Lisbon (66 page)

He was so brave. Her heart bled for him. They had sought the aid of so many doctors, and none of them had helped him. He was a mere shadow of the man she had married in Castile all those years ago.

The treatments were indeed painful. From the next room Doña Carlotta could hear her husband groan—and wept to hear it. This unhappy situation continued day after day, with the doctor coming and Doña Carlotta taking her meals in her room and leaving it only to go next door to cheer her husband. She accepted none of the invitations that—in deference to Don Carlos’ position as a man of power and influence in Castile—were brought by messenger to the Royal Cockerel.

And then of a sudden, on the day before All Hallows’ Eve, Don Carlo heaved himself unsteadily to his feet and announced cheerfully to his wife that the treatments 
of this new doctor, who had been credited with working miracles, were working.

Doña Carlotta gave him a worried look. There had been false hopes before.

“No, it is true,” he insisted gaily. “I am much better. I will prove it! I will take you to the opera tonight, and tomorrow night there is some reception, is there not?” “Yes,” she said mechanically. “At the Varvaez home. For Lord Derwent—whoever
that
may be.” She gave Don Carlos a questioning look. “Jorge Varvaez sent word that you might remember him from the old days.”

“As indeed I do! Jorge and I have enjoyed many a gallop across the parched plains of the Alentejo, where the fighting bulls are bred. That was before I met you,
querida mia.
You will like Jorge. I do not know about his wife—she is his second.”

Doña Carlotta winced inwardly. She too was a second wife—and in her own opinion not worthy of such a man as Don Carlos.

“Very well,” she said doubtfully. “I have already sent our regrets, but I will send word to the Varvaezes that we will be able to attend Lord Derwent's reception after all. ” 

“Good.” He smiled at her. For a moment he seemed very like his old self.

There were others who planned to attend the opera that night too:

Clive had quickly become bored with Estoril and Cascais. He told himself that Cassandra might well have moved on to some other town in Portugal by now—and if she had not, they could easily avoid her. So he announced that the plague scare had been a false alarm and brought Lady Farrington and her daughter back to Lisbon—but not to the same inn. This time he chose an inconvenient location higher up, a place called the Sete Cidades, the Seven Cities. His ladies were not too pleased, but they were somewhat mollified when he announced that tonight they would attend the opera.

The opera would have another unexpected patron as well, one who had arrived by ship this morning. Drew Marsden, chafing that the slow tub he had at last managed 
to board had been beset by storms and thus arrived so late in Lisbon, had hastily put up at the first inn available and gone looking for Cassandra. He had not found her. In his eagerness to find her at once, he had announced to one and all that she was his betrothed and he had come to take her back to England. The Portuguese are a tolerant but compassionate people—he had not found a single one who would tell him that Cassandra Dunlawton was now notorious as Prince Damião’s mistress. But at the Green Island, where he had called last, the English-speaking proprietor had taken pity on the tall young fellow with the steady gray eyes. “You should look for her at the opera tonight,” he had suggested. “Most of the English hereabouts are fond of it. ”

Drew, after a long and unsuccessful day’s searching, had decided to follow his advice.

Cassandra would indeed be in attendance at the opera that night. Leeds Birmingham himself had made the trek to the pink palace on the square to ensure that.

He found Cassandra walking about a little disconsolately through the enormous, almost square marble-floored area of the first floor that constituted the front “hall” and at the far side of which wound a handsome staircase. At first it had been fun riding about Lisbon in a golden coach with the royal arms emblazoned upon it, spending her days as Leeds had instructed her a royal mistress should, with dressmakers and the like, buying ivory fans and other fripperies—for the prince, especially now that the royal family claimed a monopoly on the diamonds of Brazil, had an almost bottomless purse. But Cassandra had been discouraged from making friends (“Too dangerous,” Leeds had warned), and the household servants spoke no English. For that matter, since the prince himself spoke only Portuguese, unless Leeds went along, Cassandra found their evenings—they were few enough!—dull in the extreme. Besides, on closer acquaintance she found it very difficult to like the prince; there was something about him, a shiftiness of the eyes perhaps, a contemptuous set of his slack lips. She had wondered how Ines could have fallen in love with him—indeed she might have asked her, but Ines 
seemed to fade away at her approach. And anyway, it would have done no good—Ines too spoke only Portuguese.

Cassandra could not know how sharply her life paralleled that of her lovely young mother: both of them brought up on the shores of the glassy Derwent Water, both destined for unhappiness; far from home, each had found herself trapped in a golden cage—Cassandra trapped in a pink palace, just as Charlotte had once been trapped in a flat-fronted mansion in the Portas del Sol.

Actually Cassandra was preoccupied by thinking about those secret meetings that took place in the house by night—and the prince s part in them. How could there possibly be so much to arrange? Or was he trying to move the contents of the national treasury out of Portugal? So that barefoot Ines would actually be “walking on diamonds,” as Leeds liked to put it? The thought made her smile.

Leeds Birmingham, greeting her in the great lower hall, was struck forcefully again by Cassandra’s startling beauty, but he understood the rebellious expression in her green eyes. Cassandra had a soft heart, she meant to help, but she was growing tired of the monotony and a prince that Leeds himself found difficult to like.

“Greetings!” he said. “Did you know they are writing songs about you and singing them in the taverns?”

“I don’t doubt it!” Cassandra grimaced. “And nothing complimentary, either!”

He chuckled. “They call you the fairest of the fair—and indeed they are right!”

Cassandra shrugged. Her beauty was not a subject she cared to waste time discussing. Her
future
would be of more interest.

“I have not gone out all day,” she said. “Yesterday a woman hurled a stone at my coach. It went right through the coach window and out the other side. And she screamed something at me and shook her fist. I remember the words.” She repeated them to Leeds. “What do they mean?”

Leeds decided to be truthful—after all, Cassandra might very well ask somebody else and find out their real mean
ing and after that not trust him. “They mean
‘You will never be our queen!’
”he told her reluctantly.

“But I don’t want to be their queen!” cried Cassandra. “Obviously the woman didn’t know that.’’

“But it’s ridiculous. Damião isn’t even the crown prince. He is far down the line—the youngest son! He isn’t even 
likely
to inherit the throne.”

“I know that.” Leeds frowned. The rumor that the beautiful English girl Prince Damião had chosen as his mistress would be contented with nothing less than marriage—indeed that she was clawing for the throne itself—was all over town. Leeds couldn’t imagine how it had gotten started. When he had tackled Prince Damião on the subject, he had gotten an evasive answer.

“I am trying to put that rumor down by paying more attention to Constanca,” the prince had responded vaguely.

When Leeds had frowned at that answer, the prince had been quick to add, “Give the English girl this”—he thrust a box at Leeds—“and tell her to wear it when I take her to the opera tonight.”

Leeds had had the strange feeling that the gift had been proffered more to mollify
him
than to delight Cassandra.

Now, as he stood upon the marble floor of the pink palace with Cassandra before him, his voice softened. “I bring you an invitation and a little token from the prince that you may wear tonight when he takes you to the opera. ” From a crimson velvet case he took out a necklace that sparkled like water and clasped it around her slender neck. “He wishes to show you off, Cassandra. And satisfy the royal curiosity, I may add, for none of the royal family has yet seen you. Tonight they will.” He stood back, surveying her. “And they will at least be forced to admit that Prince Damião has good taste in women!”

Cassandra studied the heavy necklace in the mirror with amazement. Its huge stones seemed to cover her entire bosom. “But
I
should not be wearing this,” she gasped. 
“Ines
should be wearing it!”

“Ines will be walking on diamonds where she is going,” Leeds told her indifferently, using his favorite phrase.

“Wear it, Cassandra. But take good care of it,” he cautioned, “for it is worth a king’s ransom.”

He did not have to tell her that.

The corners of his mouth quirked. “Oh, and be sure to look at the prince adoringly. He says that you do not.” Cassandra’s brows lifted and she gave Leeds a quizzical look. Somehow, on closer acquaintance, she found the prince difficult to adore. For all his dark good looks, there was something about him she did not trust, something that made her keep her guard up. . . .

Leeds chuckled. “I do not find Damião adorable either, but remember, he is a prince and princelings are brought up as spoiled darlings. Wear the necklace, Cassandra, light up the opera—and remember that I told you you would enjoy this!”

Tonight she would be sitting in a box at the opera beside a royal prince—even if she did not much care for him—and wearing this wonderful necklace. She was living a dream! Cassandra smiled at Leeds and admitted to herself that at the moment she was indeed enjoying this charade. Especially now that she knew it would be ending soon. For tomorrow was All Hallows’ Eve, which they would be celebrating in England with bonfires, and the day after that was All Hallows’ Day, when Ines would escape with her prince and Cassandra would forget this escapade of being a prince’s mistress and go back to being what she had always been.

But for tonight she would play it to the hilt!

Cassandra dressed for the opera with care. Wend helped, albeit disapprovingly. For this occasion Cassandra had chosen to wear her most dramatic gown—this public appearance beside the prince was no time to be shy! The gown was low-cut, of crimson velvet, very lustrous, and clinging subtly to her figure, and the bodice fit her firm young breasts as if she had been poured into it. Her three-quarter sleeves ended at the elbows with a froth of lace encrusted with brilliants. A wide crimson velvet riband cascaded down, along with a waving blonde lock, from her tall headdress, to move lazily across one almost bare shoulder. When she put on the diamond necklace, she could 
not believe the effect. Wide-skirted, elegant—she had never owned such a dress in England!

She came downstairs beaming, to join the prince and Leeds at the bottom.

Her smile would not have been so bright if she could have heard the conversation that had just taken place between them.

“It would be well if you were to pay more attention to Ana,” Leeds Birmingham had been advising the prince. “How much Cassandra observes from her room”—he nodded toward the upstairs—“I do not know, but it must occur to her that you are not here very often. And it would help if you could remember to call Ana ‘Ines.’ ”

“Why the devil did you have to rename the wench? Surely ‘Ana’ was sufficient!”

“In Cassandra we are dealing with a romantic,” grated Leeds, losing patience. “She was awash with the tragedy of Ines de Castro—I played upon it by giving
you
an Ines as well as a Constanca!”

The prince sneered. “Have you unloaded the gunpowder?” “Yes, it is safe off the ship and in the warehouse. ” “Good. There will be more, Pereira tells me, tomorrow. ” “Then why the devil does Pereira not unload it? He has men aplenty, you tell me.” Leeds’ tone was ironic. “And you might tell me if Pereira is holding secret meetings here. I am told there are men stalking about downstairs by night. ”

The prince bit his lip. So the English girl had ears! “Only once or twice,” he hedged. “He asked me if he might.”

Frowning, Leeds studied the young prince, noting again his shifty eyes. In point of fact it was chance that had brought Damião and Leeds together. Down and out in Madrid, Leeds had drifted into Portugal, encountered Prince Damião bragging loudly in one of Lisbon’s wilder gaming hells—and it had led to this. For Leeds had discovered in the foppish young prince a burning ambition to rule. Cynical Leeds was no stranger to the power plays of princes—in his wanderings he had watched them played out in Europe’s brightest capitals. Sensing in this ambitious prince
ling his own road to wealth and power, the hardened adventurer had cultivated the foppish young man. He had hinted at his prowess, lied about his part in foreign political schemes—and he had impressed Damião. And egged him on.

So young Damião wanted to be king. Well, palace revolts were commonplace, and with enough support—which Damião had always insisted he had—he just might
become 
king.