Tudor Rose Read online

  Sounded like rubbish to Avis. Valentyne didn’t display any of those qualities. Time for Avis to draw on the one thing she knew about the mysterious man.

  She tapped a little red paint onto her lips. “Perhaps it’s because my gentleman is from another country.”

  “Oh, well, there you are.” Valentyne straightened his back, causing the chair to creak loudly. “Other nations have their own philosophies when it comes to these matters.”

  Yes! Yes! Now they were getting close.

  “Interesting,” Avis said, and then added, “The French have a delegation in London, as do the Spanish.”

  Valentyne’s eye twitched and he went noticeably pale.

  Damn it. Avis had spoken too quickly, too eagerly, and didn’t know what specifically had caused the reaction. Was it the French? Or the Spanish?

  And by saying both she made it clear that she didn’t know which country her possible suitor was from … because he didn’t exist!

  She was no closer to finding out Valentyne’s lover’s name. Well, that wasn’t true.

  She knew that the man was either French or Spanish.

  “Dear boy, are you all right?” she asked, and, for the first time that afternoon, her concern was genuine. “You look ill.”

  “I’m fine, of course. Just worries for my sister’s heart finding their way to my constitution.” His voice had a little wobble and he suddenly looked smaller, like the little boy with whom she used to play dress up. How could she ask her darling brother to be involved—even tangentially—in this wicked business?

  Once again, Avis’s plans were knocked down due to an overactive conscience when it came to blood relations. She consoled herself with the thought that if she had manipulated Valentyne into revealing information she used in a blackmail scheme, she would basically have been relying on his help. And that would violate the queen’s edict regarding family assistance.

  Convoluted reasoning when the truth was simple: Avis couldn’t hurt Valentyne.

  No, she would have to find another way.

  Every man who catches even a glimpse of me wants to bed me, Sybille thought.

  Certainly, the servants hustling to-and-fro on their masters’ morning errands—especially that older valet who was graying at the temples with the neck like a cathedral pillar—must be eyeing her slightly scandalous, yet fashionable bare upper arms as she glided down the polished tiles of the palace’s longest hallway like an angel descended from heaven. Once again, Rose had labored late into the night hunkered down by the light of the low fire, updating the gown Sybille had arrived in from Gordonsrod. Rose had already raised the hemline and turned the round-cut collar into a low square. Her latest addition featured puffier sleeves that ended halfway down Sybille’s upper arms. Strong, confident, and yes, gorgeous, Sybille commanded attention with each purposeful step.

  What important palace business is she hurrying to this morning? she knew the poor sap mopping the floor with that citrusy-soap must wondering. An audience with the queen herself?

  Not the queen. Not yet.

  Sybille actually had a clandestine meeting arranged with Dorothie to discuss how Sybille might raise funds to enhance her gala evening, and that intrigue made her feel quite courtly indeed. Well, clandestine might be a bit extreme. After all the only person who would care about the meeting was Avis Scarcliff, and Sybille wouldn’t mind if she found out about it. Getting under that snobbish shrew’s skin was a joy unto itself.

  Sybille was also concealing the rendezvous from Rose—too much knowledge might start giving her friend unhealthy ideas about pursuing her own gala. To keep Rose busy, Sybille had instructed her to find material for a new gown for Sybille.

  The secrecy element had been a request from Dorothie (made through her maid), and Sybille saw no reason not to honor it for now.

  But as she blew into the drawing room like a powerful gale, Sybille found that Dorothie, seated in the same window seat as their last encounter, wasn’t alone. A tall, bulky girl perched next to her, their heads close together in conversation. The glass panes behind glowed with a thin frost the morning sun had yet to melt. At first, Sybille believed the dim light was responsible for the new girl’s odd skin. As Sybille got closer, however, she realized her face had been covered and re-covered in a layer after layer of powder.

  Neither girl stood when Sybille reached them, but they did offer polite nods. “Good morning, Dorothie,” Sybille said. Using her new courtly prowess, she conveyed a double meaning with her eyes: Can this other girl be trusted?

  In response, Dorothie glanced around in confusion.

  Sybille made her eyes wider while squinting at the corners. Surely this would make her meaning clearer?

  Now Dorothie just appeared alarmed. “What is it? Is something in your eyes? Or is a villain sneaking around behind us?”

  Sybille gave up and jerked a thumb toward the powder-faced girl. “Can I trust this one or not, for Christ’s sake?”

  “Oh!” Dorothie said with a little laugh. “Sybille Maydestone, I’m pleased to introduce Cicely Loveney. Lady Cicely’s father was a hunting companion of the late king. And not to worry, my dear. As long as you’re at odds with Avis Scarcliff she will be your very best companion.”

  Sybille nodded. “Then it sounds like we’ll be lifelong friends,” she said to the girl. “We’ll be … ” Sybille trailed off, fascinated by the streaked, uneven crusts of makeup. What could possibly be so awful about Cicely’s visage that she had to hide it under pounds of powder?

  Dorothie cleared her throat, and Sybille snapped out of it. “What did Avis do to you?” she asked.

  “She snubbed me,” Cicely said.

  Sybille waited for more about how Avis mocked her, maybe about her size or her appearance. So it was a surprise when Cicely offered an explanation in a loud, creaky voice. “Avis wore an orange broach.”

  Dorothie leaned back behind Cicely for a moment. Touched, she mouthed to Avis. Then out loud, Dorothie said, “Cicely is very effective to those in the palace who wish to accomplish their goals, such as yours. I’m surprised you don’t know her, Sybille.”

  “You do now,” Cicely creaked with a grin, blood-red lips stretched, creating disturbing dark trenches that crisscrossed her white-speckled cheeks like dried mud in a drought. “It’s true. I know everyone. And everyone owes me something.” A chunk of plaster loosened and dangled from under her left eye. “Soon you will, too.”

  Sybille shuddered. “Wonderful,” she said, looking away. Why had Dorothie invited this obviously deranged person to their encounter? “I’m going to need to rely on you, girls. I’ve still yet to find my way around and I need my marriage to Valentyne Scarcliff to go off effortlessly. I am going to surprise the queen with a spectacle never seen before—”

  “And you shall, no doubt,” Dorothie interrupted, standing and smoothing her dress, as if readying to depart. “I’m happy to apply my pen name ‘Kit’ to any script toward that cause. But for now, I must leave you two.”

  “What? Where are you going?” Sybille demanded.

  Dorothie threw her head back and laughed as if this were the wittiest quip ever uttered. “This will settle our score, I believe,” she said. “No more talk of jesters, if you please. No matter how your fortunes might fare this day.” Then with a small wave to Sybille and a wink to Cicely, she left the room.

  Sybille was proud of herself. The old Sybille, freshly emerged from that torturous carriage a week ago, would have simply walked off without another word, but Sybille knew there must be a reason Dorothie had introduced her to this living disaster.

  So, Sybille fought her instincts and decided to remain, maybe ask a few polite, courtly questions—perhaps just one, such as “How do you find the weather?”—before getting back to solving her problem of finding funds for her gala.

  Cicely beat her to the punch. “Do you enjoy gaming?” she asked in that creaky voice while clutching one of Sybille’s bare arms in a su
rprisingly strong grip. “You do now.”

  When Rose arrived at the fountain of the sea god for the third time since coming to London, she spotted Dorothie right away. Rose had asked the girl to meet her here, hoping for a little more privacy than the palace’s drawing room could provide.

  Balanced on the rim of the fountain as the water burbled and splattered behind her, Dorothie was performing some kind of pantomime for three little girls and a woman who appeared to be their nanny.

  She wore a simple royal blue jacket that provided a beautiful contrast to her flowing curls and accentuated her body as she made a large gesture for her tiny audience. She touched the stone to her left and then stood straight up shaking both hands in the air and then brought them down to the stone on her right.

  “You’re the sun!” the smallest girl shouted.

  Dorothie clapped happily. And then crouched down low and shot up, this time her two hands started as fist and slowly opened.

  “Now you’re a flower!” the same little girl cried.

  “Give someone else a chance!” an older girl said and gave her a shove.

  As Dorothie clapped again, she spotted Rose watching. She waved goodbye to the girls and signaled Rose to meet her on the other side of the fountain. When Rose reached her, they shook hands. Rose thought Dorothie’s smile seemed genuine. But who knew? She was an actress.

  Taking a seat on the fountain’s edge and patting the stone next to her for Rose to do the same, Dorothie asked, “Is there a reason you wanted to meet under the gaze of Poseidon?”

  So that’s who this is!

  “No,” Rose said, adjusting her dress to cover her ankles as she sat. “I just wanted to speak somewhere away from the prying eyes of the palace, some place we’d be alone.”

  “Oh, I didn’t come alone,” Dorothie said and pointed to a woman who was standing on the nearest street corner. “That’s my maid. I’d never be foolish enough to wander around London by … ” She blushed slightly, realizing where her sentence was going.

  “You’re very good at acting,” Rose said, deciding to rescue them from the awkward moment. “I’ve heard that being in court one has to be clever.”

  With a quick bow of her head, Dorothie said, “Thank you, I’ll accept your flattery because it’s accurate. But I’m getting the feeling you’re not being completely truthful in some way.” She angled her body more toward Rose. “What is this really about?”

  Rose smiled. “The fact that you can see through me, just proves my inadequate talent. I’ve never been good at acting.”

  She thought of the game of Beggar’s Bluff that was popular for one summer back in Gordonsrod—other players had to guess which of your three statements was a lie. Only on the rainiest of days and only if all other options had been exhausted would Sybille agree to play, and when they did Sybille always won, without exception. Yes, Sybille was her closest friend making her especially hard to fool, but even when they roped Hughie or Howell into the game, Rose still lost.

  “Why is acting important to you?” Dorothie asked.

  Because, if my plan for my gala is to work, I’m going to have to lie to everyone about nearly everything for the next week and a half. But, of course, Rose didn’t say that. Instead she just shrugged.

  Dorothie studied her for a moment and threw up her hands in mock frustration.

  “Very well, keep your secret agenda!” She chuckled. “Your problem with acting might be that it’s not in your blood. I find professions or hobbies are similar to physical traits, like the Scarcliff bump, they can get passed down from one generation to the next as a kind of inheritance.”

  “Oh, perhaps that’s the problem,” Rose said, but didn’t volunteer anything further.

  “I see.” Dorothie sounded slightly annoyed at Rose’s constant evasion.

  To smooth things over, Rose said, “It’s just my parents weren’t really my mother and father.”

  No longer irritated but intrigued, Dorothie asked. “What were they? Puppets? Now that would be a feat of acting!” Obviously joking but still fishing for information, Dorothie leaned in. Rose saw no reason not to tell her this part of her life.

  “No, not puppets!” Rose tried joking back, but it came out flat. She took a breath and started again. “My mother and father were actually my aunt and uncle.” Or at least she thought they were. “I was born in Chelsea and they took me to their home in Gordonsrod. They were always very good to me, and in my mind, they were my parents.”

  “Well, that’s lovely, isn’t it?” Dorothie said, dabbing a teary eye with a handkerchief, and then in the same breath asked with a mischievous grin, “Does your gala have something to do with acting?”

  Rose slapped Dorothie’s arm in a friendly way and admitted, “Yes, it does.”

  “How?” Dorothie asked. “Is your gala a performance?”

  “I … I’m not sure yet.” Rose didn’t know exactly what her gala would be, but she had a very good idea. She was determined, however, that no one know what she was up to or what she might be plotting.

  “You know that acting is a form of lying, right?” Dorothie asked.

  “I never thought of that,” Rose responded, but she had. That was why she was here to learn to be better at both.

  As if reading her mind, Dorothie said, “Well, you’re not very good at either acting or lying.” Her tone was serious, and then she laughed happily. “Oh, not to worry that’s where an expert such as myself can assist you.”

  “Anything’s better than playing the fool, which is what I seem to doing here at the palace,” Rose said, trying to be humorous, but once again falling flat.

  Dorothie didn’t seem to notice. She reached into her purse and removed a leather-bound book. Rose caught a glimpse of the name Shakespeare on the cover. Flipping the book open to a page, Dorothie pointed at some lines and instructed, “Try reciting this. It’s by a young actor I know.”

  Rose read out loud in a voice that she hoped was actorly.

  Good Lord, what madness rules in brainsick men

  When for so slight and frivolous a cause

  Such factious emulations shall arise!

  Even as she spoke, Rose was aware that her flat insincerity and forced affectation were like fingernails on a sandy stone … grating.

  “Oh, my.” Dorothie closed the book.

  “I’m sorry,” Rose said, embarrassed. “And tell your friend who wrote this I’m sorry as well.”

  “No, no,” Dorothie said, the gleam coming back into her eyes. “Together we can do this. I have a trick that I want to share with you, something I’ve never shared with anyone. Before I do, however, I want proof that we are friends. I’ve spoken with Sybille about a certain guarantee, but now I want the same from you.”

  “Of course,” Rose said. “What would you like from me?”

  Dorothie patted her leg, and said, “Please no more mention of the night we first met and Avis’s welcome, not even a clever dig as you just made a moment ago. I value my head attached to my neck and want to keep it that way.”

  It seemed a fair bargain to Rose. “I’m not sure what you mean,” she said. “We came into the palace and found only a loving reception.”

  “Hmm, that acting is actually slightly improved!” Dorothie said happily. “With my device at your disposal you’ll be deceiving audiences in no time.”

  Rose would be doing a lot of that—or at least trying to—in the coming days.

  “And just so you know,” Dorothie said, “I’ll be helping all three of you as you prepare for the Challenge and will therefore avoid making enemies! I credit neutrality with getting me this far in court.”

  “I agree to your terms,” Rose said, eager to receive the promised help.

  “I have a shortcut I use to transform myself into a character. You might not have noticed this the first night … ” Dorothie was obviously setting up what she expected Rose to say next.

  “What night is that?” R
ose said coyly, with an over-exaggerated batting of her eyelashes.

  “Once again, your acting is better already!” Dorothie appraised, and continued, “When I’m on stage and having difficulty projecting a believable performance, I bring my small finger and my thumb together. It’s a way of connecting with that character and setting me free from myself. Does that make sense?”

  “I’m not sure.” Rose tried copying the move with her hand.

  With another pat on her leg, Dorothie said, “No, no, it has to be your own.”

  “What would my way of connecting be?”

  “Well, I don’t know, let’s figure it out. When you’re uncomfortable, what do you do? Take this book, get up on the fountain, and read the lines again for all to hear.”

  Rose didn’t get up, but Dorothie clapped. “There it is!” She mimicked what Rose was doing. Without realizing it, Rose had covered the birthmark below her lip with two fingers.

  “Sybille says I do that whenever I’m nervous.” Usually around a boy.

  “Well, now I want you to embrace that nervousness and don’t fight it,” Dorothie said. “It will be a way for you to connect with all those emotions in your performance.”

  Rose started to ask more questions, but Dorothie interrupted her.

  “I’m sorry, dear, I must fly,” Dorothie said and waved to her maid, signaling her that she was ready to leave. “Can I give you one last piece of advice? Remember that the palace has eyes … and that the audience is everywhere. If you are planning on putting on a performance, you can never break character until the play is over and you’re ready to take a bow.”

  Her majesty the queen’s father, Henry, had renovated Richmond Palace two decades earlier at enormous cost, installing hundreds of new windows, remodeling the royal family’s apartments, and ordering the construction of a special room just off the central interior courtyard. Of course, these facts were all things that Sybille would learn later. At the moment, as she and Cicely brushed past another attendant and ducked through a low doorway, she had no idea the purpose served by the odd, seemingly wasteful use of space.