The Spymaster's Daughter by Jeane Westin Read Free Book Online Page A

Leicester’s players.”
    â€œWomen are not players,” she said.
    â€œIf Her Majesty requests, they are players, my lady.”
    Her face showed no emotion at his answer, and he wondered at her resolve, at her composure beyond her years. Or was it indifference? Why did he think it, or wish it?
    As the curtains bounced about in the rocking coach, sunlight slanted in, lighting the hollows of her cheeks and throat. To his mind she was far lovelier than Lady Rich, whose life of being adored had left her face somewhat used and empty, a hollow beauty. This lady was alive with a curious intelligence and, he thought, quiet courage.
    He did not wonder that Sir Walsingham had kept his daughter from court, the lascivious court that Queen Elizabeth swore brought credit to her name because she chose to think so. The truth was always difficult for Her Majesty, if it wasn’t her truth. He could see at a glance that Lady Frances was a rather cheerless young woman, despite being married to the man every woman in the realm thought the greatest lover. If that were true, Lady Sidney’s face would not be so searching, looking for a thing she did not have, perhaps did not know.
    He would keep her in close sight during her time at court, where the titled hounds were certain to sniff out such delicious prey, especially the Earl of Essex, the leader of the pack. And if Robert had it in his power, he would bring a smile to her face when he could. But he would have to be clever. Lady Frances was a Walsingham born and would accept no pity. He didn’t know how he knew it, but he did.
    The spymaster had not ordered him to guard her past this day, but he would take that future task upon himself. He did not question this desire. He did not dare plumb why he cared. She was little more to him than a beautiful face, enough for most men. Still, she had luminous eyes that looked on him with understanding, and a voice that enveloped him even in this rattling carriage.
    He sensed that she was a woman who needed his caring. Later, he might question the wisdom of this decision, but he could notwhen she was turned to the window, the curve of her cheek showing a lonely melancholy that he understood as if it were his own.
    F rances knew Robert Pauley was watching her. That was his current mission. How wonderful to have a servant, a companion in truth, who played music and sang to her. It would lighten her heart. She must remember to thank her father.
    They rode on toward London and Whitehall, smelling the too-human scent of a crowded London and the river Thames long before they reached the city’s gate, plunging deep into the throngs of merchants, women with their maids and shopping baskets watched closely by thieves and doxies. Many houses along the way sported the greenery of a tavern serving the double ale allowed by the queen, although the more popular double-double had been banned, a prohibition that Frances doubted was strictly observed.
    Both Lady Frances and her servant were sunk profoundly deep into their own thoughts, avoiding any exchange that might reveal more than they already had. Once again they assumed the roles of mistress and servant only.

CHAPTER THREE

    â€œHe loves my heart, for once it was his own;
    I cherish his, because in me it bides…
.”
    â€”Astrophel and Stella, Sir Philip Sidney

    Late August
    W HITEHALL P ALACE , L ONDON
    F rances awoke with lines from one of Philip’s sonnets in her head. What had put them there?
    Last evening she had been busy settling into her new rooms, which were small but adequate, until she had gone to her new bedchamber and immediately slept, still with the sense of jouncing about in the carriage. Today she would face the queen for the first time as a woman. Taking a deep breath and with a final smoothing of her pale green satin gown and a tug of her brocade bodice, Frances walked into the anteroom of the royal apartments. She carried her head high, though she was