By Margaret Frazer
Functioning at the marriage of Sir Edmund Deneby's daughter, the participant Joliffe has one other activity to perform—as a undercover agent. As he uncovers the secrets and techniques of the Denebys' sordid historical past, it turns into transparent that this marriage ceremony get together is destined to finish in tragedy.
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If you should stay away from the corporate of anyone that has been safely brought, fulfill your individual brain that your purposes are right; after which permit no inducement reason you to cut back from treating him with admire, even as shunning his corporation. No gentleman will therefore give you the chance both in charge or mistake you.
The mode within which the avowal of affection will be made, needs to in fact, depend on situations. it'd be most unlikely to point the fashion during which the problem can be instructed. . . . enable it, in spite of the fact that, be taken typically that an interview is better; yet enable it's remembered that each one principles have exceptions. . .
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Additional info for A Play of Dux Moraud (Joliffe the Player, Book 2)
Even lies and lewdness,” she echoed. ” As she spoke, Lady Mary led me up three floors to the maids’ dormitory. There several girls slept in beds crowded under the rafters like a flock of sheep curled in the lee of a cliff. It took me but a moment to fall asleep. Awakening some time later to the murmur of voices, I pretended to be still asleep. “I just peeked at her. She’s a plain one,” said someone with a high voice. “No, just a little roughened from her journey,” came Lady Mary’s voice. “She has no fashionable clothes,” said the first voice again, with a note of pity.
The queen had sent a litter for me, a covered chair atop a brown palfrey. A small chest with my few belongings was secured behind. We set out before dawn the next day. I felt like a grand lady riding so high, but I was a little afraid of falling off. The messenger on his horse seemed to be smiling at me, whether in pity or friendliness, I could not tell. All the way to London I thought about my father. I had sat dry-eyed through his funeral, unable to believe he was dead. His visits home had been rare, for he lived at court as a gentleman of the queen’s privy chamber.
In the dimness I glimpsed the tawny hide of a beast straining against an iron collar, the fur around its face like a giant ruff, sharp teeth bared. Feeling my gorge rise with panic, I pushed my way out of the Tower and ran into the courtyard, gasping the damp air. All the way back to Whitehall, everyone talked of the queen’s menagerie. The roaring beast I had glimpsed was called a lion. The catlike wailing came from a leopard, one of four in an iron cage, Emme said. She described their spotted fur and their long, slim tails.