“I am not.” His fingers drummed on the stone sill. Gwynnie watched his hand, fearing that at any second the stone would slip. “I do not trust people on their word alone.”
“Ah, was that a suggestion you are inclined to trust my word? Oh, what a nightmare!” She held her hands to her chest, mimicking the rather dramatic tone of her mother. Tombstone smiled a little.
“I think we have intruded on these ladies’ privacy quite enough for one day, Tombstone,” Pascal said, standing. “Mistress Wightham, you have recovered?”
“Quite recovered. I thank you for your kindness.” She offered the handkerchief back to Pascal, but he insisted she keep it with a wave of his hand.
“Come, Tombstone.” Pascal left the chamber quickly as Tombstone nodded at Gwynnie. His voice dropped to a whisper as he passed her.
“Stay away from Renard. It does not do to make enemies in such high places, especially when…” He trailed off. She nodded, showing she understood.
“Especially when I am not high born myself.”
Tombstone gave a small nod, closing the door behind him.
Emlyn and Gwynnie waited until the sound of footsteps had retreated down the corridor before they moved. Gwynnie reached down and snatched the hat pin up from beneath her boot as Emlyn stood up from the bed, all signs of her tears now vanished.
“He believes you,” Emlyn whispered, shaking her head in disbelief. “You have not attempted to charm him in any way, and yet he is inclined to trust you. Why is that?”
“I believe Tombstone is immune to any woman’s charms, Ma.” Gwynnie raised the stone in the sill and dropped the hat pin inside, watching as it landed amongst the others, the hidden treasure glittering. “He is simply inclined to trust my word on reason alone.”
“What do you mean by that? About him being immune to any woman’s charms?”
Gwynnie didn’t answer as she replaced the stone.
CHAPTER 18
“We are being followed.”
Gwynnie halted at her mother’s words. They stood together in a corridor in the lower part of the great tower of the palace. Emlyn carried clean gowns as Gwynnie struggled with the fresh farthingales she was taking to the courtiers’ chambers. Either side of them, candles flanked the walls, their flames dancing back and forth.
“You are dropping them. Here, let me help you.” With the pretence of assisting Emlyn with all the freshly laundered gowns she carried, Gwynnie helped adjust the bundle, looking past Emlyn’s shoulder.
It was difficult to see, but further down the hallway there was a shadow in the corner. The unmistakable outline of Renard stood there, his arms folded, his head turned toward them.
“What does he want?” Emlyn whispered.
“He is looking for an opportunity,” Gwynnie surmised, as she finished adjusting the gowns. “He will know by now that Tombstone and Pascal did not believe his claim. He will be looking for another way to point the finger at me.”
Emlyn nodded, her expression grave. “Do not let him get too close, Gwynnie. We must be on our guard. If he has a chance to plant something on us, we may not be prepared enough next time to cover ourselves.”
Gwynnie knew her mother was right. They had been close to discovery that morning. A few minutes sooner and Pascal and Tombstone might have seen the jewels planted in their room.
“Then let us lose him in this rabbit warren of corridors.” Gwynnie hitched the farthingales over her shoulder and led the way, heading toward a vast staircase. She moved slowly at first, so that Renard would not think they had detected his presence. They reached the top of the stairs and turned toward the courtiers’ chambers.
When they reached the first chamber where they were to leave one gown and farthingale, Gwynnie used the opportunity to glance back the way they had come. Once more, she caught sight of Renard hiding in the shadows. From how well masked his body was in the darkness, she judged this was not the first time he had been sent to watch someone by his master.
“How many, do you think?” Emlyn asked.
“What?” Gwynnie looked at her mother as they walked on.
“How many times has Renard covered up his master’s crimes?”
“That is anyone’s guess.” Gwynnie’s hands tightened around the farthingales. “We know of one for certain — possibly two.”
Her whole body shuddered as she remembered the conversation she had overheard in Fitzroy’s chambers; how Fitzroy had trembled with fear then attacked Florian, as if his body had been possessed by some demon.
As they reached a second chamber and deposited the laundry, Gwynnie glanced back again. Renard was rather slower to mask himself in the shadows this time, and Gwynnie saw something glitter in his hand from the nearby candlelight.
It was a blade. It had to be the same dagger he had pressed to Gwynnie’s neck the day they had tussled on the docks over the Thames.
Gwynnie did not intend to dawdle any longer. Either Renard planned to confront them, to force some confession, or he intended to act without words. It struck Gwynnie that if he hurt either of them, then it would simply draw even more attention their way from Tombstone and Pascal. No matter what Pascal thought of the feebleness of women, he would have to take notice then. “We need to lose him.”
Gwynnie walked down the corridor and then changed course. Rather than following their intended path to the other ladies’ rooms, she cut around a corner and headed in the direction of Queen Anne’s chambers. Emlyn followed, not questioning what she was doing. With the sharp turn in the corridor, they were masked from Renard for a few minutes.
Gwynnie headed to another staircase and ran up lightly, trying not to make a sound. Emlyn hurried to follow, though because she was taller, she could not avoid making the stairs creak beneath her. On the floor of the queen’s chambers, Gwynnie darted through a narrow hall.
“This way.” Gwynnie pulled on her mother’s arm.
“When did we switch places, miting? When did you become the one giving orders?”
Gwynnie didn’t answer. Emlyn had always been the one in control, but since the day Emlyn had come back to their attic rooms with blood on her hands, Gwynnie felt as if she had been looking out for her mother, dragging her out of trouble, like a parent rescuing a child who had swum out of their depth.
She directed their steps toward the end of the corridor. To their right was a small door, behind which was a tightly spiralled set of stairs Gwynnie had seen used by the staff, so they could slip unseen between the floors.
Pushing her mother through the door, which was so short that even Gwynnie had to duck, they stumbled against the stairs, the yellow stones appearing practically black. With no candle, it was difficult to see what they were doing. Gwynnie tossed the farthingales onto the floor and gestured for Emlyn to put on one of the gowns in her arms.
“What? No!”
