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on their whims.”

      Celia glanced at the Queen in surprise. Elizabeth so seldom spoke of the difficult past. Why would she now, and to Celia of all people? “Your Grace?”

      “I know how you must feel, Mistress Sutton. We are alike in some ways, I think. And that is why I sense that I can ask a great favour of you.”

      Ask? Or demand? “I will do anything I can to serve Your Grace, of course.”

      Elizabeth tapped at the papers again. “You have heard the recent rumours surrounding my cousin Queen Mary, I am sure. She always seems of such acute interest to my courtiers.”

      “I—well, aye, Your Grace. I sometimes hear tales of Queen Mary. Is there a specific rumour you refer to?”

      Elizabeth laughed. “Oh, yes, there are many. But I refer to the fact that she intends to marry again. They say she has hopes of a union equal to her first with the King of France. I hear she has her sights set on Don Carlos of Spain—King Phillip’s son.”

      “I have heard such rumours as well, Your Grace,” Celia said. She had also heard Don Carlos was a violent lunatic, but even a reputed great beauty like Queen Mary seemed willing to overlook that for the chance to be Queen of Spain.

      Elizabeth suddenly slammed her fist down on the desk, sending an inkwell clattering to the floor. “That cannot be! My cousin cannot make such a powerful alliance. She is menace enough as it is. I have suggested she should marry an English nobleman. I must have someone I can trust in her Court.”

      “Your Grace?” Celia said in confusion. How could she assist in such a task?

      Elizabeth lowered her voice to a whisper. “I have a plan, you see, Mistress Sutton. But I will need help to see it carried off.”

      “How can I help, Your Grace? I know of no candidates for Queen Mary’s hand.”

      “Oh, I will take care of that, Mistress Sutton. I have the perfect candidate in mind—someone I can trust completely. I cannot say who just yet, but I promise you will know all you need to soon.” The Queen sat back in her chair and reached for one of the papers on her desk. “In the meantime my cousin, the Countess of Lennox, who is Mary’s cousin as well, petitions for her son Lord Darnley to be given a passport to visit his father who is now resident in Edinburgh.”

      Celia nodded. She knew well of the Countess’s petition, as Lady Lennox had made certain indiscreet confidences to her in the last few days. Lady Lennox hoped that once Queen Mary met Lord Darnley, who was tall, blond and angelically handsome, she would marry him and make him King of Scotland. His own royal lineage would strengthen Mary’s claim to be Elizabeth’s heir.

      Celia was not so sure such a plan could work, hinging as it did on Lord Darnley. Even she could see, from her brief time at Court, that he was a drunken braggart under his pretty exterior, and rather too fond of men.

      “Yes, Your Grace,” she said.

      “It appears Lady Lennox has made a friend of you in these last few days.”

      “Lady Lennox has been welcoming to me. But she tells me little except that she misses her husband.”

      “I have been reluctant to let Lord Darnley travel north,” Elizabeth said. “He seems the sort it is best to keep an eye on. But Lord Burghley counsels, and I concur, that we should allow him this passport now. He will depart for Scotland in a week’s time.”

      “So soon, Your Grace?” Celia was surprised anyone could travel now. It was the coldest winter anyone could remember, with the Thames frozen through. Sensible people stayed home by their fires.

      “I think time is imperative in this matter,” the Queen said. “And Lord Darnley seems eager to go. I wish for you, Mistress Sutton, to be one of the travel party.”

      Celia tried not to gape at the Queen like a country lackwit. She had no idea what to say or even how to calm her jumbled thoughts. She—go to Scotland? “I fear I do not quite understand how I could help you in Edinburgh, Your Grace.”

      Elizabeth gave an impatient sigh. “You will serve Queen Mary as a lady-in-waiting—a gift from me. I need a lady’s close eye on matters there, Mistress Sutton. Men are all very well for certain things, of course, and Burghley will have his spies in the party. But a woman sees things men are blind to—especially when it comes to other women. I need to know Mary’s true thoughts concerning her possible marriage. And I need to know if she is … persuadable in that regard.”

      “And you believe I can do that?” Celia said carefully.

      Elizabeth laughed. “I am sure you can. I have been watching you these last few days, Mistress Sutton, and I see how you notice everything around you. How you observe and listen. I need someone like that. Not a preening Court peacock who sees nothing but the cut of their own coat. It is vital that I know everything my cousin does right now. The security of our northern borders depends on her marital choice.”

      Celia nodded. She knew how unpredictable the Scottish Queen could be. Everyone knew that. And Celia did watch and listen; it was the only way for a woman alone to survive. She also knew how limited her own choices were. With no money or estate of her own, and no husband or family to lean on, she was dependent on the Queen’s favour.

      Better that than the cold charity of her in-laws.

      “You would be rewarded for your efforts, of course,” the Queen said. “As soon as Queen Mary’s marriage is settled satisfactorily and you have returned to our Court you shall have a marriage of your own. The finest I can arrange, I promise you, Mistress Sutton. And then you will be settled for life.”

      Celia would rather have an estate of her own than another husband. In her experience husbands were useless things. But for now she would take what the Queen offered—and renegotiate later.

      “What would be a—a satisfactory settlement?” she asked.

      Elizabeth smiled and slid a folded letter from under the ledger on her desk to give to Celia. “This will tell you all you need to know, Mistress Sutton. I intend to propose my own marital candidate to Mary. When you have messages to send to me, you may give them to my own trusted contact and he will see they reach me quickly.”

      Celia tucked the letter into her velvet sleeve. “Contact, Your Grace?”

      “Aye. You can meet him now.” Elizabeth gestured to the major-domo, who bowed and disappeared through a door tucked into the panelling. He returned in only a moment, followed by a tall, lean man clad in fashionable black and tawny velvet and satin.

      John Brandon. It was him she had seen before. He was no illusion. Celia half rose at the sight of him, and then fell back onto her stool. She felt cold all over again.

      His eyes—those bright sky-blue eyes she had once loved so much—widened when they glimpsed her. For a fleeting instant she saw a flare of emotion in their depths. A hint of a smile touched his lips. But a veil quickly fell over those eyes, and she could read nothing there but fashionable boredom. He gave no signs of recognising her at all.

      “Ah, Sir John, there you are,” Queen Elizabeth said. She waved him forward, holding out her hand for him to bow over. He gave her an elaborate salute and a flirtatious grin that made her laugh.

      “Your Grace outshines the sun itself,” he said. “Even in the midst of the winter you send us warmth and light.”

      “Flatterer,” the Queen said, laughing even harder.

      Celia remembered that smile all too well, and how it also had made her laugh and blush whenever he turned it in her direction. Back then it had been half hidden in a close-cropped beard. Now he was clean-shaven, the sharp, elegant angles of his chiselled face revealed and the full force of that smile unleashed.

      From the corner of her eye Celia saw some of the young ladies-in-waiting sigh and giggle. Yes, she remembered very well that feeling—that sense of melting under the heat of his smile. But that had been long ago, and she

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