Dark Angels (27 page)

And Beuvron realized the English lieutenant was dressed in livery, like all the footmen in the house, his hair tied back in a neat horse’s tail, black ribbon to hold it.

“Do I owe you money? Is that it?” He was undone by seeing Ange, by Richard showing up in his chamber like a ghost. “You’ve come at the proper time, if so.” He pulled coins from a pocket, tossed them on the bed. “If you want more, you’ll have to wait in line.”

“I desire information.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Beuvron was sharp.

“Who else is talking to you?”

“Alice Verney.”

Richard smiled. The smile was wide, startling. Sacred heaven, Richard was beautiful. Beuvron felt himself half seduced. “What does she ask for?”

“Why should I tell you?”

Richard pointed to the coins on the bed. “For more of those than you can imagine.”

“Who would pay?”

“A great man.”

“What does he want?”

“He wants to know about a certain casket of letters, would like the letters.”

“I can’t do that.” Beuvron was shrill again. “I won’t do that.”

“Copies of the letters, then. Come, my friend, think. That could be arranged, couldn’t it? Is Monsieur really so interested anymore?”

It was true. With the funeral over, it was as if the princess were a bad dream they’d all dreamed. The little translator hired for the letters was already bored, already playing truant to his task. Monsieur had been involved for a brief moment, become impatient, and moved on.

“I’d like to see the casket. Can you take me to see it?”

“Now?”

Richard was caressing. “I won’t do anything to put you in danger. Let me but see the casket, know it really exists, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

The next thing he knew, Beuvron was leading Richard down a back stairway, down a hall, all the while thinking, What am I doing? Why am I doing this? The Palais Royal was filled with chambers and halls. He opened a door, put his head inside. Sure enough, the translator was not there. He and d’Effiat were having a fling. Beuvron stayed at the door while Richard examined the chamber. He allowed himself to admire the crisp, efficient way the Englishman moved. There on a table, for all the world to see, was the small casket. At least the translator had the sense to lock it, thought Beuvron, ashamed suddenly of how like spoiled children they all were, tired of toys too soon, treasuring nothing. He watched Richard pick up the casket and look at it from all sides before putting it back to pick up a sheaf of papers held with a red ribbon.

“What have we here?” Richard said softly. He untied the ribbon, looked through the papers, smiled again.

Beuvron watched in horror as Richard rummaged through loose paper and books on the table, watched as he tied the red ribbon around blank paper, not the ones it had originally held. “What are you doing? Stop that!”

Richard put a finger to his lips, walked to the door, and led the way back to Beuvron’s chambers.

How does he find his way back? thought Beuvron. Is he a bloodhound? In the bedchamber, he exploded. “You put my life in jeopardy with what you’ve done! I demand you hand over those papers—”

“Or what? You’ll strike me?” Richard laughed. “I’m going to take these with me, and then tomorrow, I’m going to return them. No one will be the wiser, and our great man will be pleased.”

“I cannot allow this! I’m going to tell Monsieur.”

“Who is at Versailles, is he not? By the time you ride there and back, I’ll be gone.”

Beuvron felt desperate. “How pleased?”

“Six louis d’or worth.”

It was an enormous sum.

“Ten.” But Beuvron sensed the Englishman knew he’d be satisfied with less. He cursed himself for a fool. Let him offer five, he thought. I’d be satisfied with five.

“Eight.”

Beuvron smiled. Richard was a gentleman. For eight he’d live with fear and much more.

“I’ll be back in the morning with the papers and with your coins.” Richard stood, held out his hand. “Have we an agreement?”

“We have.”

“What was Mistress Verney asking about?”

“The day the princess died.”

“How many louis will that cost?”

“It can’t be bought.” Beuvron had only to think of Henri Ange to feel fear snake up his spine. Once the door was closed again and Richard was gone, he went to the window that overlooked the rooftops of Paris. The shadow of Henri Ange shrank. If he didn’t talk of him, he wouldn’t conjure him. Eight louis d’or. He could pay off his debts and start fresh. He breathed in soft summer air. Or he could continue to gamble.

In a servants’ hall, Richard shrugged on his own jacket, untied the ribbon and let his hair fall to his shoulders, picked up the livery jacket, folded to a neat square, and walked out of the palace. In the gardens, he was just another Parisian citizen enjoying Monsieur’s generosity. Another few blocks and he was at the clerk’s, who had his inkstand filled and his pen poised, ready to copy the letters.

“I’ll be back by nightfall,” he told the man.

Then he walked to a monastery nearby; they’d given him an empty monk’s cell, used by pilgrims, accepting that he was an English Catholic—not to mention the coins he gave them. The urge to call on Renée, to send her a note asking her to meet him in secret, was insistent, powerful as a heartbeat, but to do so would jeopardize what he’d been asked to do. Balmoral was not one to suffer fools; one misstep would finish him with the duke, who did him a great honor by trusting him. He changed clothes, putting on the satin coat and breeches of a Parisian dandy, powdering his face pale, affixing a patch to his right cheek the way they did here. A heavy wig, and he would no longer know who he was if he caught a glimpse of himself in a pier glass. There were gambling dens to frequent, losing a few coins, finding men Balmoral had asked him to contact, setting into motion the gathering of certain information Balmoral wished to know. So Alice had asked questions, too. Richard smiled. Why was he not surprised?

H
IS
G
RACE THE
Duke of Buckingham cut into another slice of beef.

“The first time she came to England was when she was seven and ten. The world knows the story of her being left by her mother only weeks after she was born, never seeing her father before he was beheaded.” The duke swallowed back emotion, but to Alice’s eye the gesture was practiced; he’d said it too many times before, and real emotion had died. “Of course, I saw her when she was a little girl hanging on her mother, hanging on the edges of the French court. We were all on the edge in those days.” He shook his head. “Hard days.”

“You landed on your feet, if memory serves me.” Aunt Brey was acidic, out of patience with this great duke. The truth was Buckingham had left the life of an exile, returned to England before the Restoration to marry a Roundhead heiress and make love, it was rumored, to Cromwell’s daughter besides.

“Won’t you ladies have some more wine? Fill their cups again.” He waved his arms grandly, ready to launch into another memory of Princesse Henriette. “God, I loved her once upon a time—”

“I believe we heard that tale on the trip over,” said Aunt Brey.

They were in Buckingham’s cabin in the forecastle, his windows open to the sound of sails. There was a good wind blowing them to England. The ship’s keel sang a quiet lament as it strained against the water through which they clipped. Through the windows one could see the night, filled with stars, like diamonds scattered on a black court gown. The table was set as if they were in London, with linens and silver. There was lantern light, the sound of sails whipping out hard, the ship groaning and creaking. What were you doing so long in Paris? wondered Alice, staring at Buckingham’s florid face. What mischief do you brew? Do you threaten my queen, who harms no one, and perhaps for the likes of you, that is her crime? And where was her father’s place in all this? And Renée’s? Her courtier’s instincts told her intrigue was brewing.

“It’s quite late, Your Grace.” Aunt Brey, her duenna up, was determined that his drinking companions would have to be the sailors on board. “I fear these two young ladies need their beds.” I had to listen to his boasts all the way over, she’d told Alice as they walked on board ship to return. I refuse to listen all the way back.

Buckingham grimaced, then smiled—charm there, clear evidence of a man who had always been the beau of court and knew no other role. “Well then, a final toast. To the memory of our precious princess, our pale pearl, the favorite of two kingdoms, two kings, may she rest in peace.”

Everyone raised their goblets and drank. Renée crossed herself.

“Beware of doing that in England.” Buckingham’s charm disappeared. “There’s great feeling against your kind just now.”

“My kind?”

“Indeed.”

Renée stood, put down her napkin, and, swaying against the motion of the ship, left the cabin.

“A little touchy for my tastes,” said Buckingham. “She’d best swallow that. But lovely, very, very lovely, I will agree.”

With whom? thought Alice. She excused herself and went to Renée, knocking on the door of the cabin they were sharing. She had half hoped Renée was being brought over by her father for Buckingham, but that didn’t seem to be the case. Putting her ear to the door, she could hear sounds of weeping. Alice smiled, thinking of her father. He hated women’s tears, fled from them at the first drop. And then her smile faded. Her father, the potential poisoner. Opening the door, she entered, then sat on the edge of the bed, willing herself to be kind. “Why do you weep?”

“Oh, for her, and for his memories of her, and for myself, leaving everything I know. I was a fool to come, a fool to listen to cajoles.”

Cajoles? thought Alice. Did I cajole? “Perhaps not.”

“I am not to worship my God in your country?”

“It’s just that you must be discreet with it, that’s all. Our good queen is Catholic, the Duchesses of York and of Cleveland, even some great men high in His Majesty’s regard. Barbara is. You’ll find yourself among friends in this. As a maid of honor, you may accompany the queen to prayer several times a day. She’d be glad of it.”

“I wish I had not consented. I am alone.”

“You’re not. And everyone admired you so in Dover. They will be ready to do so again.”

“Madame was there. I belonged to Madame, and for her sake they were kind to me.”

“Not just for her sake. You know you captured more than one heart, and if I’m not mistaken, you possess one true one, someone who will be filled with joy at your return.”

“My dear lieutenant. Yes, he’ll take care of me, won’t he?” She sat up, wiped at her face. “I forget that. You were so kind to bring me his letters. Your aunt would disapprove to know how bad we were. There—in that little bag—they are. Please be so kind as to fetch one and read it to me, and perhaps I can quiet my fears.”

Alice selected a letter, thinking to herself she wanted to read it almost as much as Renée wanted to hear it.

Mademoiselle de Keroualle, I am afraid you will think by my wandering writings that a midsummer moon has taken possession of me. It’s true. I am possessed. There is a saying in England that it is unwise to wear one’s heart upon one’s sleeve, but I can do nothing else when you are in my thoughts.

Alice took a breath and continued.

You told me you’d entrusted your own dear heart to mine. Such knowledge fills me with elation, and I vow my devotion, my loyalty, my being, to you again and again, a hundred times over, a thousand. When I have the privilege to claim you in marriage, you will never lack for affection or passion, and whatever is mine will be yours also. I will take you to the place of my boyhood, called Tamworth. It is my legacy and my treasure, as you are my treasure. There are woods and a stream and a village. The house is old. There is a hillock from which one can watch fine sunsets. One day you will watch a sunset with me. When I was a boy, I fished in the stream and dreamed dreams, which are my guide to this day. I think I dreamed of you. I must close as my paper ends. I remain, yours to command in anything, Richard Saylor, Lieutenant in His Majesty’s Life Guards and lieutenant to you.

Alice refolded the letter carefully. “I would be very proud to receive such a letter.”

“He knows what he wants. I adore that in him. I am so often confused.”

Wait until we land, thought Alice.

C
HAPTER 14