Air of Treason, An: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery (Sir Robert Carey Mysteries) by P. F. Chisholm Page B

scent of roses. The English were very good at this sort of delicacy thanks to their miserable cold climate.
    She scraped up the last smears of cream and laughed. “Delicious! And quite unobtainable in Italy, where you would need to freeze it first with snow or it would go off in the heat.” This time she was speaking French which was so much easier.
    Carey’s eyebrows went up; politely he responded in French.
    “What a good idea, Signora,” he said, “frozen creams—perhaps the Queen would enjoy them?”
    Emilia shook her head, making the feather bob and the ringlets fly. “Impossible, Monsieur, you must have high mountains that have snow in summer within one day’s running distance and very clever cooks.”
    “The cooks we have, and the runners,” smiled Carey, his eyes intent and patient. “Alas, the snowy mountains, no.”
    “Also to eat it you need good teeth or the cold makes them twinge.”
    “Ah,” said Carey. “In that case, perhaps not a good idea for the Queen.”
    Emilia giggled. Of course, the Queen, like most of the sugar-loving English, had terrible teeth. Now then. How could she find out his price? Well, she could ask him. That might even be the best way to go.
    She twined her arm into his confidingly and put the sugar plate bowl and spoon down on the banquet table. Her own teeth would certainly no longer stand up to crunching sugar plate.
    “Monsieur, let me be frank with you,” she said. “My husband and I have contacts and knowledge of sweet wines.” They were still speaking French because she wanted to be understood by any embassy listeners. “You are the Earl of Essex’s man, who has the farm for sweet wines?”
    “More than that. He knighted me, Signora.”
    Even Emilia knew how important that was, how difficult it was for a man to be knighted at this Queen’s Court, where the Queen was so stingy with honours and didn’t even sell them like a civilized person.
    “I can help him with his farm of sweet wines,” said Emilia. “All I need is for you to introduce me to the Earl so I can introduce my husband to him. “
    “Now? Tonight?” Like all courtiers he wanted to spin the negotiation out to get more than one bribe.
    “Yes, or someone else will get it.” Suddenly there was sweat trickling down under her smock, it was hard to pretend indifference in this life-or-death matter.
    “Do you want to buy the farm of sweet wines from him?”
    Jesu, if only! “No,” Emilia admitted, “we want to manage it for him so he makes the most profit possible. We also want to import many very fine sweet wines from my country and sell them.” She left unmentioned how immensely valuable to many people might be information straight from the Queen’s favourite, just in case he hadn’t thought of that angle. “If milord Essex does sell the farm to someone else, we can still work with him because he will still need to import sweet wines to drink.”
    “Hmm…”
    “I know we can find good wines at such low prices everyone will still make so much money,” Emilia added, “perhaps a small commission for you…”
    She let the sentence hang in the air and Carey didn’t so much as blink at it floating past. He wasn’t going to be fobbed off that way, it seemed.
    “Fifty pounds cash,” said Carey, “or the equivalent in jewellery. Now.”
    “Now? Jesu Maria…”
    He shrugged, a very French gesture Englished. “You may be able to find someone else to make the introduction,” he said still in French. “They might even cost less. But this is your last chance until the Queen is back at Whitehall because after this, the Court will go to Woodstock and then to Oxford where there will be no women at the University entertainments. The Earl will be closeted with the Queen or attending on her and no one who isn’t already one of his own or the Queen’s will be able to meet with him.”
    Oh God, he was right and he knew it. She bit her lip. He was right. How could she pay him if he was