reached inside his quilted russet doublet and drew out the letter from his friend Marc Velazquez, which had arrived most inopportunely when Nicolai had just settled down for a peaceful winter of wine and beautiful women in a small town in the Italian Alps. He had just finished an onerous task, one that nearly cost him his life—again. Surely he deserved a few months of ease and pleasure!
Then the messenger knocked on his door, that door he thought so well hidden from the outside world.
“I cannot trust anyone but you, my friend, with such a task,” the letter read, the black ink words now stained and mottled with salt sea spray. “My mother has recently left her retirement at the Convent of St Theresa and remarried. Her husband, the Duke de Bernaldez, has been sent to join a mission to England with the new ambassador Diego de Mendoza, who is his kinsman. Their errand is very delicate, as the French are trying to negotiate a new treaty with King Henry, and they must be defeated at all costs—according to my new stepfather.
“My mother insists on joining him in England, and I worry greatly about how she will fare there. She is so very gentle, and her years in the convent since my father died have not prepared her for a royal Court. I must beg that you accompany her, and look to her welfare, as I must stay close to Venice at this time. Julietta will give birth to our first child any day now.
“My friend, I know this is a great deal to ask, but I trust no one as I do you. I will be deeply in your debt, even more so than I already am.”
Nicolai refolded the letter, staring again at the cold, grey expanse of sea. How could he refuse? The claims of friendship and the protection of a gentle lady were his two greatest weaknesses. So, he had written back to Marc, stating that he expected this new baby to be named Nicholas if a boy, Nicola if a girl, and set out to meet Dona Elena Maria Velazquez, the new Duchess de Bernaldez.
And he found that his friend quite underestimated his mother. Yes, she was sweet and lovely, but the convent had not softened her core of iron. Her current mission was to see Nicolai wed to one of her ladies by the end of their time in England, and she was most determined. His protests that he led an aimless, mercenary life, most unsuited to fine ladies, made not a whit of difference.
“A good wife would settle you, Nicolai, make a home for you, as Julietta has for my son,” she said. “Do you not desire a family?”
Fortunately, he was saved from her matchmaking by a round of seasickness that overcame Dona Elena and many of her ladies. He did not have time to fend her off and plan for their troubled mission in England!
Ostensibly, he was meant to be a sort of Master of the Revels to the Spanish party, devising entertainments to impress the English Court and the French, to show off Spanish wealth, piety and strength in the face of all their challenges. His years as a travelling player and acrobat would stand him in good stead in such a task, and in his less obvious assignments as well. Not only was he to protect Dona Elena and her new husband, he was to keep an eye out for the interests of the Tsar of Russia. Tsar Vasily III had seen much success in his new trading schemes with the East, and now thought to expand westward as well.
Tricky, indeed, to balance France, Spain, England, Venice, Russia on an acrobat’s tightrope. And a far cry from the pleasurable winter he had once envisioned! But it was blood-stirring, as well. Masqueing was his life’s work, and there was none better at it than he was. This English meeting was a challenge greater than any he had faced in a long time, and he was ready for it. And, if he had his way, it would be his last dangerous mission, as well.
Nicolai reached for the sheath at his waist and drew out a dagger, balancing it on his gloved palm. The emerald in the hilt gleamed in the pale light, glinting with a silent threat—a promise—that had yet to be answered.
He tossed it lightly into the air, catching it so he could see the tiny lily etched into the finely honed steel. He carried the dagger everywhere, a reminder that once he had met the notorious Emerald Lily, the shadowy French assassin feared throughout Europe. Met her—and bested her, though more by luck than any great skill on his part.
He never spoke of that strange night in a Venetian brothel to anyone, not even Marc and Julietta. For one thing, except for this dagger, he could not be sure it was not a dream. For another, he could never convey the power those eyes, as green as this emerald, held over him, from the first moment he glimpsed them through the smoke and haze of that whorehouse’s common room.
She was beautiful, truly, like an angel or a fairy with that silvery hair, yet her allure that night was far more than mere loveliness. A thousand women possessed that. It was those eyes. So hard, so cold, yet with a spark underneath that could not be extinguished.
It was foolish of him to leave her alive, to show a mercy that was so unlike him, and that she would never have shown him. The Emerald Lily was rumoured to be ruthless, and she would not take well to being made a fool of. She would come after him again one day, probably when he least expected it.
Perhaps that was what made him leave her there, trussed up on the rumpled bed. The knowledge—or was it hope?—that they would one day meet again. She would want her dagger back, after all.
The trouble was, another meeting would surely leave one or both of them mouldering in the grave.
Nicolai tossed the blade in the air again, catching it with a light twirl of his fingertips. Until that fateful day, he had more to worry about than beautiful, green-eyed killers.
And his chief worry was coming toward him right now.
Dona Elena appeared on deck, followed by two of her ladies who had recovered from their mal de mer. She certainly seemed the pious Spanish matron, her coffee-brown hair, only lightly streaked with silver, smoothed back beneath a pearl-edged, veiled cap, garnet-crusted cross clasped around her throat. A black cloak covered her dark red gown, shielding her from the salty wind, and her gloved hands held a gilt-edged prayer book. But her soft brown eyes were full of determination.
Her son, Marc, surely got that from her. The Velazquez family always got their own way.
“Ah, Nicolai, there you are!” she said, joining him at the rail. “The captain says we will without doubt make land today.”
Nicolai gestured toward the horizon, where towering, stark white cliffs were just peeking through the mist. “At any moment, Dona Elena.”
“Thanks be to God.” She quickly crossed herself. “This voyage has not been enjoyable.”
“It is seldom a good idea to set out in the middle of winter.”
Elena sighed. “Especially for someone as accustomed to the comforts of land as me! I know Marc would have preferred I stay at home in Madrid and wait for Carlos to return, yet he does not understand. He and his wife are always together now, but it has been a long time since I enjoyed the pleasures of marriage.” She frowned, and Nicolai knew all too well what was coming. “The comforts of a home, Nicolai, are inestimable. If you only knew the great benefits…”
By the time he had fended her off, and sent her and her ladies below decks to finish their packing, the ship had drawn closer to the rocky shore, those cliffs looming like a stark white welcome.
The rough sea voyage was ending at last, yet Nicolai feared his travails were only just beginning.
Chapter Three
Marguerite
