They are thicker than any gown I have ever worn, and yet I feel unbearably exposed.

“Perhaps you worry I might touch you,” he muses. I watch, mesmerized, as his hand reaches toward me, hovers over the foot of the bed. Under the covers, my skin twitches in anticipation.

When his hand comes down and grasps my ankle, it takes every bit of willpower I possess to keep from jerking away. His grip is firm, and it is as if the heat from his hand burns through all the layers between us. My ankle throbs, and the sensation creeps up my leg and spreads throughout my entire body, until every inch of my skin is alight with — what? Fear? Anticipation? we stare at each other, the moment stretching out, swallowing up all the moments that came before it. “However will you play the game of seduction if you flinch so?” His voice is soft velvet along my skin. “You will be hard-pressed to gain my secrets if you cannot bear my touch.” Then he swears and pulls his hand away from me. "What is your convent thinking, sending such an innocent out in the world to play the strumpet?”

My heart thuds painfully in my chest as Duval returns to his chair. He knows. He knows the abbess has sent me to spy on him. Has probably always known. It was only I who thought we were fooling anybody.

Duval settles back and studies me, as if I am some complicated knot he must untangle. I try not to fidget.

“So why are you here?” I cling stubbornly to that question. “Your abbess was correct. It does not matter what we call

You—people are drawing their own conclusions. when I arrived at court this evening, two nobles congratulated me on my new mistress. It is stupid to fight this.”

“Perhaps my wits are addled from sleep, but I still do not understand why you’re here.”

Duval sighs. “So my attendants will note I visited your bedchamber tonight and draw their base conclusions.”

“Surely we don’t need to continue the charade under your own roof?” I say, glad to have something concrete to argue over. “Surely you are not willing to risk your life or our duchess’s future on everyone in my household being completely loyal?”

“I cannot believe you do not trust your own household,” I say, but it is a lie. I am not surprised.

Duval leans forward and places his elbows on his knees. “The French have bought any number of Breton nobles, Ismae. It is only a matter of who and how much. If I were the French spymaster, I would certainly make an effort to place a spy or two in the house of every one of Anne’s trusted advisors.”

“Then surely they would all bear the marques of Mortain for their treachery.”

“And yet, they do not. As I have said, I suspect your saint is more complex than your convent would have you believe.” Anger, prickly and welcome, flares inside me. “How can you know they do not bear the marques? They are not visible to you.” He smiles then, a genuine smile. “That is why I am presenting you at court tomorrow. It will prove most amusing, I’m sure.

However, I recommend that you consult with the duchess before you begin assassinating her courtiers with abandon. Now, go back to sleep,” he says. “I will sit here for another hour, then return to my own chamber.”

It is clear he will not budge until he is good and ready. I settle back down under the covers, too aware of his presence, of the lack of space between us. Of only the thin linen of my nightshift covering me. I clear my throat. “Did you learn anything of our attackers?” I ask.

“Sleep now, Ismae. we will talk more in the morning.” His voice is low, naught but a faint rumble in the night air. I am certain I will never fall back to sleep, and yet I do. And when I awake in the morning, he is gone. It is as if he was never there at all.

When Louyse comes to help me dress, I am unable to meet her eye. Does she know that Duval spent a good portion of the night in my room? If so, she gives no indication. She is either remarkably discreet or truly unaware.

With a pleasant “Good morning, demoiselle” she sets a ewer of water on the stand and lays a fresh chemise on my bed. As she moves to the garderobe to collect my gown, I slip quickly out of bed, eager to get into my chemise while she is not looking. when she returns with my gown, she blinks in surprise but says nothing. The woman is well trained.

I step into my skirt and she moves behind me to fasten it. “The viscount is in his study,” she says, lacing up the back of my gown. “He asked that you join him when you are ready.”

“Very well.” I hope she does not hear the reluctance in my voice.

The door opens again and I flinch slightly at this intrusion, but it is only the serving girl Agnez bringing me a tray so that I may break my fast. Once I am fully dressed and brushed, and after I assure them — twice — that I can manage my breakfast unattended, they finally take their leave. I close my eyes and allow myself to savor the solitude, even just for a moment. But the knowledge that Duval is waiting robs me of whatever peace it might bring. I tear a corner from the loaf of bread on the breakfast tray and nibble at it, hoping it will calm the roiling nerves in my gut.

Feeling restless and awkward, I pace as I nibble, unable to stand still. It is as if sometime during the night I have outgrown my own skin. Duval’s presence still lingers, like the faintest trace of perfume, and my ankle still bears the memory of that touch. I find myself wishing for a great throbbing bruise instead. That I would know how to deal with better than this.

Agitated, I go to the window and throw open the shutters, welcoming the chill morning into the room. Closing my eyes, I breathe in, pulling the sharp cold air deep into my lungs. I will it to clear my addled wits and am pleased when it does. But even with my wits restored, I cannot discern Duval’s strategy.

He could easily have made me his mistress in truth last night. with the spell he cast over me, I am not even sure I would have fought very hard. And yet he did not. Is he that honorable? Or is it but one more way to keep me unbalanced, to keep me wondering what his next move will be?

with a grimace of disgust, I toss the remaining bread out into the courtyard below and turn from the casement. It is a strategy, I tell myself. And an excellent one at that. But I will not let myself be lulled into a false sense of accord between us. I cross the room to the bed, then withdraw my blades and sheaths from where I have hidden them under the mattress. Only when I have strapped them firmly in place do I go to find Duval.

He is in his study behind a large desk. Gone is the travelstained man I journeyed across the country with. In his place is a finely dressed courtier in a doublet of dark blue. He has shaved the whiskery stubble that lent such a dark and dangerous air to his face. A pot of ink and half a dozen quills are on one side of him, stacks of parchment on the other, and his fingers wield a quill with quick, bold strokes.

when he looks up, I am sorely vexed to be caught staring, so I step inside the room, holding my head high and fighting the shyness that plucks at me. “Good morning.” My voice is cool and remote.

“I will be with you in a moment,” he says, returning his attention to the letter in front of him.

Torn between annoyance and relief, I saunter to the two trestle tables that have been set up to hold the overflow of papers and maps from his desk. A map of Brittany is spread out, and small, colored pebbles are scattered across it. I squint my eyes and see a shape and pattern to the pebbles. The dark ones mark the towns and villages that France took easily during the Mad war. Is he trying to determine where the French will attack if they do not get their way? A shadow passes over my heart. Sweet Mortain, not another war.

Duval finishes his letter and sets it aside before looking up at me. “How did you sleep last night?” There is a gleam of amusement in his eyes — eyes that are very nearly blue from the reflected color of his doublet — that I do not care for.

“Poorly, I am afraid, milord. My sleep was much disturbed.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” he says, even though he knows full well he is the cause. Before I can point that out to him, he holds up his hand. “Peace,” he says. "We have much to discuss this morning before I leave and very little time.”

It costs me to let him have the last word, but I nod in agreement nevertheless.

Duval tosses his quill on the desk and leans back in his chair. “I was correct. Someone has called the meeting of the estates without the duchess’s knowledge or consent, and she is most aggrieved. All the barons of the realm are now gathered here in Guérande like eager vultures. even worse, the French envoy will no doubt witness the entire spectacle and report back to the French regent.”

“Perhaps he will bear a marque,” I say with hope. “Then I can kill him before he carries tales back to the French.”

Duval grimaces. “By all means, if you see a marque on the French ambassador, kill him with my blessing along with Mortain’s. However, if you think that will stop the leak of information from our court to France, you are more naive than you appear.”

I bristle at his words, wanting to argue that I am not naive, but it has become clear that the convent has woefully underprepared me for this assignment.

Or perhaps it is the convent that is underprepared. It is a most unsettling thought, and I push it away. “Did you learn anything further from the footpad who attacked us?”

A grimace of embarrassment crosses his face. “No.” He rises to his feet and stalks to the window. “I’m afraid I clouted him a bit too soundly. He has yet to wake up.”

“Did you search through his belongings? was there nothing that hinted at who they were or why they were there?”

“No, they had no standard or signed note of instruction stuffed neatly in their purses.” His mocking tone prods me to my feet as well.

“Of course not. But had they been paid? what coin did they carry? were their cloaks of Flemish wool, or their boots of Italian leather? we can learn much from these details.”

Duval’s brows lift in respectful surprise. “They carried French coin, but that tells us little, as half the coinage in the realm is French. Their cloaks were of cheap make, but their boots were of the finest leather, so they made some attempt at concealing their origins.”

I try not to look smug, but before I can enjoy my small victory, he changes the subject.

“I have a number of meetings today. As you can imagine, the duchess has much to sort out with these newest developments, and I would be there to offer her guidance.”

"Will they not question my presence, my lord?”

He looks at me in amusement. “They would indeed, demoiselle, which is why you will not be there.”

“But what am I to do? Shall I question the footpad when he awakes? Or perhaps I should attempt to learn who it was that called for the meeting of the estates in the first pla — ”

He raises his hand to stop my flow of words. “None of those. In fact, you will have a meeting too, of sorts.” I do not like the smile playing about his mouth. “A seamstress, one of the duchess’s, will be here shortly to fashion a gown for you to wear tonight when I present you at court.”

“A . . . gown,” I splutter. He cannot be serious. He cannot think I will sit and be poked and prodded with pins and silk while he is off attending to matters of state. “That is not in our agreement, my lord.”

“A good subterfuge requires preparation and attention to detail. Surely the convent taught you that much? If you are appear tonight as my mistress — ”

“I thought we had settled on cousin,” I say stiffly.

He leans against the wall near the window and folds his arms across his chest. “You must realize the futility of that now. My bloodlines on both sides are too well known for me to pull a cousin out of my lineage like a conjurer’s trick.”

My cheeks flame red at this reminder of my earlier blunder. He purses his lips and taps his finger against them, studying me. “In fact, that is what you can do once your gown has been properly fitted. You can study the noble families of Brittany so that when you meet them face to face tonight, you will not make similar mistakes.”

I raise my chin. “I have already studied them, my lord, but unless they carry their shields or colors or display their coats of arms, I have no way of recognizing them.”

“True enough, but you will forgive me if I am somewhat leery of what you learned at the convent. I would like to be certain you possess the basic facts of the situation.”

A hot bubble of anger rises up inside me, but I force it back down. At first, I think it is his arrogance that has made me angry, but then I realize I am angry because he has planted tiny, wicked seeds of doubt within me.

He strolls to a chessboard near the window. There is a game in progress, I see — but no, there are far too many pieces for that. There are, in fact, twice as many pieces as in a regular game.

“Do you play?” he asks.

“No.” This is a lie. I do play, just not very well.

“I am surprised,” he says. “I would think the convent would find chess a useful tool for their novices.”

“They do.” Honesty compels me to admit it. “But it is not one of my strengths.”

A corner of Duval’s mouth lifts in amusement. “Too impatient, perhaps?”

I force myself to unclench my jaw. “So I was told,” I mutter.

Ignoring my discomfiture, he reaches down and lays a finger on top of the white queen. She is flanked by a small cluster of white pieces. Surrounding her are dozens of dark pieces. “The French,” Duval says, “press hard against us. They look for any excuse to step in and swallow us whole. They not only wait but actively plot and plan. If they can create discord within our ranks, they will cheerfully do so and use that as a justification to help themselves to our country. I know they are paying off some of our barons, but I do not yet know which ones. I am working on gathering that information.”