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with plain black silk hose. He was bareheaded and she saw how the sun turned the strands of gray among the dark hair into silver threads.
    What was he doing alone out here? He seemed unaware of the servants crisscrossing the courtyard, of pages scurrying in and out of doorways, or even of a pair of wolfhounds prowling the cobbles, pausing every now and again to sniff at his ankles. He had the quality of utter stillness, utter detachment from his surroundings.
    She had seen him before. She
knew
she had.
    Pippa was not one to let a mystery stand. She pushed aside the odd feeling that had kept her in motionless retreat, moved briskly out of the shadows, and crossed the courtyard. Her jeweled silk slippers made no sound on the cobbles but her turquoise and rose damask skirts swished with her step.
    He looked up when she was a few paces away and his clear gray eyes met hers. There was no mistaking their message. It declared a connection between them, one that was both complicit and open.
    “Mr. Ashton.” Pippa addressed the problem in her customarily straightforward fashion. “I find myself very puzzled. I know we have not been introduced but I am certain we have met before. Can you enlighten me?”
    He slid his dagger into its sheath and bowed. “No, madam, we have not. I would not have forgotten such a meeting.” His voice was deep and rich, and his smile was as she remembered from that morning, as sweet and tender as the first snowdrop. “You have the advantage of me, it would seem.” He raised an eyebrow.
    “Lady Nielson,” Pippa supplied, nonplussed. How could he possibly deny that they had met before? The message in his gaze was an open admission. And yet she couldn't remember herself. Once again she felt the cold prickle of fear on the back of her neck.
    “Ah, yes. You are married to Viscount Nielson,” he observed, not altering his position against the sundial. “Now I think about it, we did come across each other this morning in the queen's presence chamber. Perhaps that is the memory you seek.”
    “No, 'tis not.” Pippa shook her head. “I felt the same recognition then.”
    “My apologies, my lady, but I cannot enlighten you.” He sounded amused.
    Doubt assailed her. She couldn't be the only one to have the memory if it was correct. Perhaps she was simply mistaken. But there was no mistaking the strange flutter of excitement that blended seamlessly with the confused sense of dread, filling her head so that she couldn't think clearly.
    “You have abandoned the tourney?” he said, smiling still.
    “I have little stomach for contrived outcomes,” Pippa declared, an edge to her voice as she struggled to master her confusion.
    Lionel Ashton nodded. “From what I saw of the match, your husband's loss to Philip was somewhat spectacular and one can't help wondering if it was truly necessary. It does indeed seem a pity that our Spanish friends won't rely on their own skills for success.”
    “
Your
Spanish friends, as I understand it, sir,” she returned with asperity. “Not mine, I assure you.”
    His smile changed. It lost its sweetness and his eyes became cold. Then almost as suddenly, almost before she could register the change, he was once more smiling gently at her. “They are not all bad,” he said, his tone mollifying.
    “The king's reputation preceded him,” she stated, aware that this was dangerous talk, but that had never stopped her from speaking her mind in the past and wasn't about to now. “You would deny that reputation?”
    Lionel Ashton stroked his beard that he wore in the Spanish fashion, small and triangular, and once again Pippa was struck by the curiously haphazard arrangement of his features. His nose was prominent and crooked, his mouth slightly twisted, his chin large and deeply cleft, his eyebrows thick as bushes and speckled with gray like his beard. A man more unlike Stuart in his appearance would be impossible to find. Stuart was beautiful, his features perfectly