Dark Angels

by Karleen Koen

  “Who are you tearing to pieces?”

  Barbara had left her admirers and sat beside Alice in her chair, scooting Alice over with a swift motion of her hip. She leaned her head against Alice’s shoulder and smiled happily. “Not me, I hope.”

  “We were talking about the Saylors,” said Alice.

  “Richard is an archangel dropped among us. He looks an archangel, don’t you think, that straight nose, those eyes?” Barbara had had too much wine. Her normal demeanor was reserved and quiet, but wine made her talkative and funny. Everyone loved it when Barbara drank.

  “Not an angel. A Viking. He looks as if a Viking warrior ravished a woman of the family long ago, and he’s the living proof.” Gracen shivered suggestively, then turned charmingly wheedling. “Alice, I want to meet your friends. They seem so witty and worldly.”

  Friends? thought Alice. She had none in Princesse Henriette’s household, save for Renée and Beuvron. Gracen was looking at the Marquis d’Effiat and the other handsome, glitteringly fashionable young men who held a kind of court of their own in another part of the chamber. They weren’t supposed to have made this visit; they’d been forced on the princess by her husband. There had been a huge quarrel over it.

  “The Marquis d’Effiat is not my friend. He is rude beyond measure to Madame—”

  “Madame who?” interrupted Kit.

  “Madame nobody. ‘Madame’ is what Princesse Henriette must be called in France, and her husband is called ‘Monsieur,’” Alice said impatiently, thinking she’d never end if she began to explain the intricacies of the etiquette of the French court. “The French are very particular about titles. You’ll be burned at the stake if you make a mistake. D’Effiat belongs to the household of Monsieur and makes no bones about despising the princess. He slanders her every chance he may. And he really is dangerous.”

  “Then I really must meet him.” Gracen made the others listening laugh.

  “You’re stupid to say something like that.”

  Gracen sat back, color in her cheeks. She flicked her head in an angry gesture, looking lovely and a little dangerous herself.

  Alice stopped. She was making it worse. Of course they wouldn’t understand. They hadn’t lived for two years in a war between two households, a prince’s and his princess’s, everyone from master to servant involved, where bitter accusations began in the morning and hadn’t ended by night, where revenge, no matter its hurt, was never finished. King Charles could be cruel, but his court was lazy and easy, the way he was himself, and he despised quarreling, would do anything to avoid it, was angered, in fact, by being made to summon the energy to argue. One of the things she wanted to do during this visit was talk to someone about the unhappiness in the princess’s life. But she wouldn’t do so with these friends. She moved to another topic. “Where is His Grace the Duke of Balmoral?”

  Balmoral was not among the great men sitting to either side of the royal family, where he should have been. He was her savior. A true gentleman. The only one of them with any dignity in the stupid little drama she and Cole and Caro had played.

  “I haven’t seen him,” said Barbara.

  “Why don’t you ask Lord Colefax?” Gracen paid her back. Colefax—Cole—was Balmoral’s nephew and heir.

  “What an excellent idea.” Alice dropped a great damask napkin in a bowl and rose from her chair. “My compliments, Gracen. I may just do that. And by the way, if a Viking had his way with the Saylors once upon a time, I do believe a spider performed the same deed among the Sidney women. I’m sorry, but John Sidney has spider shanks.”

  Everyone, even Barbara, burst into laughter. If it was the fashion for a woman to hide her legs under long skirts and petticoats so that a glimpse of ankle was erotic, it was also the fashion for men to show their legs in tight breeches that came to the knee, in stockings that clung to every muscle of the calf. Handsome, muscular legs were as much admired as a woman’s shoulders. Campaign begun, thought Alice. Score one against this John Sidney.

  Her friends watched her sail away, her shoulders rising pale and bare and taut from the bodice of her gown, the beautiful little golden roses shining dully here and there among her curls.

  “She wouldn’t talk to Colefax, would she?” asked Gracen, wide-eyed, admiringly.

  “She might,” said Barbara.

  Gracen stared after Alice with narrowed eyes. “She’s not going to stop me from flirting with whomever I please. I’d be a perfect comtesse.”

  “You don’t speak French,” said Kit.

  “I have other charms. What’s the matter with you, darling?” Gracen noticed that Barbara was slumped in the chair she’d been sharing so happily with Alice.

  “Mister Sidney doesn’t have spider shanks, does he?”

  Kit exploded into laughter.

  “As long as another shank is made well, never mind, I always say,” said Gracen, making even Barbara, never as rowdy as the rest of them, smile.

  “ALICE.”

  A royal page gave her a hug, his arms clasping hard around the waist of her gown, the smile on his face and in his voice genuine. She stroked his shoulder a moment. The pages, boys anywhere from eight to thirteen, served the royal households as messengers and aides. To Alice they were like the young brothers she didn’t have. “Where’s Edward?” she said, asking of her particular favorite.

  “Somewhere near the queen.”

  “Well, you find him and tell him I have need of him. It’s very important.”

  She heard loud laughter and glanced toward its cause. There stood the intruding men of Monsieur’s household, d’Effiat foremost among them, speaking rapidly in French, their hands gesturing and animated, and whatever they were saying clearly amused the crowd they’d gathered. And why not? They were richly dressed, of noble birth, proud as wild falcons, and all that was fashionable at the moment in Paris, belonging as they did to the second most important household in the kingdom of France, that of Monsieur, the only brother of the king of France. Already they’d attracted the wits of court. Beuvron saw her and quietly detached himself from his friends.

  “Are you having a good time?” she asked after they’d touched cheeks. He was the only one of them she liked, and even he she only half trusted.

  “Surprisingly so.”

  “Why surprising?”

  “We expected chickens to be wandering among the chambers and hay in everyone’s hair.”

  “We English can be civilized upon occasion.”

  “Alice, my sweet—”

  She knew him. “How much?”

  “A guinea?”

  “I don’t have that, but I’ll give you what I can.” She turned and fiddled with her skirt, pulling out a small bag from a secret pocket, shaking coins from it into her hand. She always kept coins about her. It was a legacy from her precarious past, a precaution drilled into her by her father.

  “You are an angel, Alice.”

  She didn’t answer, watched him return, just as discreetly as he’d left, to the group. He didn’t want the others to see that he’d approached her. There was some new edge to these men. She’d been noticing it, feeling it, for weeks. It couldn’t be a good sign. Where in this crowd was her father? Dancing had begun, the intricate, stately steps the French court had made the rage, and everyone was watching the royal family, who danced the first dance by themselves. King Charles partnered his sister. The Duke of York was with the queen. Monmouth danced with the Duchess of York; and Prince Rupert, in dry clothing, bowed to Monmouth’s wife. There would have been a fit in Paris if an illegitimate son like Monmouth had joined the royals proper, but here it was different. He’s grown up, Alice thought, her eyes measuring him, her first friend. They’d known each other in the wild, uneasy days when King Charles was in exile and no one in the ragtag court around the king knew where the next meal would come from. She and Monmouth had been children of the exile and children of the return. Her feet began to move into the positions of the dance even though she hadn’t a partner. There
was nothing she loved better than dancing.

  Young Edward appeared before her, and she circled the court page in measured, graceful, gliding steps, saying as she did so, “You’ve grown two inches, Edward. How dare you be so unmannerly?” She sank into the curtsy reserved for the end of the dance, even though the music continued.

  “I’m told you had need of me.”

  “I do. First, you have given me no kiss of greeting. I am heartbroken. Who has replaced me in your esteem? And if you tell me Gracen Howard, I shall wring your neck. Second, is the Duke of Balmoral here?”

  “I haven’t seen him.”

  “Well then, my sweet boy, it is terribly important that I know where he is. Can you burrow that out for me? There’s a coin in it for you, as always.”

  His eyes twinkled; he had a merchant’s heart combined with a boyish beauty that made people trust him. He had often been invaluable to her.

  “Beware them—” She nodded her head back toward d’Effiat and the men with him. “Tell the other pages. And help me to play spy upon them, will you, but safely, always from a distance? There will be more coins for you.”

  He nodded, excited by her request. She watched him disappear among the courtiers. She ought to have asked him where her father was. The first dance was ending. She smiled at her friend Monmouth, and he walked forward, an answering smile on his face. She dropped into a curtsy, talking all the while, falling back into their old friendship, trusting it, as if she hadn’t been gone for two years. “Jamie, I need a favor. It’s important.”

  “Wonderful to see you again, also, Alice.”

  “Don’t tease. I want you to think of a way to keep the Marquis d’Effiat and his friends as far away from Madame as possible during this visit.”

  “And why would I do that, other than that he seems an arrogant toad?”

  “He’s here to spy on her.”

  “What do you mean, Alice?”

  “I mean that Monsieur did not want her to make this visit, sent some of his household along for the sole purpose of watching her. They’ll report every smile as flirtation or disloyalty. Trust me in this, will you, Jamie? I’ll be in your debt for it.”

  What he did next took her completely by surprise. He seized her hand and pulled her forward to him, so that his face was too close, his smile too seductive. “A kiss will pay,” he said.

  She was so shocked—and hurt—that she was silenced. What was this? Who was this? They’d weathered the exile and the heady triumph of the return together. This man was as much a brother to her as anyone could be. How could he gloss over what she’d just said, treat her as some easy flirt? She took in his loose smile, the easy, proud set of his face. No one says no to him anymore, she thought. It was one of the curses of royalty. Even illegitimate royalty. He’d been too much spoiled. He was England’s Restoration darling, dark eyed, dark haired, high-spirited, as handsome as the day was long, cherished by his father. She pecked his lips chastely, her face stern, her mind racing. She needed an ally in what she must do, not a flirt. She’d thought to pour out her frets to him. Now, suddenly, jarringly, she was no longer certain. Nothing changes and everything does. “There’s your kiss, Jamie.”

  Chastened, he stepped back, reading the hurt in her face.

  “Will you do it?”

  “Perhaps.”

  His answer simply wasn’t good enough. She walked back toward where the maids of honor sat, thinking rapidly. It had to be her father, then. To trust her father was never a certain thing. Spider-shanked John Sidney and Barbara had their heads together, and from the expression on their faces, he was saying something she clearly liked hearing. In another moment, Alice was beside them, sitting down abruptly in Barbara’s lap, circling her friend’s neck with one arm, ignoring John completely. “How like him,” she said, making her face sad. “He’s abandoned me.”

  “Your father would never do that,” said Barbara, knowing at once of whom she spoke.

  “He always does that.”

  “I’m certain he’s near.”

  “Come help me to find him, please, Ra.” Coaxing, Alice used the pet name all of Queen Catherine’s maids of honor called Barbara.

  But Barbara didn’t have to be coaxed. Alice was her dearest friend. “Of course I will.”

  As they walked away, Alice looked backward over her shoulder to John Sidney, who was staring after her in a perplexed manner. Slow-witted, thought Alice. You’re going to have to rise early in the morning to best me, sir.

  “What on earth have you done to offend Mistress Verney?” asked Richard Saylor, who was sitting near and had seen it all.

  “Nothing that I know of,” John said. “I have scarcely made her acquaintance.”

  “Well, if I’m not mistaken, you’ve been considered, found wanting, and ambushed, old man.”

  “Ambushed? What do you mean?”

  “Remind me never to soldier with you. Come with me while I make another attempt to flirt with Mademoiselle de Keroualle. I’m dancing with her tonight, as many times as she’ll allow. Four. Bet me, cousin, that I persuade her to dance with me four times.”

  “You admire her that much?”

  “I love her.”

  GRACEN STOOD A moment just outside the alcove where d’Effiat and the others were gathered. She could see they were seated round a table, Englishmen and the French, playing cards for coins, a language all understood.

  Gracen unfurled her exquisitely painted hand fan, walked in as if she knew everyone there, stopped, and gasped theatrically. “I beg your pardon,” she said, fluttering the fan in agitation.

  The men stopped what they were doing, stood.

  “I was searching for someone. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “And who is this lovely?” asked d’Effiat in French.

  “It’s Mademoiselle Howard, one of the maids of honor to Queen Catherine,” answered an Englishman.

  D’Effiat took in her large eyes, the wide cheekbones. “Introduce me.”

  “Mistress Howard, may I introduce the Marquis d’Effiat,” and the man went round the table introducing the other Frenchmen who were there. One after another, they nodded to her, their faces admiring.

  “I’ve interrupted your game,” said Gracen. “Do say you forgive me.”

  “Won’t you join us?” asked d’Effiat.

  Beuvron, who spoke English—he practiced daily with Alice—translated.

  “Alas, no. I was just going to walk along the parapets, admire the moon. I was looking for a friend to escort me.” She batted her eyes at d’Effiat as Beuvron told him what she’d said.

  “So you shall,” said d’Effiat, knowing he was being flirted with. Handsomely sullen, he expected admiration. “The game may wait; a lovely woman, never.” He left his hand of cards, the coins stacked before him, and walked to Gracen, offering his arm. She ran her eyes over his face, disdainful, attractive, and smiled, quite pleased with herself.

  “Beuvron, come with us, play go-between for me with this delicious little straying lamb,” ordered d’Effiat.

  CHAPTER 3

  Alice and Barbara talked in a corner tower adjoining the great hall. Windows were open, and they stood at one of them. Night hid the sprawl of the castle enclosure, its outer walls that overlooked the sea, but lights glimmered here and there, from another tower, from the guardhouse, and one could hear the ocean, a muted roar. Alice closed her eyes and sighed. There was so much to tell Barbara, much to ask. Two years was a long time. Letters between them could never hold the whole of it. Another sound outside made her tilt her head.

  “What’s that?”

  “King Charles had silver bells hung in the parapets so the princess could fall asleep listening to them.”

  The bells pealed lightly, sweetly in the breeze, something in their sound catching the heart. Behind them, through a door, revelry continued, musicians playing, people dancing, talking, laughing, flirting.

  “How many of you came over with the princess?” asked Barbara.


  “Too many.” Alice thought of d’Effiat and his friends. “Two hundred or so.”

  “My word.”

  “King Louis does nothing sparingly. He wanted you—us—to be impressed with his splendor.”

  “We are.”

  “When did you and this Mister Sidney become such friends?” She asked the question offhandedly, as if she didn’t care.

  “It’s just…” Barbara groped for a word. “Grown.”

  “And how does Her Majesty the queen?”

  “It’s been a difficult spring, Alice. She lost another babe. The king’s taken an actress to bed. She’s just had his child—a boy. It hurts me to speak of this. Let’s go and find your father.”

  They walked back into the great hall, moving through the crowd, peering into corners and alcoves, finally to find him sitting with a striking, fair-haired young woman on the long, wide steps that led up to the hall itself. The Viking angel’s sister, thought Alice. Well and well again. Kit’s warning echoed in her mind. Did she think to capture Alice’s father and pillage his fortune? It was the fashion for men as old as her father, the age of King Charles, forty or more if they were a day, to moon over women just barely women. Her father was not one to be behind fashion. But I, thought Alice, am too old for a new mama. She swept forward. Barbara, reading her mood from the set of her shoulders, stayed back a step or two.

  Sir Thomas Verney rose. “Poppet, I want to introduce you to Mistress Louisa Saylor.”

  Alice was silent, not even glancing at Louisa.

  “Well,” said Louisa into the silence, “I must be going. The music calls. Now, Sir Thomas, don’t forget you’ve promised to dance with me, and I’ll be pining, just pining away, until you do.”

  Alice watched her father swell.

  “A lie, miss. I’ll have to fight my way through your admirers.”

  “Nonsense. You have only to walk forward for me to send them on their way like that.” Louisa snapped her fingers, and her earrings danced. She was tiny and blond, flirting and forthright. “I am so pleased to make your acquaintance at last, Mistress Verney,” she said to Alice’s haughty profile. “Your father speaks of you with such love.” Her gown hissed against the stones of the steps as she moved upward toward the music, toward the crowd.