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They halted to let a wagon creak out into the road, and he met her suspicious gaze. “Because,” he said, “an intercepted letter originated from within Queen Elizabeth’s circle.”
Her eyes opened wider. “Who?” she whispered.
“Perhaps you know a Lady Cranfield?”
Chapter Two
“We went into the royal residence known as White Hall. It is truly majestic, bounded on the one side by a park which adjoins another palace called St James’s, and on the other side by the Thames, and it is a place which fills one with wonder, not so much because of its great size as because of the magnificence of its rooms which are furnished with the most gorgeoussplendour [sic].”
Moravian aristocrat and gentleman-traveler, BaronWaldstein,1598
Lucy turned tostone, right there on the cobblestones of King Street. “Lady Cranfield?” she whispered, feeling her stomach drop too far in her body. Had her sister, Cordelia, sent something to their friend, Maggie, that sounded like she was plotting murder? Surely not, knowing that they were watched very carefully by the queen’s spy master, Lord Walsingham.
She cleared her throat. “There are a number of Cranfields in London. Which one are you considering?”
“I have not seen the letter, but Lord Moray said it was signed by a Lady Cranfield.”
Lord help her. She must talk to Cordelia.
Lucy nodded her head toward the palace gates. “Welcome to Whitehall, Master Buchanan.”
Whitehall Palace was a sprawling estate made up of many structures, privy gardens, and parade fields, all of which butted up against the Thames. Even though Queen Elizabeth traveled on progress throughout the year, visiting the people of her realm, Whitehall was considered her seat or home since she was coronated fifteen years ago.
The pup was becoming heavier and heavier through the long walk. Lucy grunted as she shifted him to the other hip again. Both pups stared out at the people, animals, and basic mayhem of London. The one the Highlander carried rested along the man’s thick arm. Lord, was he as muscular everywhere? It was almost as distracting as his strong jawline and intense eyes. Strength was an obvious requirement for hunting assassins, but his rugged handsomeness must factor into his success at persuading ladies to talk.
Lucy huffed. “I need to put this pup down or my arms will never recover.”
“Take Darach’s reins,” he said. The black horse was massive like his owner. The Highlander lifted the dog from her arms, and she groaned, shaking the pain from them.
“We can leave them in the barn with your horse,” she said, “and I’ll take you to Lord Walsingham.”
She strode forward and right up to one of the palace guards at the gate. She presented her sweetest smile. “Henry Marr,” Lucy said.
“Lady Lucy.” The man grinned. “I barely recognize you in those rags.” He turned his gaze on the Highlander, and his smile retreated. “Who’s this? Did you bloody him?”
Greer rubbed his fist over his forehead, but the blood had dried.
“A misguided snowball,” she said. “Not thrown by me.”
“With a rock in it,” he grumbled.
A second guard, Giles Garner, walked out of the bailey, holding a matchlock musket while another one stood up high in the tower at the gate. “Good eve,” Lucy said, looking between the guards. “This is Master Buchanan, come on official business from Lord Moray in Edinburgh in the name of King James.”
“’Tis Christmastide,” Giles said. “There’s to be no business for twelve days.”
“Assassins don’t follow strict rules concerning festivities,” Greer said.
“You’re an assassin?” Giles frowned and raised his musket halfway.
Lucytsked. “Giles Garner, raising a musket before a lady of the court?” The firearm tipped back to the ground, and she smiled fondly at the guard. “He’s not an assassin.”
“How do you know?” Henry Marr asked, studying the Highlander with narrowed eyes.
“Do assassins carry puppies about?” she said.
“They could,” Greer Buchanan said.
“Aye, he’s right,” Giles said. “They could.”
