The Boleyn Deceit (20 page)

Dominic thought his heartbeat must be audible not only to his king but to the entire household. “If I am? Say what you mean, William.”

“I do hope it’s not Elizabeth.”

After a long, blank moment, Dominic laughed aloud. William at first looked affronted, but then joined in. “I take it that’s a no,” he said merrily.

Dominic shook his head. “I am not in love with Elizabeth. I like her very much, but that is all.”

“I’m glad. Not that I don’t think you good enough for my sister, but there are always political complications.”

“Always.”

“And truly, Dom, if you are going to love just one woman, I want it to be a woman who will love you as you deserve. Perhaps it won’t be the woman you marry, but I suppose we’ll see.”

The laughter died. “I suppose we will.”

D
OMINIC
’
S FIRST VISIT
to France had been as a poorly concealed spy for Lord Rochford in 1553. He had been greeted courteously, treated generously, and watched endlessly. His second visit had been with the English army in the summer of 1554, and that had entailed more than four bloody months of sieges and battles and their aftermath.

This third visit in three years was by far the most dangerous. Dominic was the senior peer escorting a gaggle of females ranging from Elizabeth and Lady Rochford to six young girls, none of them older than fifteen, who would be taken into Elisabeth de France’s household for the foreseeable future. All of them came with their own maids and attendants, and between seasickness and feminine sniping, Dominic figured his most difficult task was simply getting all of them from England to the French court. Without tossing one of them overboard or making more than three of them cry in any given day.

He could swear that every time he saw her, Minuette was laughing at him.

After the voyage from Dover to Le Havre—conquered and garrisoned by the English armies last year—it took nearly a week to get them to Paris by river. They were accompanied by officials
from the French king’s household, supervised by Cardinal de Guise, and treated to every courtesy and comfort along the way.

The French court itself welcomed them exuberantly at the great royal château of Fontainebleau. The present King Henri’s father had expanded and decorated it extensively, and Henri was continuing that work. Dominic, usually indifferent to style and décor, had to admit to awe at the Salle des Fêtes, newly completed in the Italian Mannerist style (or so he was told—he didn’t know Mannerist from Gothic). The gallery was flooded with light from the tall windows, the better to appreciate the frescoes between the windows and the paintings that filled every wall. The geometric design of the ceiling was highlighted in gold gilding. It was the most impressive single room Dominic had ever seen, and a stunning setting for the elegant, languid grace of the French court. The royals themselves did not attend this opening reception—Elizabeth was dining privately with King Henri II, Queen Catherine de Medici, and William’s betrothed princess. But everyone else of importance was in the Salle des Fêtes on this late afternoon in June, and once Dominic got his bearings, he amused himself with watching Lady Rochford, who stood out amongst the others like a crow in the midst of peacocks.

Minuette detached herself from two of the young ladies-in-waiting who had come from England and moved to Dominic’s side. “Lady Rochford does look as though she cannot decide whether to allow herself to be dazzled or if it would be better to behave as though all this is nothing to her.”

“Which do you think it is, really?”

“Envy,” Minuette decided, after a considering moment. “If she didn’t frighten me so much—and if she wasn’t so relentlessly offensive—I would feel sorry for her. She is always seeking to make people pay attention. It can’t be easy to be married to
someone who spends so much of his time in other women’s beds.”

Why did their every conversation turn to marriage? Dominic said abruptly, “Have you met Madame de Poitiers yet?”

“No. Is she here?” Minuette craned to try to see Europe’s most famous courtesan.

Oh, she was here. Dominic had felt her keen gaze the moment he’d entered the room. He’d had only one private conversation with the French king’s mistress during his last visit, but a rather memorable one. He was quite sure Diane de Poitiers would want to speak to him, so he might as well get it over with. In public, where perhaps she would not be so bold.

Or perhaps she would be so bold. Her first words, as Dominic bowed, were, “Could this possibly be the young lady we once discussed?”

He felt his face begin to flame and wished he could openly curse a woman. Or at least tell her to keep her mouth shut. “
Madame,
this is Mademoiselle Genevieve Wyatt. She is the principal lady to our own fair Princess Elizabeth.”

As Minuette curtsied, Dominic wondered what her impression would be of King Henri’s notorious mistress. In her mid-fifties now, Diane had the figure and vigor of a much younger woman and her skin was still radiantly fair and lovely. She knew how to turn every gift to an advantage, from her beautiful shoulders and bosom to the styling of her dark hair to the exquisite detailed embroidery done in threads of gold along the lower skirts of her brocade dress. But it was not her looks alone that had kept the much younger French king at her side for twenty years. She was a brilliant advisor and administrator who was known to sign state papers with the joint names
HenriDiane.

Also, Dominic had seen the royal initials everywhere represented in the Salle des Fêtes, and Henri’s bold H was not joined
to his wife’s C, but twined with his mistress’s voluptuous D. That was the action of a man truly in love.

Diane de Poitiers had expressions that could hold entire conversations on their own. Now she favoured Dominic with one that said
I see straight through you but perhaps I’ll humour you for the young lady’s sake.

“Genevieve.” She rolled the word. “A good French name.”

“My mother was French,
madame la duchesse.
She was a companion to the late Queen Anne and went to England in her service.”

“Ah, how charming your French is! Not quite native, but not pure English, either. Very good, mademoiselle. I shall look forward to speaking with you more during your sojourn here.”

“Merci, madame.”

Diane turned her focused gaze to Dominic. “And you,
le duc nouveau,
I shall quite look forward to continuing our last conversation when we can be … more private.” She leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial aside, “I should beware Aimée, however. She has not forgotten your last visit and may wish to redress matters.”

With a gracious goodbye, Diane de Poitiers drifted off, leaving Dominic completely stunned. Minuette looked at him sidelong and said, “Aimée?”

“No one. Just one of her ladies, I believe.” And please don’t ask me more, he thought. He did not want to explain about a woman who was furious with him for having too soon ended a careless affair he should never have started. He didn’t imagine Minuette thought him unfamiliar with women, should he say?—but nor did he want to have any conversation with her about specifics.

It was a great relief to hear a man hailing him. He would have seized on anyone at the moment, but Renaud LeClerc was much more than just anyone. Despite the fact that they’d last met on
the battlefield a year ago, they remained fast friends, two soldiers who understood one another.

“Dominic!” Renaud took him by the shoulders in an awkward hug. “I did not think to have so soon the pleasure of meeting again. I am glad your king sent you, though honestly—guarding women? Is that really a soldier’s job?”

“A soldier’s job is whatever he is ordered,” Dominic replied with an honest grin. Renaud was so straightforward, so unlike nobles and kings and sly mistresses. “How is your wife, my friend?”

“Ah, you can soon see for yourself for Nicole is coming to court. She wishes to meet the English ladies and to thank you for sending me home safely to her. She will be here next week. Now,” Renaud turned to Minuette, “we are both being inexcusable. Will you introduce me to this charming
jolie fille
?”

“Mademoiselle Genevieve Wyatt,” Dominic said, “I present le Vicomte Renaud LeClerc, Marshall of France and commander of His Majesty King Henri’s armies.”

Renaud bent to kiss Minuette’s hand, then regarded her with the naked appraisal that only the French could get away with. He definitely approved, but then who wouldn’t? In this gathering of experienced, elegant, jaded women, Minuette had the freshness and splendor of an English rose amidst exotic and heavily scented bouquets. Dominic felt a rush of possessive pride that he struggled to conceal.

“A true English beauty,” Renaud murmured. “It is an honour, Mademoiselle Wyatt.”

“The honour is mine,
monsieur le comte.
I have heard many wonderful things about your family from Dominic.”

Renaud straightened and said, almost to himself, “She is who she is,
n’est-ce pas
? And as she is …”

He met Dominic’s eyes then, and Dominic knew the
Frenchman remembered sitting by the fire with him at his own home and saying, of his wife,
Nicole, as she is, was the only one for me.

If anyone could guess his heart, it was probably Renaud. That should worry him, but for a moment he relished being in the company of someone who understood him clearly and without judgment.

On their second day at Fontainebleau, the Englishwomen were formally introduced to Elisabeth de France’s household. The young princess, just ten years old, held court with as much dignity as though she were twice that age, dressed in a stiff French gown of cloth-of-gold and crimson to emphasize her future position as England’s queen. Minuette was the last introduced, after Elizabeth and the Duchess of Rochford and her six young charges from good English noble families, who would remain in France in Elisabeth’s service.

Lady Rochford introduced Minuette flawlessly enough (“a lady of our own Princess Elizabeth”), but there was a sting to her tone that even the child appeared to notice. Though there were, of course, French adults in the room—from governess to priest to the French princess’s own ladies-in-waiting—Elisabeth was the seat of authority at the moment, and she took her duties seriously.

“You are most welcome, mademoiselle,” Elisabeth de France said gravely. It was a royal’s rebuke to an ungracious woman more than four times her age. “I am happy to be acquainted with any friend of my future
belle-soeur,
and I have been told you are also well known to the king, God save him.”

Minuette rose from her curtsey. “I am, Your Highness,” she answered with matching gravity, her heart touched by the sweet, high voice of childhood. “The king has instructed me to observe carefully that I might bring him reports of your interests and beauty.”

In truth, William had said nothing at all about his betrothed to her, and probably not to anyone outside his council members. Why did that suddenly bother her? Why, in the presence of this wide-eyed, glittering child, did she feel profoundly guilty, struck by the urge to apologize and confess.
I did not mean to steal Will’s love,
she wanted to say,
and I promise to do all I can to turn him to you.

It might have been amusing if it weren’t all so complicated.

She said as much to Dominic as he escorted her to the grand welcome banquet that night. When she told him of Elisabeth de France’s eager questions about William, about her request that Minuette attend her in the coming days to speak of England and her future husband, Dominic shrugged it off. “She’s a girl raised to please. It’s all new to her. No doubt, by her third or fourth betrothal, she’ll be much more sanguine.”

“Like our own Elizabeth?” Minuette snapped. “It’s cruel, what is done to royal women. She’s just a little girl, and she thinks William a mythical prince who will make every dream come true. It’s not fair to her.”

“That is not your fault,” he said, more gently. “If it was not William, it would—and will—be another prince. It’s what the girl was born to.”

“Then I am delighted not to be royal!”

“Not royal, no,” Dominic murmured. “But are you any more free?”

She remembered something Elizabeth had said to her last year, referring to Anne Boleyn and her Henry.
I think she loved him as well as she was able, considering she had no choice in the matter.

Being loved by William, she had to admit, was beginning to feel like a cage. Highly gilded and widely coveted—but a cage nonetheless.