to buy a ruined monastery owned by the crown to the west of London. The lady, along with Richard Whitby and Simmons dreamed of owning land and becoming gentry. “I am so sorry about Richard Whitby,” Lucy said. Mistress Wakefield and Richard Whitby seemed close, making Lucy wonder if they were courting.
Mistress Wakefield sniffed softly and pulled a handkerchief to touch her nose. “’Twas quite a shock.”
“Will you and Simmons have enough moneys to apply to the queen on your own?”
She nodded. “With Jasper Lintel’s share, we should have enough to petition for it.”
Lucy frowned. “I do not know him. He’s not come to our meetings.”
“He came into the plan last month. A gentleman in Ireland but not in England. He has had to make ends meet by serving at the Bear’s Inn. To use the title, which he did before, he must own land here.”
Lucy thought of the man she’d seen briefly leaving Cranfield House when they’d arrived with Pip and Percy. Tall, slender, shaved chin, and heavy brows. “Well, perhaps he will come for Twelfth Night. The queen will want to meet all those involved in the request.”
Mistress Wakefield nodded, but her eyes grew wide as she looked over Lucy’s shoulder.
Lucy turned and stopped short. Greer was standing right behind her.
*
Greer dragged hisgaze from Lucy’s luscious lips.Bloody hell.He had a mission and yet he’d rather look at Lucy, even when she frowned at him. And he deserved to be frowned at. Kissing her and then asking her if she were the assassin. But those damn lips were irresistible, and Simmons had said some damning things.
Greer looked past her at the woman he’d seen hurrying with Richard Whitby and another man from Cranfield House that first night. “Ladies,” he said, bowing his head like he was one of Elizabeth’s proper courtiers. They nodded in return.
“Mistress Wakefield,” Lucy said, indicating the woman, “this is Master Buchanan from Edinburgh. He’s hunting assassins.”
The woman blinked several times and didn’t quite look like she could breathe. “I didn’t assassinate poor Richard Whitby. He was a good friend.”
