Her accursed beauty, the source of every evil that had ever befallen her. If God had ever loved her, He would have made her homely.
Instead, He’d cursed her with allure and drawn the eye of Conte Casimiro Grimaldi to an unwilling thirteen-year-old girl. Naïvely, she’d refused him. The conte had sworn to have her—and for certain, he’d found a way. Then all the rest had followed, inevitable as the moon’s wax and wane.
Yet it was she, and no other, who’d made these fatal choices. Grimly, she focused her wits on her mission.
Beneath the hammered beams entwined with ivy and fragrant pine, courtiers in rich brocades lingered over sweets and comfits. Inside a hearth massive enough to roast an ox entire, the Yule log burned. At the head table a kingly confection of marchpane and gingerbread depicted the palace’s red stone turrets.
The king’s chair stood empty. Anxiety nibbled at her nerves as she worried, for a fleeting moment, how she would manage to spy Anne Boleyn in this mayhem.
But Allegra should not have fretted. Even masked, the object of Henry Tudor’s obsession could not be overlooked. Surrounded by her retinue of sycophants, she’d crowned herself Queen of Beauty, mock gold gleaming against the sleek midnight luster of her hair. An emerald gown tailored in the French fashion encased her supple form. Gemstones glittered against her long throat as she tilted back her head, with a teasing smile for her admirers. Over the revel’s muted roar, the husky chime of her laughter beguiled.
As Allegra spied her target, the cold clarity of her training took over. Her heartbeat quickened, a current of energy crackling down her spine. She started to snap the mirror closed, but a flicker of motion in its surface riveted her.
Behind her, a score of masked men in forest garb erupted into the hall, their quivers bristling with arrows—Robin Hood and his band of thieves. Caution prickled through her when she saw the broad-shouldered bandit who led them, ruddy hair shining in the torchlight. With easy authority, he gestured a command to the musicians. They responded at once, striking up a popular peasant dance.
Jesting, the thieves spread out, each claiming a smiling lady. But not the towering gallant who was their leader. In the sliver of reflection from her mirror, he fixed her in his gaze.
The back of her neck, exposed beneath her coiled hair, tingled in warning. Her breath caught when he strode toward her.
A stir of awareness rippled through the hall, spreading outward in his wake. But Allegra needed no such clue to identify the charismatic lord the musicians had obeyed so readily. Senses sharpened to knife-edge alert, she held herself from flinching when a hand gripped her shoulder.
Pivoting smoothly to face him—for what else could she do?—she recalled barely in time that she must not curtsey. She dared not incur royal displeasure by unmasking the man behind the disguise: the majestic presence of King Henry VIII.
“Madame le Serpent, you are magnificent,” the king said, the Yule fire lighting his beard to copper. His blue eyes glinted as they swept her, from the hooded serpent rearing above her brow to the black-and-gold scales of her gown sweeping the flagstones. His gaze lingered on her white breasts, where they swelled above her tight stomacher.
Loathing churned her belly—her customary revulsion for any man’s lust, the hopeless terror that Casimiro Grimaldi and the Spanish Ambassador between them had honed to the sharpness of shattered glass. She swallowed the bitter taste of fear.
My flesh is stone—impermeable and unfeeling. Nothing any man does can touch me. She curved her painted lips in a smile she did not feel.
Santo Spirito, was she accursed in truth? Why under Heaven must Henry Tudor choose this of all nights to notice her? For three years she’d hidden among Katherine’s dwindling retinue, in the very shadow of the aging queen whom Henry seized every opportunity to avoid. Deploying every subterfuge to evade the king’s lustful eye, Allegra had trailed the court from castle to hunting lodge to royal progress, as little regarded as someone’s poor relation.
Until this very day, Henry Tudor had overlooked the Spanish Ambassador’s mistress. Now, on the one night she must escape detection, the king’s interest drew the gaze of the entire royal court to fix her like a magnet.
Reluctantly, she gathered her wits for the well-known charade enacted by every member of the household—from the queen to the newest page—during Henry’s frequent disguisings. For the king pouted like a child to be early unmasked.
“La, what brigand accosts me?” she said. “Shall I fear for my purse or my virtue?”
“Your purse is safe enough.” He grinned, white teeth flashing against tanned skin. Henry Tudor was a famously handsome man, and knew it. But he was no fool either. Behind the mask, his eyes narrowed.
“Italian, are you, my beauty? A member of the cardinal’s retinue—just in from Rome, aye?”
My God, hardly that! She must turn the conversation in the direction most likely to divest her of his presence. Feigning modesty, she lowered her eyes and dipped a curtsey.
“My lord, I attend your good Queen Katherine.”
Predictably, he stiffened, a cloud of royal displeasure darkening his sunny smile. Daring to hope, she forced a cool smile and glided aside, offering him a graceful escape.
To her dismay, he followed like a lad on leading strings, an edge of annoyance sharpening his tone. “Pious and meek then, like all her ladies, eh? Why aren’t you on your knees with the rest of them, keeping Christmas vigil in the chapel?”
“Perhaps I’m a heretic.” She glanced around to ensure no other overheard this dangerous suggestion. Anything to deflect his interest. “Good eve to you, and Happy Christmas.”
“Perhaps we should all be heretics.” He cut off her escape, damn the man. “What do you think of that, hey? Does Pope Clement hold the right to rule the Church of England?”
Aye, this was the question that consumed Henry these days, as the pope pondered the legitimacy of his Spanish marriage. The challenging light in his gaze cued her well enough how to answer.
“I rely upon your king to decide that, my lord. He is Defender of the Faith here in England.” Unable to avoid him, she raised her eyes to gauge the success of this gambit—and made her first mistake.
Meeting her gaze, his own kindled with interest. Alarm knifed through her as he captured her cold hands.
“Remarkable,” the king murmured. “Has anyone ever told you, signora, that your eyes are exactly the color of lilacs in bloom? Nay, wait, they’re darkening now—to violet.”
Swiftly, she dropped her lashes to sever that hazardous perusal. “They are not the fashionable color, my lord, for Mistress Anne’s eyes are midnight black.”
“Aye, so they are.” To her relief, he glanced toward the circle of admirers surrounding Anne Boleyn. In their midst, her throaty laugh rang out. A shadow of anger darkened his face. “Well, lady, our poet Sir Thomas Wyatt has penned sufficient sonnets to Mistress Anne’s eyes and lips and hands, has he not?” His callused hands tightened around hers. “Would you break a thief’s heart by denying him this dance?”
Trapped like a rabbit in a snare. Dismally, she knew the entire hall was watching them now. For they discerned sure enough what man he was, masked or no. Given no choice, she murmured her consent.
King Henry VIII lifted her ringed hand and kissed the knuckle-sized ruby that carried the bitter dregs of Anne Boleyn’s poison hidden in its heart.
Her own heart in her throat, she followed him into the dance.
Chapter Two
“Mon Dieu en ciel, who is that glorious creature?” Sir Joscelin Boleyn stared, riveted, at the raven-haired beauty in her serpentine gown.
“I’ve no notion.” Indifferent, Lady Mary Carey glanced at the king whose bastard children she’d borne and the masked lady dancing with him. “I spend little time at court these days, brother. The babes demand all my attention.”
George Boleyn tracked the dancers’ progress, his gaze clearly gauging the level of royal interest. Joscelin knew what his half-brother wa
s thinking. A casual flirtation would be no threat to sister Anne, the rising star to whom all their hopes were hitched. But Henry Tudor must not waver in his intent now, with the cardinal finally arrived to try his marriage.
“Ah, I can’t be certain…but I think that may be…Allegra Grimaldi.” George grinned as the lady swept past. “I recognize that star-shaped beauty mark on her breast—a witch’s mark if ever I’ve seen one. She’s the one they call the Devil’s Mistress.”
“The Devil’s…Mistress?” A peculiar ripple of recognition plucked at Joscelin, as though he’d seen her before. “Why under Heaven would they call her that?”
“Christ’s blood! You’re the diplomat, aren’t you? I thought you would know.” His half-brother cast him a derisive glance. “A lifetime spent peddling trade and treaties with the French, and for what?”
“You must ask our father,” Joscelin said, knowing George would chafe to be reminded of their kinship. “It’s his bidding I do.”
George Boleyn was a braggart and a spendthrift, a ne’er-do-well idler who served no function save to play passable music and annoy those around him. But George was their father’s legitimate son, and Thomas Boleyn had made clear his expectations when he allowed Joscelin—at last—to join the Tudor court. Joscelin would lay down his life to protect his sisters, and his father knew it. But Thomas Boleyn also expected his half-French bastard to protect the legitimate Boleyn heir, even if the two despised each other.
Joscelin had striven for years to gain his father’s notice. He would not toss it away so easily on his first day at the English court. So he gritted his teeth and endured his brother’s mockery.
“I’ve just arrived from Paris, George. And I must swiftly learn to navigate these English waters if I’m to stay afloat. Who is she, mon frère?”
“Oh, she’s an Italian countess, or some such.” George shrugged, spite still lurking in his gaze. “She keeps a low profile—very discreet—but any man would notice her.”
“Who is she?” Joscelin repeated.
“Why, she’s the Spanish Ambassador’s mistress. Henry calls him the Spanish Devil, aye? So she becomes the Devil’s Mistress.”
Another shock—of unease or recognition?—rippled through Joscelin. He could not tear his eyes away from Allegra Grimaldi as she swept across the floor in the king’s arms. She moved like no woman he’d ever seen, with a serpent’s lithe coiling grace.
Poised and smiling, she held herself aloof in Henry’s eager embrace, as though she disdained his touch. If she did, that made her unlike any other lady at court—including Anne, despite all her clever games.
“God-a-mercy, she’s compelling.” Joscelin watched the lady tilt her chin to riposte some Tudor sally. Rubies dark as blood glittered at her ears. “She carries herself like no courtesan I’ve ever seen.”
“Oh, for the love of Christ.” George rolled his eyes and appealed to Mary. “Talk some sense into his thick head, sister! Bad enough he comes to court, clumping about with his rustic ways. Now he must sigh like a mooncalf over Don Maximo’s mistress. We’ll be the laughingstock of London once word gets bruited about.”
Mary cast a sympathetic glance at Joscelin and laid a gentle hand on his sleeve. “She’s a dangerous woman to pursue, brother. ’Tis rumored her Spaniard is unfashionably possessive. Don Maximo has fought three duels over her, no less—and killed his rival every time.”
She sighed. “Besides, I thought Father was searching for a bride for you. ’Tis long overdue, is it not?”
“Zut! He can take his time.” Joscelin dismissed that distasteful reminder with a grimace. A political marriage to a Boleyn ally was the other condition Thomas Boleyn had attached to Joscelin’s entrée at court. To earn the prize of his father’s regard, Joscelin had agreed to choke down even that bitter potion.
He could not seem to tear his gaze away from Allegra Grimaldi. For a blazing instant, she stared into the king’s face. Was Joscelin the only one who saw danger and despair burning like cinders in her eyes?
With a flourish, the music ended. Henry bowed, and the Italian countess curtseyed, her black-and-gold skirts pooling on the floor. By chance, the pair stood nearby, close enough for Joscelin to make out the king’s words.
“Truly, now, before we part—I must know, signora! Which of Katherine’s ladies are you?”
Her smoky voice slid through the tumult, her accent tugging at Joscelin’s senses. “Alas, my lord, you must accustom yourself to disappointment.”
Leaving the king of England gaping at her heels, the lady called the Devil’s Mistress pivoted and glided away. Henry Tudor cursed and set off in pursuit, but George Boleyn slipped into action, setting himself between king and quarry. Joscelin hardly heard what his half-brother said, only his intent to draw the king’s wandering eye back to sister Anne.
“It simply makes no sense, Mary.” Joscelin watched Allegra Grimaldi slip into the crowd of commoners fringing the hall, those folk permitted inside to gape at the gentry. Swift as enchantment, the Devil’s Mistress vanished among them. “If she’s a member of Katherine’s suite and the Spaniard’s mistress, why would she be here, mingling with Boleyns and the rest of our ilk?”
Costumed as a spring morn, Mary shot him an amused glance through the eyeholes of her sky blue mask. “You truly are taken with her, aren’t you? Well, I can tell you she earns her pin money selling perfumes and love-philters to ladies of the court. I wear her damask rose myself.” She hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty furrowing her brow. “Some say she sells other potions as well…to ward against an unwanted babe, draw out fevers, that sort of thing. Perhaps she’s merely present to promote her…services.”
Mon Dieu, the lady sounded wicked, an unholy enchantress who coupled with the Devil incarnate. Everything he heard about her should put him off. If he believed his sister, Allegra Grimaldi was precisely the manner of false, manipulative, immoral creature he’d always loathed.
Joscelin had learned early and hard that women were not to be trusted. Money and status won out over love every time. Even without his own history, watching his half-sisters claw each other like feral cats over Henry Tudor’s bed had taught him the way of the world well enough.
Then why was he seized by this absurd conviction that the Devil’s Mistress was not what she appeared to be? Somehow, he felt as though he knew her, though he could not imagine how.
The musicians launched into a lively saltarello. With enthusiastic cries, the revelers threw themselves into the high-stepping measures—Anne and the king among them.
While his sister frolicked, Joscelin worked his way through the diplomatic crowd, renewing his acquaintance with men he’d met while serving Boleyn interests at the French court. Like him, they stood out for their sober garb—although unlike him, at least they’d had the wherewithal to come masked to the ball. He’d come trudging from the road barely an hour ago, fortunate to find a doublet and hose free of dust, let alone an expensive costume.
While he chatted with the French Ambassador, Joscelin’s gaze combed the hall—searching for the mysterious lady who’d intrigued him.
Only when the dance ended did he find her. Anne had stepped away from the king, flushed and laughing, to beckon for wine. Now a graceful figure in black-and-gold slipped forward, a cool smile on her lips, to offer the goblet.
Instinct pulled Joscelin into motion. With an abrupt farewell to his companion, he strode across the hall. Briefly the Italian lady was delayed as a jester in motley bumbled into her path, juggling a handful of pomegranates in a high arcing whirl. As the Devil’s Mistress slipped past this obstacle to enter Anne’s orbit, Joscelin broke into a run.
Blind to those around him, he dodged, cursing, shoving revelers from his path. As the crowd parted before him, his sister reached for the cup.
“Arrêtez!” he thundered. “Stop!”
Leaping between the two women, he caught Allegra Grimaldi’s outstretched arm, his fingers circling her elegant wrist. In a heartbeat he absorbed the feel
of her, fine bones sheathed in hot silken skin that crackled with energy.
Then she swiveled to lock him in her gaze. Within her mask, tilted purple eyes fringed with sooty lashes turned him inside out. With a glance, she spilled his soul like pebbles on the floor between them.
Then her pupils widened. Spellbound, he stared back at her.
“Santa Maria!” she whispered. “Can it be you?”
As she offered the goblet to Anne Boleyn, Allegra glimpsed a tumult at the edge of her vision: a large man in a russet doublet cursing as he shoved through the crowd. Her trained mind was scrambling for a defense before his hand locked around her wrist, halting the cup a breath from Mistress Anne’s fingers.
Damnation. Allegra pivoted toward him, ready words springing to her lips. Then her eyes locked with his, and her world tilted on its axis.
His eyes spat fire at her—green shot with topaz—piercing through a lifetime of cunning and artifice to reveal her secrets. Alone of the hundreds swirling through the banquet hall, this man wore no mask. His strong tanned features were open, square-jawed, handsome in the rugged way of an outdoor man. Creases fanned out from his eyes, as though he smiled easily—though he was hardly smiling now.
This one is no raw stripling, easy to mislead. Corpus Christi, can he somehow suspect me?
Torchlight blazed in his beard and hair, the burnished hue of old copper. Yet his features weren’t arranged with a courtier’s careful pretense—none of the customary boredom or indifference. Nay, this one burned with passion, like a form of fire.
In the fever-pitch of crisis, she could not recall how she knew him. God love her, only see his chest and shoulders, straining the cloth of his doublet! A fighting man for certain, fueled by suspicion—and yet…
He was a stranger, but she felt she’d always known him. Something within him speared like an arrow through her defenses and pierced her guarded heart.
“Santa Maria!” she heard herself say foolishly. “Can it be you?”
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