"I saw you talking to the handsome Chevalier d'Honfleur last night," Aimée ventured after a few minutes of companionable silence.
Micheline smiled and shrugged slightly, reading her friend's mind. "Guillaume is very nice," she allowed. "I agreed to go riding with him tomorrow."
"Good!" Aimée knew she should choose her words carefully, but, as usual, impulse overruled reason. "I would like to see you encourage someone, if only to discourage the king!"
"What do you mean?" cried Micheline. "I cannot feel the slightest stirring of affection for any man I have met here, beyond that of simple friendship—including the king! Surely he is perceptive enough to realize that!"
"I would guess that it is that challenge that intrigues him, ma chere. Don't fret, though. Francois is a gentleman at heart, though used to having his own way. You simply must continue to show respect for him and nothing more. Any encouragement at all would only heighten his desire... and determination."
Micheline paused to pick a sprig of mistletoe and gazed at it pensively. "I should feel fortunate, I suppose, to have found favor with so many fine men. There are moments, when I talk to someone who is handsome, charming, and accomplished, and I marvel at the total absence of feeling in my heart. I've begun to think that Bernard's death killed something within me." She met Aimée's concerned gaze with teary eyes. "I doubt I'll ever be attracted to a man again."
Aimée opened her mouth, then closed it, aching for her friend. Normally she was never at a loss for words, but at this moment she was speechless. She yearned to fix everything for Micheline, but lately Aimée had come to believe that only God could perform such a miracle. She could only wait and pray.
In London, dashing Andrew Weston, Marquess of Sandhurst wakes up with his married mistress, Iris, Lady Dangerfield. They are soon interrupted by Rupert Topping, Sandhurst's bumbling & obsequious half-brother, who announces that their father wants to see his elder son. When he goes to meet with the irascible duke, Sandhurst is told that King Francois and King Henry VIII have arranged a marriage for him and the duke has agreed to it!
Chapter 6
London, England
February 5-6, 1532
Sandhurst's brown eyes were startled. "I must be hearing things. I could have sworn I heard you say that you and King Henry had chosen a wife for me!" A half-repressed laugh escaped his lips.
Unable to resist the impulse to toy with his prey for a moment, the duke smiled. "You have only the king to thank on that score. All I have done is set the seal on his plans." Aylesbury's smile widened maliciously.
"Have I no say in this? No voice in my own destiny?" Somehow, he managed to sound calm, though the scar that cut down through his upper lip had gone white.
The duke's smile faded. "You can say whatever you like, but I don't think you'll fight the will of the king the way you've always fought me. It's time you learned that there are more important things than your wishes! You have never done the smallest thing to please me, your father, but you'll please me now whether you want to or not!" He let out a hoarse bark of laughter. "For years I've begged you to take an interest in my estates. I've longed to see you married, with sons of your own, before I die. I've encouraged you to make a place for yourself at court, but it seems that the most you could bother to do has been to waste your charm on Henry's favorite ladies. Even the future queen goes doe-eyed at the mention of your name! You're a fool, Andrew, and now you're going to pay for it!"
The old man was leaning forward, his face crimson as he railed at his son. For his own part, Sandhurst thought that he must be having a nightmare. Dimly he heard himself say, "Perhaps I've turned away from you because I sensed that your interest was not in me but in the family title. As the future duke it seemed that I was to be molded like a piece of clay, not a person."
"Bah! You needed a firm hand! You still do! If you wanted affection, you should have listened to me and taken a wife years ago. That's what a good woman is for." The duke smiled again, thinly. "You see, I'm doing you a favor! After your French bride begins warming your bed, you'll thank me! The chit probably won't even speak English, which'd be a blessing. If she can't talk to you, there will be just one thing for her to do—spread her legs!"
"This is utter madness," he muttered.
"Tell it to King Henry," the old man shot back.
"What if I were to do just that? I'm not some twelve-year-old who needs a marriage arranged for him."
"You don't seem to be able to arrange one on your own!"
"God's life, why does the king care?"
The duke shrugged. "As I understand it, someone with power in the French court wants this girl disposed of—tidily, of course. A proper English husband who would take her to live across the Channel seemed the solution. Henry was glad to give his aid, because he needs assistance from King Francois in winning over the pope, more than ever now, I'd say, since there are rumors that he and Anne Boleyn were secretly married last month."
"But why was I chosen to be sacrificed?"
"Perhaps it was the will of God," the old man suggested with another malevolent smile. "Besides, you're an ideal candidate. You're an eligible, wealthy aristocrat, and the king would seem to have reasons of his own for wanting to see your wings clipped."
"And if I refuse to be a party to this madness? Will the king send me to the Tower and deprive me of my head?"
"Oh, no, we decided that the punishment should fit the crime. If you choose to rebel again, not only against me but the king of England, you'll lose your inheritance. Obviously no one can take your title away from you... and you will be Duke of Aylesbury when I die. But you would receive nothing else. Henry has agreed to make Rupert a baron this year, and upon my death all my wealth and estates would pass to him."
Sandhurst couldn't bear to look at his father any longer. Dazedly he walked to the window, every muscle in his body clenched. Yet through his rage he had to repress an urge to laugh wildly at the sheer lunacy of the situation.
"Your bride arrives in April. Her name is Micheline Tevoulere," the duke continued, his tone triumphant now. "You'll be married at Aylesbury Castle, of course, and King Henry has assured me that he intends to be present to join in the festive celebrations!"
* * *
A fire blazed in the winter parlor of Lord Sandhurst's town house, casting shadows that leaped and danced up the walls. On one side of the chamber his lordship presided over a table covered with the remains of supper. He was alone except for his friend Sir Jeremy Culpepper, who nibbled leftover bits of cheese, meat pie, and a fig someone had discarded after one bite.
"I still can't believe it," Sandhurst muttered. He'd lost count of the tankards of ale he'd consumed that day. Raising the latest, he took a long drink and sighed loudly.
"You've said that already," Jeremy complained. "Dozens of times. What's that little carcass on your dish? Quail? Did you pick it clean?"
Glancing heavenward, he pushed the plate across the table. "How can you eat at a time like this?"
"I'm not the one getting married to a stranger... from France," Culpepper replied cheerfully. "D'you suppose the chit speaks English at all? What'll you do if she can't learn?"
Leveling a deadly stare at his friend, Lord Sandhurst said, "If you find this amusing, you can go upstairs and have a few laughs with my father." He drank again, then added, "Besides, now that the shock's wearing off and I've had the day to think about it, I doubt seriously that I could participate in this farce."
Sir Jeremy Culpepper was a pudgy young man with curly blond hair, an unguarded tongue, and a tendency to flush when overcome by emotion. His cheeks were quite red now as he cried, "Be reasonable, old fellow! You'll be ruined if you refuse to go along with this plan of the king's! Not only will you be penniless, but you'll be shunned at court. Come to think of it, you'll be shunned by everyone in Britain!"
"Say no more," Sandhurst mocked. "You're scaring me!"
"But how would you live?"
He felt himself relaxing, mu
scles untensing as a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I believe that I could make my own way rather well. You know, this house is mine. I bought it with profits from the horses I breed in Gloucestershire. I could sell it and buy another place in the country, then support myself with the horses." He paused, brightening. "The prospect of being out from under my father's thumb is rather appealing, actually."
"Look here, you've got to consider this matter carefully! You're talking about a decision that would affect not only your life but also the lives of your descendants. Just because you chafe under your father's admittedly overbearing efforts to dominate you, that's no reason to punish your offspring! He's an old man; he'll be dead soon. How will you feel then if you're breeding horses at some manor house while that ticklebrain Rupert is lord of Aylesbury Castle and the Sandhurst estates in Gloucestershire?! What will you tell your children? Don't raise that eyebrow at me! One day you'll have a family. How will your children feel when they grow up and Rupert's offspring own what's rightfully theirs?" Jeremy paused, breathing hard, then leaned forward to play his ace. "And what do you think your mother would say if she were here?"
Sandhurst wasn't smiling anymore. He closed his eyes and drained the tankard of ale. "I refuse to go like a lamb to the slaughter, Jeremy." He sighed. "My father would have a collar and a leash fitted for me, and I'd be angry for the rest of my life." After a brief pause, he added, "Even angrier than I am already."
"I know, I know. And you'd doubtless take it out on your poor little French wife, and then on your children," Culpepper fretted. He drank from his own tankard, brows knit in thought.
His lordship was thinking, too, turning the various aspects of the situation over and over in his mind, yearning to discover a ray of light in the darkness.
"It's possible," Jeremy murmured doubtfully, "that the girl in France might be a beauty. Perhaps she's even a bit of a rebel, like you—maybe that's why they want to exile her!" Warming to his imaginings, he reached for a half-eaten sweetmeat on a distant plate and nibbled on it happily while continuing, "You might take one look at her and fall desperately in love!"
"It's more probable that Mademoiselle Tevoulere is a plain, shy fourteen-year-old with spots..." He rubbed the edge of his jaw, staring into space. "However... it might be prudent to investigate further before I make a decision."
Sir Jeremy Culpepper swallowed the sweetmeat and leaned across the table to grip his friend's forearm. "Yes! Yes! You're brilliant! That's the answer!" Then a shadow crossed his face as he dropped back into his chair. "But how can you do it?"
"I suppose I shall have to go to France. The girl's supposed to remain with the French court until the 'wedding' in April, so that would give me nearly two months."
"Do you propose to just present yourself to King Francois and announce that you've come to inspect Micheline Tevoulere before agreeing to the marriage?"
He laughed softly. "Obviously not. No, I'll have to pretend to be someone else."
"And why would a made-up person be welcome at court?"
"Ah, now there's the rub. Obviously I can't use my title to gain entrance, so I'll have to think of something else to offer." A genuine smile lit his face for the first time that day. "My canvases and brushes may be of use at last, Jeremy."
Culpepper had nearly forgotten that Sandhurst could paint. He'd shown talent as a youth and the duchess had sent him off to Florence to study for a year under the Italian masters. That had been a dozen years ago, at a time when she was as eager to separate him from his father as to nurture his artistic abilities.
"Are you any good at it?" Jeremy demanded bluntly, which elicited more low laughter from his friend.
"Actually I am. Hard to believe? You'll be even more surprised to learn that I still paint from time to time when I'm at Sandhurst Manor. Remember the portrait of Cicely in the hall?"
Jeremy stared in consternation. He'd always assumed that Holbein or one of the other artists favored at court had done the exquisite painting of Lord Sandhurst's sister which dominated the town house's great hall. "You're ribbing me," he muttered, then took a candlestick from the table and went out to investigate. In the lower righthand corner of the canvas he discovered a familiar S, barely a shade darker than the rose of Cicely's skirt.
A kitchen maid had come in to clear the table at last before retiring for the night, so Sandhurst didn't notice at first when his friend reentered the parlor. Jeremy stood clutching the candlestick, its flame accentuating the stunned expression on his face.
His mouth gaped open before he managed to exclaim hoarsely, "Unbelievable—incredible!"
"Come and sit down before you faint."
Jeremy staggered back to his chair. "Why didn't you say anything? I never imagined..."
"There was never a reason to talk about it. Now, however, my adequate talents may prove highly useful."
"If I could paint like that, I'd be boasting to anyone who'd listen! God's bones, Sandhurst, there's absolutely no question that you could pass yourself off as an artist at the French court! You've got charm and wit and extraordinary good looks to go with your talent. How could you fail?"
"You flatter me, but I do agree that the masquerade ought to succeed if I keep my wits about me." He indulged in wicked laughter as the plan fell into place. "It could almost be amusing to become acquainted with Micheline Tevoulere under such circumstances."
Beaming and nodding, Jeremy exclaimed, "By God, I wish I could be there too!"
"But you will be there!" Sandhurst informed him smoothly. "You're coming with me. I'll need an extra pair of eyes and ears, not to mention a valet—you know, for appearance's sake. Joshua's perfectly capable of looking after my clothes, but I doubt that he'd be up to subterfuge. Besides, I don't want to involve him in all this. The less he knows about this, the better."
Jeremy's mouth hung open again, forgotten by its owner. "But—but—that is—I don't see how—" He fell silent, digesting his friend's speech, then narrowed his eyes suddenly. "Wait just a moment! You're saying that you expect me to be your valet while we're in France?!"
"Don't get into a huff, old fellow. I didn't mean to imply that you are my inferior in any way."
"Next door to it!"
"Look, you won't exactly be my valet; we'll just pretend that you are. It will be a role, like my role as a painter of portraits." Sandhurst arched a brow and grinned. "We'll both be commoners for a few weeks. It should be quite amusing!"
"This is all more your style than mine. What if we're found out? God's teeth, imagine the humiliation!"
"Jeremy, you know you wouldn't miss this adventure for the world, so why not spare us both the ordeal of this conversation and just capitulate?"
He sighed loudly. "All right then. I'll go."
"A toast, my friend!" Raising his tankard, he proclaimed, "To our adventure!"
"And its safe conclusion," muttered Jeremy. He drank deeply, Sandhurst's laughter echoing in his ears.
Page forward to meet the descendants of Thomas & Aimee in the Beauvisage Novels!
Excerpt from
Caroline
Special Author's Cut Edition
Beauvisage Novel #1
by
Cynthia Wright
Chapter 1
One could hardly imagine a more perfect October day, for the autumn of 1783 had painted the Connecticut landscape in her most glorious colors. The low mountains were a riot of flaming oranges, reds, and yellows which contrasted sharply with the clear azure of the sky. The air had a clean chill to it, and Alexandre Beauvisage, winding his way between the trees astride a handsome stallion, felt very good indeed. He had been brimming with a rich euphoria for over a month now—ever since the final Peace Treaty had been signed in Paris. The last eight years of war had been long but victory made all the bloodshed and tragedy seem worthwhile. The cost of freedom had been high, but that shining prize belonged to America at last.
Granted, it had been two years since the British had laid down their arms
to General Washington at Yorktown. Only the most sporadic fighting had occurred since then, and the majority of the American soldiers had been able to go home to their families long ago.
Alec grimaced when he thought back over his own life during the past two years. All through the Revolutionary War, he had only occasionally played the part of soldier; his had been a unique role tailored especially to his talents and background. He had been a mixture of spy and scout, given the trickiest and usually the most dangerous assignments. After Yorktown, Alec had been able to return to his home and business at intervals, but just as he would settle back into a normal pattern of life his services would be needed again.
"We simply can't trust anyone else to carry off this plan without being detected, Beauvisage. You are a master!" the officer in charge would declare. Alec had to admit that despite the terrible aspects of war, there was a certain thrill in the role he played. He had roamed the swamps of South Carolina with Frances Marion, captained a sleek privateer, and drunk cognac with Washington and Lafayette on the banks of the Hudson. He had been required to put his ingenuity and intelligence to full use, and the constant danger had been stimulating. Perhaps the return to full-time everyday life would prove boring?
A bright patch of color beneath a tree at the side of the trail caught Alec's attention, rousing him from his reverie. Gently, he brought his horse, Ivan, to a stop and dismounted, walking back to investigate. It appeared to be a packet of garments drawn hastily together inside a piece of bottle-green silk. He hunkered down among the crisp leaves, preparing to open the bundle, when a soft moan rose from the trees to his left. His head came up, instantly alert, and then he was off as lightly as a cat in the direction of the noise. Soon he spotted its source—a small form lying at the foot of an oak tree about twenty-five feet away. Cautiously, Alec drew a pistol from his belt and moved forward. From a distance, he perceived the figure to be that of a young boy, clad in ill-fitting gray breeches, a loose white work smock, and a green tricorn hat that seemed to cover his entire head. Drawing alongside the boy, he replaced his pistol and knelt down beside the still form. His dark brows came together at the sight of two suspicious shapes outlined against the loose shirt. Tentatively, Alec placed a hand over one of the mounds, which proved beyond a doubt to be a beautifully formed breast.
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