And like a fool, she had forgotten that. She'd allowed herself to see something else. She'd allowed herself to love him.

Miranda laughed aloud as she threaded her way through the narrow streets of Southwark. She laughed at the absurdity of someone like herself falling in love with a nobleman at the court of Queen Elizabeth.

She drew amused glances from the men hanging on street corners, waiting for the brothels to open up for the day's business. But apart from calling insults after her no one bothered her. A girl in a ragged orange dress, laughing aloud to herself, must be crazed. And, indeed, she had to be as mad as any bedlamite.

Stupid… stupid… stupid. But no more.

She found news of the troupe at a tavern on Pilgrimage Street. They'd stopped for dinner here but to Miranda's surprise hadn't paid for their dinner by performing for the tavern's customers as they so often did.

Instead, they'd paid in silver. The tavernkeeper remembered the little dog, and the crippled lad, and the large woman with the gold plumes in her hat. But she hadn't noticed whether they seemed cheerful or downhearted. Only that they'd talked of going to Folkestone.

Miranda made her way back over London Bridge. Where had the silver come from? The only explanation was so terrible she had to force herself to think about it. They couldn't have sold her for Judas's thirty pieces of silver? It wasn't possible. Unless the earl had told them some he… that Miranda herself wanted them to go, to leave her. Had he told them that Miranda herself no longer wanted to be associated with them? That she was moving up in the world and believed herself too good for her old associates?

Could he have done something as dastardly as that? But perhaps he'd threatened them. Threatened to have them arrested for vagrancy. He could do that easily enough. An earl's power was enormous when compared to the puny hand-to-mouth struggles of a troupe of strolling players. He could have threatened them, then bribed them with silver. Not even Mama Gertrude would have been able to resist that particular carrot and stick. They were powerless.

Miranda flew on wings of rage through the streets back to the Harcourt mansion. And she arrived just as Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, and her retinue landed by royal barge at the water steps.

Miranda had forgotten that the queen was to dine at Harcourt mansion. The guests were already gathered in the hall to make their obeisance to their sovereign and the musicians were already playing in the gallery of the dining hall, when she slipped into the house through a side door. She took a flight of back stairs and emerged into the upstairs corridor just as Maude, dressed in a gown of peacock-blue damask embroidered with golden daisies, came out of her bedchamber.

"Miranda! Where have you been? I haven't told anyone you weren't here. The queen has just arrived and I was going to take your place at dinner… I didn't know what else to do."

"You look wonderful." There was no way she could confront the earl at such a moment and Miranda pushed her own concerns aside, examining Maude with new eyes. Maude was looking radiant, vibrant, her eyes glowing. "You must take my place again," Miranda said, knowing that this was right. It wasn't intended, but it was right. "I can't possibly be ready in time."

Maude's own searching look took in her twin's unusual pallor, the shadows in her eyes. "What's going on, Miranda? Did you discover news of your family? Is it bad?"

Miranda shook her head. "I don't know. They've gone to Folkestone." She cocked her head, listening to the voices from below. "Quickly. You must be downstairs to greet the queen."

Maude hesitated. For the last hour, she'd been in a fever of impatience and uncertainty. She hadn't known whether she wanted Miranda to return in time to take her place downstairs, or whether she hoped she would come too late. But now the situation was resolved-it would take Miranda half an hour to get out of her gypsy dress and into a courtier's farthingale. There was no time for the transformation. And Maude realized to her shock that that was what she had really been hoping for.

"You're staying here, though, aren't you? You're not going anywhere?"

"Not tonight… Now, go, Maude."

Maude gathered up her skirts and hurried away without another word. As long as Miranda wasn't going to disappear again suddenly, Maude could enjoy this wonderful thrill of excitement and apprehension. For whatever reason, she was looking forward to the company of the duke of Roissy. It was only a game, of course. A purely temporary game.

She reached the hall not a moment too soon. The queen, on Lord Harcourt's arm, was entering from the garden doors. Maude dropped into a low curtsy, her heart hammering.

"Ah, Lady Maude." The queen stopped with a benign smile, and extended her hand. Maude kissed the long white fingers and swam upward, for the first time in her life meeting the gaze of her sovereign. She was too dazed for a minute to see more than a diffused sea of faces surrounding the queen, but the duke of Roissy stepped forward from his place on the queen's other side and offered his arm.

"My lady, may I escort you?"

Maude curtsied again but her tongue seemed thick and tied in knots. She laid her hand on the duke's velvet sleeve, and they fell in behind the queen and the earl, progressing to the dining hall between the lines of reverential guests.

Gareth hid his shock, but his mind was in turmoil, as he stood at the queen's chair, waiting for Her Majesty to be seated. Everyone stood until Elizabeth had settled into the carved armchair with its high back and her attendants had arranged her skirts. Then, with a rustle of silks and velvets, the guests took their places on the long benches and servitors bearing laden platters began to move around the tables. The lady of the bedchamber, whose responsibility it was to taste Her Majesty's food, sampled each platter before choice morsels were placed before the queen.

Gareth gestured to the butler to pass the wine flagons and the beautiful goblets of Murano crystal were filled with the rich tawny wine of Burgundy. Gareth struggled to keep his expression untroubled, his demeanor merely attentive to his guests' needs, nodding and smiling as the wine was approved. But beneath the calm exterior, a tempest raged.

Where was Miranda? He hadn't been fooled by the substitution for so much as a second, but he could see no sign that anyone else, including Henry, had noticed anything different in the Lady Maude. And, indeed, physically there was no difference. But there were little differences in mannerism that were obvious to Gareth.

Miranda illustrated her conversation with her hands, they were always moving. Maude's performed only the tasks necessary. Miranda's eyes flashed and glittered when she was animated. Maude's glowed instead, and her features were altogether quieter. And yet it was clear that Gareth's ward was animated. She was holding Henry's attention without difficulty, and indeed the king seemed delighted with his dinner companion.

But where was Miranda?

"My lord Harcourt…?"

He realized that Elizabeth was talking to him but he hadn't the faintest idea what she'd said. "You seem a trifle abstracted, my lord." The queen was displeased. She didn't expect her courtiers to lose interest in her company.

"Not at all, Your Majesty," he said swiftly. "I was thinking that perhaps Your Majesty would like to hear a new composition by a young composer I discovered on my recent journey to France. I think you would be pleased with his work."

Concerns for her entertainment were permissible abstractions. The queen smiled and graciously gave her assent. Gareth summoned his chamberlain, gave him instructions for the musicians, and forced himself to concentrate only on the matter at hand.

It was as much as he could do to keep his seat throughout the interminable meal. He was aware that Lady Mary, seated with others of the queen's attendants halfway down the board, was casting him injured glances where reproach mingled with anxiety. He knew that their discussion that morning had not satisfied her and he was fairly certain it wouldn't be long before she insisted upon renewing it.

But at last the queen signaled that she had sat at table long enough. "We shall dance, my lord Harcourt." She tapped his sleeve with her fan.

Gareth bowed at the royal command and escorted the queen to the great room at the rear of the house where the floor was cleared for dancing, musicians were already playing in the gallery above, and double doors stood open to the garden to catch the cool night breezes.

He led the queen to the floor. Only the length of a courtly dance kept him now from confronting his ward and finding out what in God's name was going on.

Maude was in a dream. She offered no dissent when Henry led her onto the floor after the queen and Lord Harcourt. She had had dancing lessons, but she had never danced in company, and yet it came to her as easily as if she were performing the steps in her sleep. She was light on her feet, her step never faltered, and while she was aware that her partner was no deft figure on the dance floor it didn't detract from her pleasure in the least.

The galliard came to an end at last and the queen, whose energy on the dance floor far exceeded that of her much younger courtiers, demanded that Gareth bring her the duke of Roissy to partner her in the next dance.

It was the excuse he'd been waiting for. Gareth moved away with alacrity to where Maude and Henry stood to one side of the dance floor. Maude was smiling up at Henry, and as Gareth approached, Henry raised her hand to his lips. Gareth watched in astonishment as his ward blushed prettily and fluttered her fan with what seemed a perfectly natural coquetry.