Mary pondered for a moment, then sent one of her quick, sunny smiles in my direction. “It is only polite that I entertain the duc de Longueville in the queen’s absence. I will invite him to walk with me after dinner in the gallery my father built. And I will bid him bring Master Guy Dunois, his servant, so that you may spend time with him.”

I said, “As you wish, Your Grace,” but inwardly I sighed in frustration. Although the Lady Mary treated me as a friend and confidante, I could never forget that she was a king’s daughter and I was not. Mary took for granted that she would be obeyed. She did not always take other people’s feelings into consideration, not even mine. That is the way it is with royalty.

I had hoped to converse with Guy in private. The presence of both the princess and the duke would make it difficult to ask questions. I was not certain why I did not want the Lady Mary to hear about those false rumors of my death, but anything to do with France while we were at war was sensitive and I thought it wise to be cautious.

The timber-framed gallery to which we repaired that afternoon had been built less than a decade earlier atop the curtain wall that ran from the King’s Tower across a gateway to Julius Caesar’s Tower. It had been designed to give a splendid view of the privy garden below—rampant lions and crouching dragons fashioned out of shrubbery; roses and woodbine growing on trellises; and several unusual species of tree, each planted in the center of a raised bed. I had been told one was a fig, one a mulberry, and one a Glastonbury thorn, but I did not know which was which.

In September, the garden was not as colorful as in summer, but in any season the shapes were pleasing to the eye. The center of the garden was filled with turf, and stone benches were scattered here and there around the perimeter of this expanse of green. The view should have instilled a sense of peace in the beholder. Instead, as we waited for the two French prisoners to join us in the gallery, it provoked the disconcerting realization that, like those trees, I had been transplanted on a royal whim.

It was not the first time I had been plagued by such thoughts. Usually, I managed to suppress them. I was happy at court. I had a busy, fulfilling life. I had friends. Unlike that Glastonbury thorn, I was not just decorative.

I was, however, still an oddity. I winced, remembering how I’d once wondered if King Henry VII had collected me, as he did his curiosities. I found consolation in reminding myself that at least I did not require a keeper!

My position at the English court was out of the ordinary. I had always known that, although I did not like to dwell on the subject. I told myself that there was no reason to be troubled by it. I was fed and clothed and entertained and all I had to do in return was wait on a girl-child of great beauty—and only a few unpleasant habits.

I glanced at the Lady Mary. She had the family temper and a self-centered outlook—those were drawbacks, indeed. But she rarely unleashed her fury on me. There were times when I thought that she looked upon me as the next thing to a second older sister.

But I was not her sister. I was not her maid of honor or one of her ladies-in-waiting either. Mary had appointed me “keeper of the princess’s jewels,” but the title carried no stipend. Unlike others in the royal household, I was paid nothing for my services. I had a small annuity, granted by the seventh King Henry, but it was not enough to live on.

As we waited in the gallery, I thought back to my first meeting with the late king. Henry VII had made me welcome and assured me that I would always have a home at court. But now a long-buried question had come back to haunt me: Why had I, of all the French-speaking girls in the world, been the one selected to join the children of honor at Eltham?

Everyone around me knew exactly who they were and where they belonged. Family connections and marriage alliances—some going back many generations—defined them. All I had was an uncle, Sir Rowland Velville, who barely acknowledged my existence. At the moment, he was off fighting the French with King Henry, but he had never been part of my life. Watching him compete in tournaments over the years had been as close as I’d ever come to spending time with him.

“Those clouds look most threatening,” the Lady Mary murmured.

I heard the edge of fear in her voice and promptly banished other considerations from my mind. Even as a small child, the princess had been deathly afraid of thunderstorms.

“Do you wish to retire to your chamber?” I asked. Among the relics she kept there was a small gilded box, a reliquary that contained a saint’s tooth reputed to have the power to ward off lightning strikes.

She made a visible effort to steady herself. “You have been looking forward to speaking with your former countryman. I would not wish to deprive you of the opportunity.”

“That is most considerate of you, Your Grace, but another time will serve as well.”

I could sense her inner struggle as she cast another nervous glance toward the lowering sky. “I have women enough to wait on me without requiring your services, Jane. Stay and make my excuses to the duke.”

Ignoring my expressions of gratitude, she sped away, delaying only long enough to give orders to the yeomen of the guard that the prisoners had her permission to enter the gallery.

Left alone, I turned again toward the windows. It was not yet twilight, but the world beyond the panes was already murky. Eerie shadows played on the expensive imported glass.

In an instant, a blinding glare of lightning flashed so close that I jumped. Then thunder crashed, pulsing like a living thing. I pulsed, too.

In normal circumstances I would have been alert for the sound of leather shoes slapping against the stone floor. This time the only warning I had was the smell of ambergris. The expensive scent emanated from the duc de Longueville, wafting out from the pomander ball he wore at his waist to block out disagreeable odors. Both Guy and the boy Ivo followed a few paces behind him.

“Have I come too early to my rendezvous with Her Grace?” The duke’s expression was somber and his voice grave. He squinted to see me in the dimness. Only a few candles illuminated the gallery, but that was sufficient for him to recognize me. “You are Mistress Popyncourt, I believe.”

I made the obeisance due to one of his rank. I spoke, as he had, in French. “Yes, My Lord. I am Jane Popyncourt.”

“I had thought to find your mistress here.”

He did not sound disappointed by her absence, which secretly pleased me. Keeping my gaze firmly on the juniper and wormwood-laced rushes at our feet, I explained that the princess had a fear of storms.

The duke made a tsking sound. He seemed amused, but I was at a loss to know why. “Are you not afraid?” he asked.

“No, Your Grace.” Although my heart was racing, I was determined to appear composed. I’d had a good deal of practice at this in fifteen years of living at the English court.

Then Longueville unleashed the full force of his smile. I felt heat rise in my cheeks and had to fight the urge to stare at my toes again. He was, as I had thought from my first good look at him, a most well-favored man.

The next bolt of lightning bathed his face with an eerie glow, giving it an almost demonic cast. I told myself it was the storm that made me shiver, but in my heart I knew better. It was a different sort of thrill that shot through me as the rumble of thunder followed a few seconds after the flash. The full fury of the tempest would soon begin to fade, but inside the gallery a new kind of storm was brewing.

“I admire bravery in a woman, Mistress Popyncourt, especially one so beautiful as you.” The look of approval on the duke’s face made my heart race. I barely noticed that Guy and Ivo had retreated to the far end of the gallery, or that the guards, too, had moved out of earshot.

“Storms fill the air with excitement, Your Grace.” My voice sounded a trifle unsteady. We stood side by side at the south-facing window and watched a distant bolt of lighting streak across the sky.

“And danger?”

“And danger,” I agreed.

“It is the violence,” he said, and slid an arm around my waist.

Over the tops of trees and bushes bent by the wind, we could just glimpse the choppy waters of the Thames. I smiled to myself, remembering another storm and another man. I had stood just this way at a window in Pleasure Palace, looking out at the Thames with Charles Brandon. Then I had been driven by curiosity to sample my first real kiss. Now something more intense stirred in me, generated by nothing more than the touch of the duke’s hand resting on my hip.

The river was so roiled up by the storm that the few boats foolish enough to be out on its surface were tossed about as if they were no heavier than bits of kindling. At the sight, another shiver ran through me.

“Are you cold, mistress?” Longueville whipped off the velvet cloak he wore and wrapped it around my shoulders. “We might retire to a less drafty spot.” His intense gaze left me in no doubt that he had somewhere much more private in mind.

The heavy, richly embroidered fabric enclosed me in a protective cocoon, but I was already much too warm. “I am quite comfortable as I am,” I assured him, shrugging out of the garment and handing it back to him.

He flung it carelessly behind him, trusting that one of his servants would be there to catch it before it landed. The duke’s faith was justified, and for just a moment my eyes locked with Guy’s in the dim light. The message was unmistakable—beware the duke!

I knew the dangers well enough, but never before had a man attracted me so strongly. The sight of him, the smell of him, the sound of his deep, resonant voice—all these drew me to him. For the first time ever, I wanted to experience this fascinating man with all my senses.

“I have been lonely in my captivity,” he murmured, dipping his head close to mine.

“Mayhap you need a pet,” I teased. He had said he admired bravery. I would be more than brave. I would be bold. I had been at ease with kings and princes since childhood. What did I have to fear from a mere duke?

His laugh charmed me. “What do you suggest, Mistress Jane? A bird, perhaps? A dog?”

“Oh, no, Your Grace. Only a monkey will do.”

The startled expression on his face made me smile. He did not seem to know whether to laugh or be insulted.

“The late King Henry had a spider monkey,” I explained, remembering Jot with fondness. “He loved the creature dearly. Why, once His Grace even forgave it for destroying a little book full of notes and memorials, writ in his own hand.”

“That cannot be true,” Longueville protested. “A king’s rage at the loss of such an important possession should have been exceedingly great.”

“So one would think, Your Grace. And the members of the royal family are far from temperate when something displeases them. But in this instance the king only laughed.”

He still looked skeptical.

Anxious to convince him that I spoke truly, I added more, something no one had dared speak of at the time. “It is said a groom of the king’s privy chamber egged the creature on. The courtiers all hated His Grace’s habit of recording their every failing in that little book.”

Longueville’s laughter burst forth again. “Animals can be the very devil. I once had a hunting dog that could track any game, but he developed an unfortunate addiction to tallow candles.”

“You do not mean—?”

“Oh, yes. He ate all he could find. We feared there would not be a light left in the castle if he continued as he was.”

“What did you do?” I feared I was about to hear that he’d had the dog put down, but the duke surprised me.

“He was the best hunter I had. I ordered extra candles made for him, with drippings from the game he’d caught himself.”

“I fear I am not fond of dogs,” I confessed. “Some of the Lady Mary’s women keep spaniels and I cannot abide their yapping.”

“Lapdogs. They can scarcely be considered dogs at all. Why, such creatures are as annoying as ferrets, and less useful.” He winked, surprising a laugh out of me. We both knew why some people wore pet ferrets wrapped around their necks like a ruff—ferrets ate lice.

While we had been talking, the storm had passed. Pinpoints of light now dotted the early evening sky as stars began to come out. “I should have returned long since to the princess,” I murmured.

“It is early yet. Stay awhile. Do you ride, Mistress Popyncourt? Last year I purchased a splendid courser and two brood mares from Francesco Gonzaga, Marquis of Mantua. He is famous as a breeder of horses. Never have I owned better-trained animals.”