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girl, mind, not a member of our household. Such subterfuge might keep you safe. If we’re fortunate, they don’t know how many daughters I have.”
    My mind barely grasped his words. Outside, several men shouted to one another, their words muffled by the walls separating us. I dashed to the window again and peered through the gap between the curtains.
    In the front garden a dozen men were sliding off their horses. The men’s faces were flushed from exertion. None wore the soldiers’ redcoat uniform I had expected. Instead, the men were dressed in fine riding clothes: leather boots, doublets andbreeches in a dazzling array of colors—peach, pale blue, grass green. Each man carried a sword at his waist.
    I saw at once how Francis had known they were king’s men: beneath their broad-brimmed hats they sported the shaven heads of noblemen, having foregone their usual wigs for the journey. Everyone knew the aristocrats were loyal to the king; these men were our enemies. As one, they crossed the yard, their strides quick with purpose.
    “Merciful Lord,” I breathed. “They’re here.”
    The wind kicked up, knocking one man’s hat away. As he walked closer, my heart surged into my throat. I knew this man’s long, slender face, even though it wasn’t framed by its usual wig of light brown curls. I had seen him often enough when he played ninepins in Hyde Park while my sisters and I huddled under the trees, watching the fine people all around us. Even if I hadn’t seen him occasionally during the past six years, though, I would have recognized him as the man who had ridden behind the king on his triumphant return to London—the man in beautiful garments of silver and lace who had blown me a kiss.
    It was George Villiers, the second Duke of Buckingham, one of the best-known men in the country. And the dearest friend of the king.

Six
    I JUMPED AWAY FROM THE CURTAINS. “IT’S BUCK—”
    The front door burst open. I sprang in front of my father, gripping his shoulder and trying to hold him in place. “Let me protect you,” I said. With my free hand, I clutched my knife. A single sickening slice and one of our enemies would be dead. But there would still be eleven remaining, and I couldn’t possibly fight them all. Dear God, what was going to happen to us?
    Father pushed me away, his action startling me so much that the knife skittered out of my grasp. It hit the floor with a clang. I dropped to my hands and knees to retrieve it, but Father grunted, “Leave it. You can’t pretend to be a servant if you carry a knife and touch me with such familiarity.”
    “I won’t masquerade as someone else!” I hissed. “I want to stay with you—”
    “Do as I tell you!” he snapped.
    I stared at him. His face had contorted into a scowl, transforming him from the gentle father I’d known. My mouth opened and closed, but I could think of nothing to say.
    From the hallway came the ringing of boots on floorboards. Barely daring to breathe, I listened to the men draw closer. Another instant and they would be upon us.
    I dove for the knife. My fingers were closing around the handle when Mary kicked it under the table. “Listen to Father,” she whispered. “And get rid of your armbands!”
    With trembling hands, I unbuckled the leather straps. Footsteps tramped down the corridor, growing louder and louder. A low voice muttered something. I tossed the straps under the table.
    The sitting room door was flung open with such force that it banged into the wall. Buckingham stood in the entryway. He was a handsome man of about five and thirty. In the curtained dimness, his shorn head shone white. Beneath the curve of his brows, his dark eyes darted around the room, then settled on my father.
    “Mr. Milton,” he said in a crisp voice, “I have it on good authority that a Florentine was recently seen at your home in London, seeking your company. A foolish mistake. The king and I know you are in league with some Italians, and a few