Mary stroked her throat, trying to swallow the nut of nausea. Harcourt had foisted upon her, upon his sister, upon the queen herself, such a monumental deception, such a betrayal, that she couldn't begin to absorb it. Men had whores, even mistresses. But they kept them apart from their wives, their fianc?es, their family ties. There were no entanglements. Just a simple business arrangement. But that was not the situation here. She had never heard Gareth speak in such tones, sound so distressed, so involved, so at sea. So absolutely enmeshed in a vulgar morass that no true, self-respecting knight of Her Majesty's empire could ever so much as contemplate.

She returned downstairs to the gathering as quietly and as unobserved as she had left it.

It was an hour later when Maude peered around Miranda's door into the shadowed chamber. The queen and her retinue had finally returned to Whitehall, with the escort of the earl of Harcourt and the duke of Roissy. "Are you in bed, Miranda?"

Miranda was so raw, so adrift in this fearful confusion of loss, where her own identity was somehow disintegrating, all the parameters of her existence destroyed, that she didn't know what to say to Maude. Whether she could share the evening's disclosures with her, or whether to leave her in blissful ignorance.

"No, I'm not in bed."

"Why are you sitting in the dark?" Maude came in, closing the door behind her. Miranda was sitting on the window seat, her feet curled up beneath her, Chip sprawled indolently on his back in her lap.

"I was watching the evening star."

Maude frowned. Miranda's voice didn't sound quite the same as usual. It was scratchy as if she had a cold. Maude came over to the window seat and leaned over to tickle Chip's stomach. Her neck was bare, her hair caught smoothly into a snood of gold thread, and Miranda saw the faint crescent mark against her sister's hairline. Her hand went to the back of her own neck.

"So, tell me what happened downstairs?"

"Oh, yes." Maude squeezed onto the window seat beside Miranda, paused to collect her thoughts, then with a deep breath poured forth her bubbling excitement and confusion.

"He kissed me," she finished. "It felt so strange and, well… well, wonderful. Do you know if that's how it's supposed to feel?"

"I believe so," Miranda said dully.

"What's the matter?" Maude reached for her hands. "You're so sad, Miranda. What is it?"

Miranda waved her hand in a brusque gesture of dismissal. "Are you prepared to agree to the betrothal now, then?"

Maude shook her head. "I don't know. Everything I believed about myself seems to have turned topsy-turvy."

Miranda almost laughed at the bitter irony. Like sister, like sister. They were both adrift now, because the earl of Harcourt had decided to play God.

"What is it, Miranda?" Maude asked insistently. "I hate it that you're sad. There must be something I can do to help."

Miranda slid off the window seat, still cradling Chip. "I'm going away," she said.

"So soon?" Maude looked aghast. "Is it because I've taken your place with the duke? Because you don't think you're needed anymore?"

"I'm not," Miranda said. "But that's not the only reason I'm going. I have to find my family before they take ship for France. There was a misunderstanding and they thought I wasn't coming back to them. So I have to leave at daybreak."

"I don't want you to go," Maude said slowly, almost wonderingly.

"Then come with me." Miranda said it without thinking but then the impossible idea became possible, and a surge of life renewed her. "One last adventure together," she urged, her voice once more vibrant. "Come with me to Folkestone, Maude. It'll give you time to think about what you really want. Time to be yourself, answering only to yourself. You'll never have that chance again."

Maude stared at her, saw her own image reflected in Miranda's eyes. Saw Miranda reflected in Miranda's eyes. And she saw her own life, pushed and pulled by forces over which she had no control. Even when she asserted herself, defied her guardians, she was only responding, she was not initiating, not truly making up her own mind. It was her one chance to see things clearly… see what she wanted for her life. Even if it turned out that she couldn't have it, she would at least have had the opportunity to find out, to get to know herself.

"What will they tell the duke?" she said slowly. "They're to sign the betrothal contracts tomorrow."

"That you're ailing."

Maude nodded. "That won't surprise anyone. But they'll be so angry."

"No, I don't think so," Miranda said. "We'll leave word that you're safe and that you'll return in a week. Milord will understand."

"Why would my guardian understand something so completely incomprehensible?"

"Because he will." Miranda reached for Maude's hands. "We leave at daybreak. I have no money, but Chip and I can earn it."

"Oh, I have money," Maude said. She gazed at Miranda in dawning wonder. "Why am I doing this?"

"Because I need you," Miranda said. "And because you need to do it for yourself."

And for some strange reason, the answers made perfect sense to Maude. They seemed to fit with all the neatness of an interlocking jigsaw piece into the picture of herself that she was now creating.

Wearily Gareth moved his rook to king four and wondered how long it would take before the queen finally tired. He contemplated deliberately losing the game to bring this interminable evening to a speedier conclusion but then dismissed the idea. The queen was too good a chess player and far too nimble-witted to be deceived and incurring her displeasure wouldn't get him back to the peace of his bedchamber any quicker.

Elizabeth moved her bishop, her long white beringed fingers still touching the piece until she was certain it was the right move. Then she smiled. "Check, sir."

Gareth surveyed the board. He could play to a draw, or he could resign. He glanced up at his queen and saw a slightly malicious glint of comprehension in her bright black eyes.

"I will accept your resignation, my lord Harcourt," she said. "I fear you have too much on your mind tonight to give me a run for my money."

Gareth toppled his king and smiled ruefully. "Your Majesty sees too much for comfort."

Elizabeth laughed, not displeased by the compliment. She rose from the chess table and Gareth got to his feet immediately. Elizabeth had sent her wilting ladies to bed as soon as they'd reached Whitehall from the Harcourt mansion. The duke of Roissy had been early excused with the consideration owed an honored guest, but a mere subject was expected to dance to Her Majesty's tune. And Elizabeth, who needed little sleep, was in the mood for conversation and chess.

"I find the duke of Roissy an interesting man," she commented, opening her fan. "And no fool."

"Indeed not, madam."

"He seems absolutely certain that Henry will prevail in the siege of Paris." The queen raised one plucked eyebrow. "I wish I could be so certain. What think you, my lord?"

"He has right on his side, madam."

The queen closed her fan and stood tapping it into the palm of her hand. "I would expect you to believe that, of course. After what happened to your family in the massacre. If Henry succeeds in securing the crown of France, this marriage of your ward's will bring fortune to the Harcourts, will it not?"

Gareth knew it was a rhetorical question so he merely bowed.

"I am not as yet certain how England will benefit from having Henry of Navarre on the throne of France," Elizabeth "said consideringly." The opinions of those close to the French court will always be of great use to me."

"My service and my loyalties lie first and foremost with my queen."

Elizabeth nodded slowly. "I like ambitious men around me, Lord Harcourt. Ambition and power are reliable motives." She smiled with that same hint of malice. "They're unflinching and they lead a man along welltrodden paths." Abruptly, she turned toward the door leading to her bedchamber. "I bid you good night, my lord."

"I trust Your Majesty will sleep well." Gareth bowed and remained in obeisance until the queen had passed from the privy chamber. Then with a soft exhalation of relief, he left himself, acknowledging the salute of the chamberlains at the door with a brief nod. He had gone no more than halfway along the night-quiet corridor when a door opened just ahead of him.

Lady Mary Abernathy stepped directly in front of him, barring his way. She stood beneath a lamp in a wall sconce and Gareth's first thought was that she was unwell or had had some dreadful fright, or perhaps received some hideous news. Her face was a mask- ghostly white, her eyes fixed unmoving in their deep sockets. She stood stock-still in the corridor. She stared at him as if he were some monster emerged from the deeps.

"Mary?" He stopped. "Is something the matter? What has happened?"

"I would have private speech with you, sir." Her voice was a monotone. She stepped back into the small paneled room where she'd been awaiting him. Gareth followed her, puzzled and alarmed.

"What has happened?" he repeated, bending to turn up the wick on a lamp sitting on a small table. He lifted the lamp to see her better, then said with concern, "You look ill, Mary."

"I am sickened," she said in the same flat voice. "You… you… have had carnal knowledge of that girl." Her voice took on tone and color. "She's not your ward. You have conducted a carnal relationship under your own roof… with… with… what is she?"

Gareth carefully set the lamp back on the table. They were in a very small antechamber, sparsely furnished, the wooden paneling unadorned with tapestries or molding. He had no idea how Mary knew what she knew, but as he faced his betrothed, he felt a sense of relief. The relief of confession, he supposed with self-directed cynicism.