His Lady Fair. Margo Maguire

halted her dismal thoughts and decided she must take control of the situation. If she were to pass as a lady—nay, if she truly were the Burton daughter—she would have to act accordingly, and not be cowed by every chance encounter. She had spent years mimicking Cecilia, and knew she could make her speech and her bearing seem every bit as regal as her noble cousin’s. Ria had plenty of experience in grooming, having played lady’s maid to both her cousin and her aunt on many occasions.

      It should pose no problem for her to appear as a noblewoman.

      Yet why did the thought of carrying out her deception with Lord Kirkham make her tremble?

      A light tap at the door had the secretary on his feet in an instant. He opened to a burly knight, who stepped in and glanced shyly at Ria.

      “Lord Kirkham sent me to carry the lady to her chamber,” he said.

      “Very good, Sir Gyles,” Tournay said. “I’ll light your way.”

      Relief settled in Ria’s heart. They must not be going through the hall, where Kirkham’s party was gathered, or they would not need extra light. Silently, Sir Gyles gathered her into his arms and carried her through the door, then down a dark passageway until he reached a narrow, circular stone staircase. Here he climbed, following Tournay, until he reached the top, and again turned down a dark passage.

      Tournay walked ahead, and finally reached a heavy oaken door, which he pushed open. In the chamber beyond, Gyles gently set Ria down on a chair next to the fireplace, while Tournay set the candelabra on a table.

      Ria could not help but wonder where her host was, not that she was anxious to see him again. Merely curious.

      “A tray will be sent to you presently, my lady,” the secretary said as Sir Gyles turned to leave. “Lord Kirkham said to tell you that whatever clothing you find in these chests is at your disposal,” he added, gesturing to two large wooden chests on the floor near the washstand. “No one uses them now, and Lord Kirkham noticed you had no…er, that your baggage was lost and he thought…Well, help yourself.”

      When the men were gone, Ria lowered her feet to the floor. She attempted to stand, only gradually adding weight to the injured ankle. Pain shot through the joint, all the way to her knee, making her dizzy and nauseated. Quickly, she sat back down.

      This would never do, she thought. She had to leave Kirkham soon. There had to be a way to deal with this infernal ankle.

      Standing again, she hopped on one foot to the other wooden chair, near the hearth, and took hold of it like a crutch. That was all she needed. A staff, or a crutch, to help her move about until the joint healed. There was no reason why she couldn’t ride to Rockbury, and once there, everything would be settled while she limped on her bad ankle.

      Hobbling around her chamber with the aid of the chair, Ria went to the basin of water that had been set out for her, and started to wash. She felt grimy after her flight from Morley, and the warmth and shelter of the room was a relief.

      But she was only a guest here. Once she reached Rockbury and claimed her legacy from her mother, Ria would have her own home—a place where she really and truly belonged.

      At least she hoped she belonged there.

      Ria shook off the worry. Surely she had not completely misunderstood what had been said in Aunt Olivia’s solar. She had to be Maria Burton. She had vague memories of Tilda calling her Maria, and shortening the name fondly.

      Ria pulled off her woolen shawl and let the rich, silk gown slip from her shoulders. Glancing up, she saw a clear reflection of herself for the first time in her life.

      What a mess she was!

      ’Twould take more skill than she had to give herself the refined appearance of a noblewoman.

      A noise at the door disrupted Ria’s thoughts, and two maids entered the room. One held a tray laden with food and drink. The other carried an armful of things, including a hairbrush and various other items used in a lady’s toilette.

      They both curtsied and set down their burdens. Piqued by the intrusion, Ria wondered if anyone at Castle Kirkham waited for leave to enter before barging in, but her annoyance was assuaged by the pleasant smiles and obliging manner of the two women. She knew her annoyance was misplaced.

      “Lord Kirkham said you would have some trouble getting around,” the short one said.

      “So he sent us to help,” the other added.

      Nicholas Hawken paced the length of his chamber, dangling a folded missive from one hand. Tournay had handed him the letter, which had arrived a few hours before his own return to Kirkham, and the accusations stated therein were compelling.

      If only the actual evidence of treachery, a letter to the Duke of Alenn, had not been lost.

      For years Nick had played the lecherous drunkard, a superficial sot who cared for nothing beyond his next diversion. His recklessness and dissipation were renowned, and understood to be his reaction to losing his brother in France.

      Not even his secretary suspected the truth.

      ’Twas the perfect ploy for gleaning information that could be used to further the English cause in France, and bring about a swift end to the interminable war. More than any other motive, Nicholas was committed to his purpose of reducing the number of Englishmen who perished in the French wars each year.

      No more should have to die like Edmund.

      While it was true that Nicholas still felt tremendous guilt for his brother’s death, in reality his wild and wicked reputation had been carefully cultivated in order to allay any suspicions of him. While he went on his supposed drunken binges with his waterfront cronies, he was well able to cull information for the Duke of Bedford, Regent of France.

      In short, he was Bedford’s spy, and his missions had been both dangerous as well as amusing at times.

      Over the past few months, however, sensitive information had repeatedly been diverted to the French dauphin in Chinon, information that had already had detrimental effects on a few small skirmishes. Whoever was channeling this information had to be stopped, or England’s interests in France would be seriously compromised.

      Nick looked down at the vellum in his hand. As impossible as it was to believe, the letter implicated John Burton, Duke of Sterlyng, as the traitor who had sent secret information to Jean, Duke of Alenn, regarding the numbers and status of English troops at Orléans.

      How could that be? Nicholas wondered. Sterlyng’s reputation was beyond reproach. The man’s family lines went back to the Conqueror! He’d been a trusted advisor of King Henry V, as well as of Henry’s father. Even now, the duke was part of the council that would rule England until Henry VI reached his majority.

      And he was the Duke of Bedford’s closest friend and advisor. With the disintegrating situation in France, Sterlyng’s treason would be a terrible blow to Bedford and all the knights fighting for the English cause.

      Nicholas threw the missive into the fire and clasped his hands behind his back. He’d invited a couple of dozen noblemen from London in order to ferret out their secrets. When the wine flowed and the wenches were willing, Nick often learned what he needed to know, with his pigeon never the wiser.

      Now he wondered if there was any point in continuing this party.

      Yes, he thought. He must do all that he could to verify the charges he’d just read. One intercepted letter bearing a fragment of Sterlyng’s ducal seal was not adequate proof of treason. Before he could accuse John Burton of such a heinous crime, the case against him had to be ironclad.

      Nicholas would continue with the party as planned. Most of his guests traveled in Sterlyng’s circles, and one of them might know something. Nick took a swig of ale and swished it around in his mouth. Then he spat it out in the