The French Mistress (25 page)

Now it was my turn to be uneasy, and cautiously I glanced over my shoulder to make certain we were not overheard. “His Majesty believes Madame was poisoned?”

“He does,” he answered firmly. “Who does not? There is nothing but outrage in London, and because of it all Frenchmen must be on their guard lest the rabble choose to make them accountable for the princess’s death. Surely you have heard the question His Majesty put to Louis’s emissary.”

I shook my head.

“He asked when the Chevalier de Lorraine would be returning to the French Court,” Montagu said with outraged relish. “That’s what he said, bold as new brass, and who can fault him? You saw Madame die, mam’selle, as did I. How can you have any doubt after that?”

“It is not my place to ask such questions, sir,” I said carefully. We all were distraught over Madame’s death, but I did wish the ambassador would be less bold in expressing himself. I doubted I’d ever become accustomed to the blustering frankness with which these Englishmen spoke, even the most politic ones.

“It may not be your place, mam’selle, but it certainly is His Majesty’s to ask after the circumstances of his sister’s murder,” he said bluntly. “He has, too, and he’s yet to have answers from any Frenchman. Considering the barbarous manner with which our poor English princess was used by her husband while still alive, and then what I have heard of that vile catamite de Lorraine—”

“Please, sir, I beg you, guard your words,” I whispered urgently. I’d heard this same story myself, of course, one of the many scandalous theories then rippling about the Court. Though still banished to exile in Italy, Monsieur’s old favorite, the Chevalier de Lorraine, was being credited with having his pawns murder Madame. The chevalier was said to have purchased a specially lethal poison from Florence (the center for all such nefarious drugs), infused in a paper that was then wiped inside Madame’s cup. Thus those who drank from the same pitcher of chicory water were unharmed, and only Madame perished. I could well believe that the chevalier would wish Madame harm, for he had always perceived her as a rival, and besides, she was the reason for his banishment.

But I was not so foolish as to discuss any plot involving the king’s brother here at the Louvre, not with all the eager ears around me. I placed a cautionary hand on the ambassador’s sleeve.

“Please, sir,” I continued. “I do not know the custom in London, but in Paris there’s a danger to speaking too freely.”

Montagu cocked his brows, surprised that I’d show such caution. “You are wise to take care, mam’selle.”

I tipped my head in graceful acknowledgment. “If one wishes to prosper at Court, then one does well to be wise.”

“One better damn well be wise in this den of mincing rogues, else one will find oneself poisoned.” He smiled, regarding me shrewdly. “Not many ladies are so reticent.”

“But not many ladies are in my situation, sir,” I demurred with a sigh. “I’m a lady without a fortune, you see. With Madame gone, I’ve no true friend left at Court.”

“You were one of her ladies, weren’t you?” he asked, though it was clear he already knew the answer. “A maid of honor. What shall you do now without a mistress? Have you another place here, or must you return to your father’s house?”

“I cannot go home, sir,” I said, and my shudder was genuine. My parents had sent me here to make my fortune or, more specifically, to wed it, and after nearly two years, I’d accomplished nothing in their eyes except failure. If I returned home now, my father would deem me a shameful inconvenience, and soon find an excuse to send me to a convent, where I could at least pray for the soul of my brother. “I fear a spinster daughter would not be welcomed.”

“I’d wager you’d be welcome most anywhere, mam’selle,” he said gallantly, his gaze flicking downward to appraise my bosom, shrouded though it was in black mourning. “A great beauty such as yours most usually is.”

“You are too kind, sir.” It was still curious to me how every Englishman I met delighted in my face and form and praised my beauty to the heavens, while my own countrymen seemed impervious to my charms: proving, I suppose, that even Venus is susceptible to fashions set by kings.

“That’s honesty, not kindness,” he said. “How long before Monsieur turns you out, eh?”

“Not before Madame’s funeral.” Our quarters at the Palais-Royal were a strange, haunted place now. Those of us who remained were too idle, with the uncomfortable air of those who’d overstayed a supper with the host waiting at the door. Yet it was still a place at Court, however sorrowful the circumstances, and I was loath to leave it without another as replacement.

Unless, of course, it was in the ambassador’s power to offer me a new place with the English queen, the same position that his king himself had first suggested at Dover.

“We ladies will not be ‘turned out,’ as you call it,” I continued, determined not to let my hopes run away with my senses. “His Majesty would not permit Monsieur to treat us ill.”

Montagu snorted. “He’s permitted a great deal more than that.”

I didn’t smile, not wishing to condone his flippancy. How brashly these English did speak, saying aloud whatever came to their heads!

“I should say I will remain at the Palais-Royal until September,” I said, “unless another place is granted to me before then.”

“September.” He nodded, watching me closely. “I expect by then you’ll have been given another position here?”

“I will have decisions before me by then, yes,” I said, purposefully not answering one way or another. The truth was more definite, and harder, too. Most of Madame’s remaining attendants had already moved to other households at Court, some shifting to Her Majesty while others had simply chosen to retire and return to their homes in the country. But I’d no well-connected sponsor to present me to the queen or a doting husband to welcome me home, and on account of my loyalty toward Madame, I could scarcely expect the vengeful Monsieur to act on my behalf and recommend me to another. Though poor Madame wasn’t yet buried, there was already talk of him remarrying, and the new Madame would want attendants of her own choosing.

Thus I’d plenty of reason to lie awake at night, plagued by my sorry future. Desperation is never a soothing companion, and who could fault me for weeping into my pillow with frustration, and fear, too? In fact the only real offer I’d had was the one that Charles had made to me in Dover, when I’d been holding Madame’s jewels. Of course I’d no wish to confess that now to the ambassador, though I suspected he might already have known about it.

“Surely your king will find you a good place, mam’selle,” he said, shamelessly prodding for more information. “Considering how well you served Madame, I’d think there’d be some plum waiting for you.”

“I’ll know soon enough, sir,” I said, and forced myself to smile. I wondered if he was entitled to repeat his king’s offer, and I wondered, too, if I’d accept it if he did.

But all he did now was smile in return, pleasantness without any offer, and then set our conversation on a very different course. “Have you heard the Duke of Buckingham’s on his way from London?”

“No, sir, I did not,” I murmured, my expression unchanging to mask my disappointment. From Madame and my time in Dover, I knew Mr. Montagu was more an ally of Lord Arlington, and that they viewed Lord Buckingham as a dangerous inconvenience, even a rival, much as Madame herself had. But if the ambassador hoped to see me betray myself for one side or the other, then he’d be disappointed. I’d long ago mastered how to hide my true feelings behind the calmness of a well-bred French lady, and it would take far more than the arrival of the Duke of Buckingham to discomfit me.

“His Grace will be representing His Majesty at Her Highness’s funeral,” the ambassador continued. “But he’s also here to complete the details of a new treaty between England and France. I’m sure you must have heard of it while you were in Dover.”

Ah, so here was my true test. I knew, just as did he, that there were no further details to be completed regarding an alliance between England and France. The Secret Treaty had been signed, and I’d been a witness. But the Secret Treaty had been exactly that: a secret to be kept closely among those few of us who knew of its existence. Madame had made sure I’d understood, and I had, along with the reasons for the secrecy.

Yet without further explanation, I also understood why the Duke of Buckingham would be here now. Over and over he’d been referred to as the Protestant duke, the one royal councilor who would never understand the clause regarding His Majesty’s conversion to the True Church. Any treaty that His Grace might now be ordered to negotiate must be false, designed to mask further the Secret Treaty that had come before. What better way to reassure a nation of uneasy Protestants than to have the unwitting Protestant duke act on their behalf ? Surely this must be the final piece of Madame’s grand design, and I couldn’t help but think how much she must have enjoyed arranging for the arrogant Buckingham to play the dupe.

I understood it all, yes. But likewise I understood that the ambassador wished to gauge my trust with so precious a secret. I’d not disappoint him. Madame had trained me too well to do that.

Instead I smiled with bland and guileless sweetness, an expression that came easily to my youthful face. “Forgive me, sir, but why speak to me of politics and treaties and other such affairs of gentlemen? I fear they are beyond me entirely.”

He smiled slowly. “Surely your mistress must have mentioned this treaty to you,” he prompted. “Everyone knows how much it meant to her for France and England to come together as allies.”

I shook my head, as if in confusion. “Her Highness spoke of many things to me, sir, but as my mistress, not as a foreign minister.”

His smile widened. “But what of your master? Monsieur has shown great curiosity in this matter, demanding details of his brother’s latest alliance. You accompanied Madame to Dover, and were privy to many of the affairs there. Surely Monsieur has spoken to you of his wife’s doings in England, or what she discussed with her brother the king?”

“Oh, sir,” I said, full of regret. “I am sorry, but you grant me too much credit, far beyond my knowledge and station. Monsieur did ask me, yes, but I told him no more than I tell you now. If you asked me which jewels Madame pinned into her hair, or which gown she’d worn when we attended the ballet with His Majesty her brother, why, that I could tell you. But not the other.”

“Very good,” he said, nodding with approval. “And what if His Grace the Duke of Buckingham were to ask these same sorts of questions of you? His Grace is a charming, handsome rogue, and far more beguiling than my rough old face could ever be. Would you give him the same answers, my dear? Or could he wheedle more from you?”

“Oh, no, sir,” I said with conviction. “He couldn’t, because I cannot offer what I do not possess. And your face is not so rough as all that, sir. Pray, don’t fault yourself. A certain ruggedness is most agreeable in a gentleman’s face, and a pleasing sign of virility to ladies.”

“Virility!” He laughed aloud, patting the sides of his brocaded waistcoat with delight. “By God, mam’selle, you are a jewel, just as His Majesty claimed, and like the best jewels, there are a good many more facets to you than are first perceived.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, and smiled, too. “If that was meant as a compliment, that is.”

“Oh, it was, it was, as you know perfectly well, you little minx,” he said, chuckling still. “No wonder His Majesty was so taken with you. You’ve discretion and modesty and cleverness to equal your beauty. Upon my word, I couldn’t say that of any other lady that the king’s fancied, or the parade of strumpets, either.”

“Does His Majesty fancy me?” I asked breathlessly, my careful guile forgotten in one shameless, impulsive moment. “Oh, please, tell me! Does he remember me?”

“Oh, aye, he remembers you well enough,” he said, and from the smug satisfaction in his voice, I realized at once I’d betrayed myself. “Dover was not so long ago, my dear, nor are you the kind of lady he’d soon forget.”

My cheeks grew hot with dismay. Without a thought, I’d tipped my cards toward him, and given him the advantage over me. Now he knew I cared for His Majesty not as a king, but as a man, and that desire made me vulnerable. As much as I might wish it, I couldn’t take back my incriminating words, but I still could recover if I could make him remember I was a French lady, and not another common English hussy.

“Indeed, sir,” I murmured, clasping my hands before me exactly as my mother did when dealing with ill-behaved servants. “It is a great honor for any Frenchwoman to be remembered by His English Majesty.”

He frowned, and to make sure he was properly discomfited, I touched my fingers lightly to my only ornament, the little crucifix about my neck. To a Protestant Englishman, that should be reminder enough that I was different.

I smiled, not smugly, but shyly. “Might I beg a great favor of you, Mr. Montagu?”

“Of course, mam’selle,” he agreed, gallant, but uneasy, too, as if worried about what I might ask. Foolish gentleman!

“If, as you say, His Majesty does remember me, would you please convey to him my condolences for Her Highness’s death?” There was no guile to the tears that now filled my eyes. My sorrow was genuine for Madame’s memory and always would be. “Please tell him that though I cannot comprehend the severity of his loss, I do think often of the pain he must feel. Please tell him that despite what he may hear, there are those here in France who truly do mourn her, and feel her loss most grievously, and please tell him that—that I pray for him, sir, and for Madame as well.”

“That’s your favor, mam’selle?” the ambassador asked, incredulous. “That’s all you want me to tell the king on your behalf ?”

“Yes, sir,” I said softly. “I would have the king know that he is much in my thoughts and my prayers. That’s favor enough for me, sir, and all I ask.”