Dark Angels (39 page)

Such as it was. He grimaced at the fire. The words were those of Lieutenant Saylor, his adroit young spy. One of the letters copied from France hinted at an agreement of some kind. And King Charles wrote about a cipher. Why give his sister a cipher unless she handled secrets? What had the king promised Louis? Whatever it was, he did not share it with his ministers. Was there some colony he gave? Some concession of trade? Something about the succession? He was pleased with Saylor’s work. He’d put him to finding this Henri Ange. And once found, what then? He ran his hand along the fur of his cloak as he ran his mind over the king’s closest ministers. Was there a decent man among them? Was one of them trustworthy?

Not to his mind. The last trustworthy adviser to the king had been the Earl of Clarendon, as much an architect of the Restoration as he himself was. And where was Clarendon now? Banished. Living in the Dutch Republic, writing his memoirs. Oh, this flirtation with poison had the smell of Buckingham, old Georgie Porgie, that confounded, treacherous, lecherous, lightning wit of court. He’d like to see Buckingham fall. What pleasure there would be in that. A last service he could do this kingdom. Did the fall include Buckingham’s minion Sir Thomas Verney? He had regard for Alice, always had. She had a quick mind and the wiliness of a born courtier. And lovely, lovely dark eyes. Ambitious little climber, said the Duchess of Cleveland. After you. Is it not too amusing, Your Grace? Thinking she can gather you in her coils, said Cleveland. Exactly what she seemed to be doing.

A
LICE CROSSED
W
HITEHALL
Street, stepped into the Life Guard building, and walked down a hall until she stood before a door. She could hear music from inside the chamber. Richard must be playing his guitar. She put her ear to the door. He was singing. She leaned against the door, her eyes closed so that she might hear better. After a time, she straightened her shoulders, knocked decisively. He stood framed in the doorway, holding up a sealed letter, which she took from him.

“Are you not engaged to go to His Grace’s?” she asked.

“Later. For Monmouth, it’s early yet.”

“You don’t enjoy it?”

He shrugged. “What adventure are you upon, masked like that?”

“No adventure.” Words were in her throat. She wanted to tell him about the letter, the note to the queen, her fears about Renée. But she was silent.

He cocked his head to one side, his expression quizzical. She took a step backward, turned with a light step, the letter for Renée clasped to her breast.

“Verney.”

She faced him again.

“I think we ought to call each other by our Christian names. Have I your permission to call you Alice?”

“Yes.”

Richard watched her walk away. She moved with an instinctive grace. Her mouth was lovely. The mask accentuated it. Had she a secret sweetheart? Who knew with Alice? He shook his head and closed the door.

I
N THE MAIDS
of honor’s apartments, Renée sat on the floor, skirts bunched around her, staring into the fire. A note had come to her that the French ambassador would be calling. He would ask how she did, if she had need of anything, and then he would come to what he really called upon her for. What news have you for me? Anything, no matter how small, he wished to hear. She was spy to this court. He was impatient with her, not understanding why she dallied when the king’s interest was so pointed. And there was a note from Lady Arlington, a lady-in-waiting to the queen, wife of one of the king’s privy council members. She wished to call upon her. The story of the king’s kiss on her palm was all over the court, doubtless in a letter on its way to King Louis at this very moment. What would Richard say when he heard of it? But perhaps no one would be foolish enough to tell him. The great ladies came to flatter, to be on her good side now that they saw for certain which way the grass grew. Renée smiled with the pleasure of knowing that a little nobody, one Renée de Keroualle, had caught the attention of a someone so important. She looked down at her hand, turned the palm over, starting at the place the king’s lips had brushed.

She was not unmoved by his kiss or his clear desire. What to do with that? What to do with anything?

I
N THE QUEEN’S
bedchamber there was a low, ornately gilded railing that separated the bed from the rest of the chamber, the way a railing separated the altar from the rest of the church. One had to have express permission from the queen to step inside. This night, the queen’s old nurse dozed on a cot just inside it. The queen had needed her presence—the vicious note had struck hard, struck well. The curtains around the bed were pulled shut.

Alice tiptoed inside the bedchamber to Barbara, who was sleeping as best she could, huddled in a chair some distance from the queen’s bed. Barbara started awake at the touch of her hand. Alice knelt down, thinking about Richard. Had she indeed stood before a man who was not run by pleasure? An amazing thing. “I lost my temper today, Ra. Say you forgive me.”

Barbara was silent. Alice couldn’t read her expression, but from another armchair, legs extended themselves out, and the face of Gracen appeared over the back of the top of the chair.

“I’m so, so sorry,” Alice repeated. “I don’t know what got into me.”

“Never mind it,” Barbara said.

C
HAPTER 22

All Hallows’ Eve

A
day later, Alice swept into her father’s drawing room before his new footman could announce her. She drew up short at the sight of Louisa Saylor and her sister, Lady Cranbourne, sitting, very much at their ease, with her father. The sight of the sisters took her cold anger and heated it to fury.

“Mademoiselle Verney,” said Lady Cranbourne, “what a pleasure to see you. I was just remarking to your father that we don’t see enough of you.”

“Try calling upon Queen Catherine once in a blue moon. You’ll find me there, on duty.”

The smile on the two sisters’ faces stopped looking quite so genuine.

“You haven’t taken off your cloak, poppet,” said Sir Thomas. “Whatever is the matter with that footman of mine? Perryman!” He bellowed the name, and Alice was pleased to see Louisa repress a wince.

“Perryman!”

“I did not wish to give him my cloak. Do we speak alone, Father, or do I enlighten your guests as to precisely the kinds of plots you make?”

Lady Cranbourne stood. “It’s time Louisa and I took our leave.”

Alice waited coldly while the Saylor sisters said good-bye to her father. She noted how he lingered over both the shapely hands held out to him, how he fussed over the gathering of their cloaks, how he had to help Louisa Saylor tie hers under the neck, how Louisa smiled up at him. Strumpet. She said not a word to the sweeter-than-island-sugar good-byes the sisters gave to her.

Once they were out the door, ushered away by her father’s treasure, young Perryman, the pleasantness on her father’s face dissolved. Brows drawn together, he advanced on her. She knew this trick. Pumping himself full of hot air so that he could blast away whatever was blown—rightly or wrongly—in his direction. She wasn’t having a bit of it.

“When did I become a procuress?”

The question stopped him. Alice watched him gather his wits together.

“How dare you do this to me? Were you ever going to tell me?”

“Of course I was.”

“You made a fool of me!”

“Never. You’re chilled through, that’s what it is. I’m sending for spiced ale, and you’re to drink it, my girl, whether you have a mind to or not. Perryman! Perryman, some ale for the pair of us. Now then, give me your cloak, sit down a moment, and let’s discuss this reasonably. That’s my poppet.”

“I’m not your poppet, Father. I’m someone you use the way you’d use the least servant in the house.”

“I’m a worthless devil, Alice, who ought to be horsewhipped for the way I’ve handled things. How is Mademoiselle de Keroualle?”

“Distraught.”

He considered this, and Alice watched him do it. Had he a single decent moral? Was he nothing but shifting sand? Richard was in her mind. And Balmoral. Honorable men.

“She should have said something before all my expense and bother.”

“Let me understand this, Father. Did Renée know that she was being brought over to bed the king?”

“You put it so baldly—”

“Answer me!”

“Well, who’s to say on that? I wasn’t there when she was first approached, now, was I? And I myself said nothing to her, depending on those in France to have handled the matter.”

“Father, she isn’t a woman of the streets, a whore to be bought and sold at whim!”

“Of course she isn’t. She’s a good, decent young woman, a far cry from those actresses he’s been after of late.”

“And if she doesn’t bed the king, there will be no harm done. We’ll find her a decent husband, and King Charles may go on his merry way.”

“Who says so? Why wouldn’t she? I’ve not spent my coins to dower her for some other man, Alice.”

“But you’ll spend them on gowns and jewels to catch the king’s eye, like a pimp?”

“Where do you learn the language you do? You shock me, Alice, indeed you do!”

“From court! From Rochester and Sedley and Buckhurst! From Sheffield and Killigrew! From you!” Ferocious anger rose in her as she named the rogues who amused the king. If her father had had any part in the queen’s despair, she would poison him herself. “You should have enlightened me!”

“It’s no dishonor to be mistress of the king.”

“Father, there have to be some proprieties. She is unmarried, has no family here to protect her. The wolves are already gathering, wanting to be in at the kill.”

“Who?”

“Lady Arlington. The Duchess of Lauderdale. The Countess of Suffolk.”

“Those conniving—excuse me, Alice—but I’m the one who has spent all the coin—”

“And used his own daughter as procuress! How could you allow this? You know my loyalty to the queen!”

“Yes, well, if you love the Portuguese, you’d best keep her husband distracted.” The words were harsh, but no more so than the expression on his face.

“She is good and loyal and does her duty. She brought millions to the treasury in her dower.”

“That was then, and this is now. She’s barren. It’s her duty to give us princes. There are none. Some of us believe there never will be. It’s what, ten years?”

“King Louis was born after twenty years of barrenness.”

“His father fancied men. Our king is a proper man. His wife isn’t a proper woman.”

“The marriage cannot be undone. Marriage is a sacrament. Those who say otherwise are unholy.”

“And she’s a Papist. I was against it at the time. Let us have a proper Protestant, a German or Austrian or Dane, as our queen, I said. No one listened.” He stared hard at Alice. “You’ve not become a Papist, have you?”

“Would you hate me if I had?”

There was a strained silence between them. A pulse beat up high in her temple. He would hate her. And she loved him in spite of everything, all his flaws, his betrayals.

“I won’t help Renée become the king’s mistress.” Her voice was trembling.

“Not even if the king would be grateful, do anything he could for you in return? He might, for instance, have a word on your behalf to Balmoral, and his word counts for something, wouldn’t you say? Ah, your face, Alice, not quite so high and righteous now, are we? Truth is, Balmoral isn’t keen to ally himself with me at the moment. We’ve some differences between us, and that’s all I’ll say on that. And word is the Duchess of Cleveland has put a bug in his ear about you—That reminds me. I’ve thought of a trick we might play, just this once so, as you say, suspicion will fall elsewhere.”

“I’m leaving now.”

“Life isn’t filled with easy choices,” he called to her retreating figure. “We all of us get our hands dirty after a time. How do you think I kept you fed when we were abroad?”

Outside, Alice huddled in her cloak as the sedan chair borne by bearers lurched from side to side in its journey back to Whitehall, her groom walking alongside the chair. She was chilled, especially in her heart. How much was her father a part of the plot against the queen? Today was the day of All Hallows’. Evil spirits abroad. She leaned back against the straight, uncomfortable seat. King Charles to help with Balmoral. Her father knew precisely what to say to her. Weren’t all her schemes for this, to be his duchess, to be above the fray, to set her friends in fine marriages like so many pieces on the chessboard, to know she was at the whim of no one, to aid the queen, to repay Colefax for scandal and distress? That’s what being a duchess meant. And to be the duchess of a man of honor, well, there was nothing higher. Her mind moved here and there, around the situation, thoughts glinting like silver fish surfacing in the river of her mind…Richard loved Renée, and she loved him in turn. Was there a way she could seem to aid the king’s suit but actually aid theirs? King Charles had forgiven Frances Stewart. He would forgive Renée. For him, there was always another woman. In her mind, she saw a series of keepers, saw a long finger wagging up and down at her, the child Alice, naughty, willful, running wild because her mother was dead and her father was absent. Would you both have your cake and eat it too? The question was ridiculous. Yes, was the answer. Always.