Joan gave a snort of laughter, which she discreetly muffled with her hand. Margaret had always had a sharp sense of humor that Joan had enjoyed. The two cousins had been extremely close as young girls, and if it wasn’t for the war that had put them on opposite sides—though Margaret didn’t know it—Joan suspected they would have remained that way.

She knew that Margaret attributed Joan’s pulling away to the change in her status that had directly benefitted her cousins, but it wasn’t that. Margaret hadn’t made her a bastard and disinherited her; King Edward and de Beaumont had done that. Nay, she’d pulled away from Margaret because she was one of the few people in England whom she knew it would be painful to betray.

“Your sister is very beautiful,” Joan said diplomatically, not wanting to appear disloyal.

“She is certainly that,” Margaret agreed.

“You are as well,” Joan pointed out. Margaret was lovely—perhaps not as perfectly beautiful as her sister, but few could be. Her hair was more brown than blond, and her eyes were green rather than blue, but her smile was full of good humor that her sister could never hope to emulate.

Margaret’s mouth twitched. “You are kind to say so, cousin, but you don’t need to worry about me. I know my strengths and weaknesses as well as I do my sister’s, though I don’t expect you to agree with me in your position.” She meant as Alice’s tiring woman. “Alice can be . . . difficult.”

They both knew how much of an understatement that was. Joan gave her cousin a thoughtful glance. “How is it that you have not yet married, Margaret? I thought there was some talk a few years back.”

A shadow crossed her cousin’s pretty face, but it was quickly replaced by a smile and a shrug. “It fell apart when our families decided to fight for different kings.”

Joan remembered now: Margaret had been promised to one of the Earl of Ross’s younger sons. John, she thought.

“Is there no one who has caught your eye?”

Margaret gave her a sidelong look. “I suspect my brother by marriage has just as much interest in finding you a husband as he does me.”

Joan suspected she was right. De Beaumont wouldn’t want any husbands to interfere with his claims to Joan’s inheritance—even from a sister.

“And what of you, Joan. Has no one caught your eye?” She gestured with her head to Despenser. “And don’t say him. I don’t think Sir Hugh interests you any more than he does me—although he is a charming rogue. Shameless and extravagant, but charming.”

Joan hoped she hid her alarm. Margaret had always been perceptive—far more than Alice—but Joan didn’t want her asking questions.