by Karleen Koen
“Renée isn’t a fighter, Richard.”
“She is soft and gentle, isn’t she?” His anger surprised him by changing into something almost like understanding. “I won’t stop her time of triumph with the king and court. I just don’t want to lose her to it.”
“What you described is an ideal. It’s false. You’ll break your heart on it.”
He smiled, and Alice was dazzled, as always.
“Tell Mademoiselle de Keroualle that I will call upon her this evening, and that she’d better receive me,” he told her.
“Wait. I had a thought I wanted to share with you.”
“And that would be?”
“The pages are everywhere in Whitehall. Why not let them in on the hunt for Henri Ange?”
“How could we trust that it would be kept a secret?”
“We could swear them to secrecy, make them take a vow, tell them they’re knights performing a task.”
“I think it’s too many to tell.”
“Some of them, then. I’d trust Edward with my life.”
“I’ll think on it.”
“It’s a good idea. We want a web around the queen, layers that Ange can’t penetrate.”
“He’s about to be taken.”
“You have him? Richard, that’s wonderful!”
“I nearly have him.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll present him to you with a noose around his neck.”
“He’s very clever.”
“So am I.”
No, she thought, looking at him. You’re brave and clever in your own way, but not clever in his way. I am.
CAREFULLY, NEDDIE SCRAPED the razor along the back of Ange’s skull to finish. Tufts of dark hair lay at her feet. Setting down the razor, she took a towel and dipped it in warmed water, wrung it, and gently rubbed it over his bare scalp.
He turned to her. His face startled without hair surrounding it, the dark, arching brows punctuating something in his eyes that made her afraid, and there was very little that frightened her. She stepped back, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her into his lap.
“Am I so ugly now?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know.”
Ange went to the pier glass and looked at his face. Everything he was showed. “It’s these eyebrows. Let’s shave those, too.”
“No!”
He advanced on her, and she retreated. He began to laugh. “Do I frighten you?”
He did. He really, really did. “It’s just…I feel I don’t know you now….”
She never had. He spoke charmingly in Italian. “Come to me, my pet, my sweet. No one knows anyone, you stupid little fool.”
He pulled her into his arms. A kiss or two later, and she was quiet. The kissing deepened. Her fear rushed to desire, because that was easier than feeling fear and obeying it, which was stupid of her, but there it was. Ange pulled and unlaced her gown between kisses and touches that weren’t tender, but rough, provocative, the way she liked it. Soon she was panting, willing to do whatever he wished because the lust between them was so compelling, stopping thought, hers, not his. He turned her, bent her over, and entered her, and she moaned and arched back against him. He caressed her, making her frenzied, his hand up and down on her, until she was begging, her hands all over his thighs and hers. Then he stopped moving himself but kept the hand he had on her steady.
“So if I pay you thirty guineas, will you say you’ve never seen me?”
He brought the razor up to her throat with his other hand, and he sliced in just under her ear, making it sweep deep and steady across her throat. She made a sound, and her hands jerked out to clutch his arm. Ange pushed her away, and she fell like a rag doll at his feet, blood spurting, hands and legs spasming. He washed the razor in the bowl, lathered soap, and sat at her dressing table, and shaved off his brows. The body on the floor lifted a hand, farewell, adieu, and became still.
ALICE REMAINED IN the Stone Gallery, staring up at a center portion of the ceiling that was one long mural of the coronation of Great Harry. Balmoral entered one end of the gallery, saw Alice, walked up to her slowly, very stiffly, and bowed. She rose from her chair and took his arm. They began to walk.
“And how are you feeling today?”
“Terrible.”
“But less terrible than yesterday?”
“I will give you that. Less terrible than yesterday.”
When they reached the end of the gallery, they turned and began to walk the other way. Every now and then, they’d stop to look at a portrait or marble statue, but neither of them spoke. The first time they’d done this, he’d been cranky and protesting, telling her that she must be bored, that she owed him nothing. She knew he was there only out of shame, that she had blackmailed him into courtesy, but now, slowly, it was changing. He seemed to accept her regard, seemed to perhaps like meeting her for this late afternoon walk as outside winter sun gleamed palely. They reached the other end of the gallery.
“Do you think we might venture into the privy garden?”
He frowned at her, ready to be annoyed. “Why?”
“I like the sun. We can see if the holly has made berries yet.”
Down a stair and they were in a hall leading to private chambers, anyone meeting them bowing. Outside, Alice turned her face upward like a flower and closed her eyes. Balmoral stared at her profile before they walked over to King Charles’s sundial. They admired its intricacy without saying a word of its dials and arrows, its blown glass balls, showing time, date, phase of the moon, and sun sign, Alice touching tiny metal nymphs that played along the perimeter. She did it every time. She loved the dancing nymphs.
“Have you been weeping?” he asked.
“I have.”
“Why, if I may be so bold?”
“A friend betrayed me.” The words were out before she could stop them, and with them fresh anger.
“What will you do?”
“Hurt her.”
“Only after you’ve reconnoitered so that there is no surprise hurt for you.”
“Is that in your memoir?”
“What do you know of my memoir?”
“It was out when I came to visit. Look, there are the hollies. If the king’s newest mistress is Catholic, what will people say?” Alice examined a holly tree innocently as she asked the question.
“It won’t be liked. It will make certain members of the Commons more difficult than they already are and feed the fringe sects that see the end of the world coming. That particular bias endangers the throne.”
Here was a moment. Easy to betray John Sidney’s conversion, to hurt Barbara. The words were in her throat. “Ought someone to tell His Majesty so?”
Balmoral smiled sourly. “If someone cared enough to and did not mind being sent to the Tower of London for impudence.”
“But you’ve always cared for this kingdom’s stability, haven’t you?” She didn’t take her eyes from the tree. “Look, there’s red there and there. Tomorrow or the next, we’ll have our first sprigs of holly.” She put her arm back through his, and silently they walked the gravel paths, Alice stopping now and again to examine a plant or break a leaf of some herb so that she might smell it, offering it to him, also, and he watched and inhaled sharp, clean fragrances, saying nothing, but to his surprise enjoying himself.
IN ANOTHER PART of Whitehall, on its top floor, in the king’s apartments, chambers he rarely used now that new ones facing the river were finished, Richard and Renée stood in the king’s privy gallery, having their first quarrel.
“I don’t want him kissing you.”
“It was in jest, Richard, too much wine.”
“It didn’t look like jest to me.”
Tears welled in Renée’s eyes, dropped down her cheeks, but Richard wasn’t moved. “I can offer my love, my passion, my devotion, and little more than that for now. If what I am, what I offer, isn’t enough, I want to know once and for all.”
“It’s enough. It’s more than I deserve.”<
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He pulled her to him, kissed her, his mouth tasting her tears, moving to kiss them away wherever they fell, her cheek, her ear, her breast, and then he was back to her mouth, tracing her lips with his tongue, and then another kiss, savoring, demanding, hungry, angry. He felt the moment when her desire caught fire to match his. She kissed him as hard as he was kissing her, and he pulled them both onto a window seat, pulled the draperies shut, all without his mouth leaving hers. In the cold dusk, he pulled down the shoulders of her gown, and her breasts were exposed, and he put his mouth to them, doing what he’d dreamed of doing for too many nights. She wrapped her arms around his neck, saying his name, pulling his head closer. They kissed, and the kiss was a drowning. Richard’s hands were in her hair, on her shoulders, under her skirts, while his mouth was everywhere, lips, shoulders, sweet breasts. The draperies opened abruptly. Renée sat back, shielding herself, her hair out of its pins, her legs showing all the way to soft thigh.
“Mademoiselle de Keroualle, you will excuse yourself at once and go to your chamber!”
Renée stepped over Richard’s legs.
“At once, I say!”
Richard climbed out behind Renée and frowned at Dorothy Brownwell.
“She has done nothing of which to be ashamed or punished. She is my affianced, and if there is any fault to be handed out, it should go to me.”
“It will.”
And with that, he was left by himself. He stood before a pier glass in the horn room—called so for all the sets of stags’ antlers mounted on the walls—straightening the lace at his throat, pulling down his sleeves, his mind still in the window seat with Renée, still touching her, feeling her, smelling her, tasting her. He felt filled with desire and need, crazed. Crazed or not, he had to meet with the Duke of Balmoral, convince him to part with thirty guineas.
HE WALKED TO Balmoral’s in the cold dark of the evening.
“You told her you would give her how much?” asked Balmoral.
Richard repeated the sum, marshaling arguments in his mind, the way one marshaled troops before battle.
“And what if this man isn’t Henri Ange?”
“We don’t give her the other half.”
“No, Captain Saylor, we not only don’t give her the other half, we take back, by force, if necessary, the money we’ve just given her. And if she cries out, we tell her that she may call personally upon His Grace the Duke of Balmoral, and he will explain the situation to her himself. She is a greedy sow, always has been.”
“Yes, sir.”
Balmoral moved to a chest upon which rested a huge elephant tusk from the East Indies, glancing back to see if Richard was watching. Richard looked away, listened to the sound of keys jingling, the creak of hinges as the chest was opened, the sound of coins being poured, clinking against one another, a dry cough from the duke, the sound of the lid dropping. Balmoral handed him a bag of coins. “Half what Madame Neddie demands. A small fortune in itself. You could take this, disappear, and live like a king in the Colonies or Tangier.”
“And the letter she asks for?”
“My mood will have to improve. Bring me back Henri Ange.”
“Consider it done.”
“I do, Captain.”
TINY KNOCKED UPON Madame Neddie’s door. “It’s that soldier,” Tiny called, but the door didn’t open.
“I’ll wait downstairs,” said Richard. The parlors were crowded with people. He saw that Walter sat talking with the Earl of Rochester. Richard found a corner, put himself in it as Walter saw him and walked over.
“Buy a drink,” Walter told him, “and I can sit with you.”
“You have a customer.”
Walter flinched as if he’d been slapped. Richard watched him walk back to Rochester. Anger rose in him; it wasn’t precisely at Walter, and it wasn’t precisely at himself—but enough was. He signaled to the butler. “A drink for myself and for Etienne.”
“Who is visiting with someone,” the butler said smoothly.
“Who won’t be paying as much as I will,” said Richard.
“Very good,” answered the butler, and in a few moments, it was arranged, Walter walking to his table and Rochester being escorted toward another slim man, the butler smiling and gesturing, describing with his hands. Richard glanced around at the boys and lads and men in both women’s and men’s dress, at the flirting and kissing. “Let’s go. I’m waiting for Madame Neddie.”
“No one has seen her today.”
In Walter’s tiny chamber, they played cards, ignoring the sounds around them. Every now and then, Tiny would report to Richard that there was still no answer. Finally, Richard lay down on the bed, one hand on the leather pouch tied to his belt that held the bag of coins.
“I’ve got to sleep for a bit, Walter. Keep a watch. I have to see Madame Neddie tonight. I don’t care how late it is. If you see that man who speaks Italian, wake me at once.”
“I’ve only seen him that time on the roof.”
But Richard had closed his eyes. Walter sat at the other end of the bed, his eyes on him, on the chest under the blue coat rising and falling. He reached out once and touched Richard’s leg lightly, but the rest of the time he dozed himself, his head and back against the wall. Late in the night, they opened their eyes to the sound of screams.
Richard lurched up from the bed. What men were left in the brothel were grabbing clothes and bolting past them out the front door, at which there was no Tiny. Richard ran toward the sound of the screams, up the stairs and into Madame Neddie’s antechamber. Those who worked for her were gathered in clusters, some of them hugging one another, some weeping. The butler stood in the doorway to the bedchamber. The face he turned to Richard was slack, the eyes wide. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sounds came.
The screams were from Tiny, who stood over a naked and bloodstained body. Tiny’s screams were cracked now, croaks crescendoing up to the ceiling and down again, making the hair on Richard’s neck rise. He took the big man’s arm, but Tiny didn’t stop the croaking sound. Richard slapped him hard, and Tiny stepped backward until his legs hit the bed, where he sat down. In shock himself at the sight of the body, whose beautiful blond hair had absorbed blood almost to the ears, Richard ordered everyone out, then shut the door, leaving the body alone. “Who has the key to this bedchamber?” he demanded.
The butler held up a key.
“I need paper and pen.”
The butler pointed to a table, and Richard sat down to write a series of notes, for a squad of the queen’s bodyguard to come here, for Balmoral, to ask what he’d have him do. “Walter, do you think you can ride Pharaoh to the mews?”
“Yes.”
“Find Effriam, have him escort you to the queen’s guardroom, find the sergeant, give him this note, have him give this other one to the Duke of Balmoral. Tell him it’s my direct order, even if he must wake the duke. The rest of you wait out on the stairs. I’m going to want to talk to each of you. Tiny, I want to begin with you.”
“He can’t,” said the butler. And indeed, Tiny sat slumped and sobbing.
“Can you?” Richard asked the butler.
“If I have a huge, and I do mean huge, glass of port.”
“Make that two, and let’s begin.”
Richard’s mind went to the body, to the surprise there, but he made himself focus on questions that needed to be asked.
BALMORAL ARRIVED BY coach in the early morning. Richard was asleep on the floor in Madame Neddie’s antechamber when he heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. He opened a window and put out his head, hoping the cold air would wake him, take away the sick feeling he couldn’t shake. The duke and several colonels of his regiment came into the chamber. Richard saluted and unlocked the bedchamber door.
“Nothing’s been touched,” he told Balmoral, who stood over the body.
“Ear to ear, by God. Poor Neddie. Search this bedchamber. I’ll want letters, bills of account, coin, jewels, anything of value. If you find any men�
�s clothing—”
“There’s none,” Richard said. “I searched after I’d talked with everyone here.”
Back in the antechamber, Balmoral sat down. “What have you found out?”
“She was a man. You didn’t tell me she was a man.”
“Best confounded actress in this town before the Restoration. No women were allowed onstage back then. Before your time, but for fifteen years Neddie held this town in the palm of her hand, not that there were that many theatricals—stiff-necked Presbyterians and the others, every joy a sin. She made Nell Gwynn and Moll Davis look like the sluts they are. Some important men and, may I add, righteous men, loved her. There were private plays given, if you get my meaning, but she was finished once the king was back on the throne. The theater troupes wanted women to do women’s roles. It was novel, exciting to the public. So she began this little specialty. You didn’t sleep with her, did you?”
“No.”
“Well, you wouldn’t have been the first to be surprised at the finish line.”
“Henri Ange was here, but few people saw him. He never came downstairs.”
“Who tells you this?”
“Majew, the butler, and Simon, the cook. They saw him when they served meals, dinner or supper, but at no other time. There’s a back exit in her bedchamber.”
“Of course there’d be. So what happened here?”
“I don’t know. No one does. No one has seen Ange for days. Majew seldom saw him directly. His back was always turned, or he was in the other chamber. The most any one of them has seen of Ange was the night of Guy Fawkes, when they watched the bonfires from the roof.”
“Did Henri Ange kill her? Why?”
“Perhaps he knew how close we were to finding him?”
“But why kill her? Why not just disappear? I think it’s just as likely she had a patron who grew jealous of her keeping Ange and killed her in a rage.”
“Who would let someone slit his throat? I didn’t see bruises on the body.”
“It’s confounded likely Henri Ange has flown the coop, gone back to France. You tipped him off somehow in your visit yesterday, Captain.” Balmoral was not pleased.