The Boleyn Deceit: A Novel (Ann Boleyn Trilogy)

by Andersen, Laura

  He’ll be in bed, she thought. If he didn’t hear her knock, would she dare enter his chambers and wake him herself? The thought made her stomach clench, not unpleasantly, as she imagined leaning over him, touching his shoulder or even his face as he slept.

  Think about the rat, she commanded herself, not the image of Dominic in bed, looking up at her with those dark green eyes that pulled her into recklessness. What did he wear to bed? And if he wanted to kiss her …

  Veering between desire and discipline, Minuette came to the corridor where Dominic was quartered. His door was at the far end of the right-hand side—he had made sure she’d known that in case she needed him for just such an emergency. She had just started toward it when his door was pulled open from the inside.

  Minuette froze as a woman came into the corridor, a woman who almost at once turned and embraced the man behind her.

  Though she had never seen him naked, there was no mistaking Dominic for anyone else, not even with his face obscured while he kissed the woman clinging to him.

  Dominic resisted sleep for a long time, but he finally fell into fitful dreams. Faces drifted before him, melting into one another: William to Renaud to the Spanish ambassador; Elizabeth to Anne Boleyn to his own mother. And finally, as a reward, Minuette herself. In his dream she was dressed for sleep, the loose gown bewitchingly light and suggestive of her shape beneath. Her hair hung over her shoulders and down her back and felt warm and heavy when he buried his hands in it. She let him pull her to him, and he could feel the outlines of her body pressed against his and the warmth of her breath on his mouth, and then she was kissing him …

  He wasn’t dreaming. Long, loose hair hung around his face, a woman next to him in bed, her mouth teasing at his. “Minuette?” he said, disbelieving.

  He was right to disbelieve. The woman pulled back, her face illuminated by the moonlight that came through his window. He knew every plane and angle of Minuette’s face and this one was rounder, plumper, and yet familiar. But groggy with sleep and injury-addled, it took him a heartbeat to place her.

  Aimée. Who was his mistress for a brief time during the winter of 1553 and had been miffed when she was dismissed. I should beware Aimée, Diane de Poitiers had warned him two weeks ago. She … may wish to redress matters.

  So it appeared. Aimée’s smile was hungry with intimacy. Her chemise had slipped off one shoulder, leaving it bare and much more appealing to him than it should be. “All this time wasted, monsieur, but tonight I will have what I want,” she whispered. “Is it not what you want also? I can feel that it is.”

  He swallowed, trying to pull together his scattered wits. Did he want her? Undoubtedly. His body had wishes of its own and was presently making them rather strongly known.

  But he had never let his body rule him where Minuette was concerned, and he would not start with someone else. He escaped the bed with as much dignity as he could muster naked, and said, “I regret that you have presumed too far.”

  She hesitated between coyness and anger. Then, with a shrug, she scrambled off the bed as well. “If you do not want me, then put me out,” she challenged.

  She meant it literally. He had to pick up the bed robe she’d discarded and put it around her shoulders. She would not help him at all, only letting her body press back against him as he turned her around. She did not resist, but she did not fight him, either, for which he gave devout thanks. All she’d have to do was scream and a diplomatic incident of catastrophic proportions would erupt.

  Only when he’d pushed her out the door and begun to close it did Aimée move. She whirled round and kissed him, so fiercely and thoroughly that desire shot through his hungry body. He would stop her, he told himself, he would not let her back in, but for just this moment it was such pleasure to not think about anything or anyone but himself, and his hands knew where all her curves were and she was skilled and familiar and it had been so long …

  She drew back delicately and murmured, “Au revoir, Dominic.”

  He shut the door and shoved a chair in front of it. It wouldn’t keep anyone out, but it would at least give him warning. This was the second time in one night that he’d been caught unawares—he didn’t want it happening again.

  Elizabeth received Walsingham privately in the afternoon of their final day at Fontainebleau. He bowed with that air of casual respect that she was beginning to suspect she liked. Once he had been seated at her invitation, she asked, “You have news?”

  “Lord Exeter left court alone last night, quite late. He went to a tavern that is known to cater to the Emperor’s men. He met with someone in a private room upstairs. I cannot swear to the identity of the person he was meeting, but the public rooms were filled with Spanish soldiers.”

  “The ambassador?” she guessed.

  He inclined his head. “Most likely.”

  “Interesting.” She didn’t know Walsingham yet, so she would not speak openly of William’s plans for the Spanish. Not that he wasn’t intelligent enough to guess.

  “Your Highness, there was an interesting development afterward.”

  She looked at him expectantly. “Yes?”

  “When Exeter left the tavern, he was followed by a Spanish soldier and attacked. One blow only, and Exeter sent his attacker running quite neatly. And then another man appeared. This second man took Exeter off with him, all the way back to court.”

  “Another Spanish soldier?”

  “No. It was Renaud LeClerc.”

  Elizabeth narrowed her eyes, pondering. That was strange indeed. LeClerc was Dominic’s friend, as far as two nationalities could be friends. How had he known about Dominic’s meeting with the Spanish ambassador? More crucially, what would he tell the French king about it?

  “Your Highness,” Walsingham said, “there are rumours about the young lady in attendance upon you. Mistress Wyatt is whispered to be a favorite of your brother. A favorite in all its shades of meanings. Is there a reason for the French to wonder about the marriage contract?”

  “Do you think I would tell you if there were?”

  He gave a private, approving smile. “I think that your brother could benefit from your subtlety. Unfounded or not, rumours that England is looking to the Emperor could stir trouble. Until your brother is safely married elsewhere, the French king will always be uneasy about his intentions toward Mary of Scotland. It would be a disaster for the Continent to have England and Scotland united, even in a forced union.”

  “Mary Stuart is safely in the French king’s hands.”

  “But Mary Stuart’s kingdom is on England’s doorstep. War can be put to many uses, Your Highness.”

  Don’t worry about Mary Stuart, Elizabeth nearly told him. My brother’s hopes are quite elsewhere. “And what has Mary of Scotland to do with rumours about Mistress Wyatt?”

  “Rumours don’t require one neat path of logic. They are able to twist every incident into a weapon. If this young woman is truly favoured by the king, then she can be used against him. I would keep a watchful eye on her, if I were you.”

  “Thank you for your advice,” she said drily.

  “There is one more thing, Your Highness. You know that I am acquainted with John Dee; indeed, we have been correspondents for some time. He has written to me from England because he is … concerned about the current tenor of the Duke of Northumberland’s household.”

  Elizabeth had asked him to impress her; clearly Walsingham had taken that to mean going beyond his immediate surroundings in searching out intelligence. And it went right to the heart of the things she needed—but didn’t necessarily wish—to know. “What is the current tenor of the duke’s household?”

  “Self-contained, even more so than usual. The Dudleys have always been an insular family, but Northumberland has not even attempted to return to court since the king arrested Guildford three months ago. For a man of his ambition, that is in itself unusual.”

  “Perhaps he is merely showing an unexpected degree of common sense in allowing
my brother’s anger to cool.”

  Walsingham inclined his head in acknowledgment, but not agreement. “Dr. Dee writes that the household has played host this summer to a number of radical Protestant gentlemen. Gentlemen who have the ability to raise armed men if need be.”

  “Are you telling me that the Duke of Northumberland is preparing to raise an army against the king?” This confirmed all her worst fears. Why would Northumberland resort to soldiers if his only crime, as he claimed, was being too lenient with his son, Guildford? This level of preparation and paranoia argued for his involvement in having brought down Norfolk.

  Walsingham watched her neutrally, which goaded her into asking, “Do you have an opinion of this intelligence? Do I take the written statement of a single man as proof of Northumberland’s intentions? I will not be one of those women who trembles at every shadow of a possibility!”

  “There is less danger in fearing too much than too little.”

  Elizabeth studied Walsingham. Already she felt comfortable with him, to a degree she rarely did with most men. His dark eyes seemed a window to his fervent desire to serve England and, more specifically, herself. Waiting now for her to speak, Walsingham sat in perfect composure, his body still but giving the impression that he was ready to spring to action any moment—whatever action might be necessary.

  She had made her decision almost upon meeting him; the information he’d provided, as well as his calm demeanor in doing so, only confirmed it. “Return to England with me. My household could use a man of your talents. England may not be as varied in culture and experience as the Continent, but I assure you we have any number of conspiracies, quite enough to keep you busy for years to come.”

  Walsingham paused just long enough to give the appearance of thought. “It would be an honour and a pleasure to serve you, Your Highness.”

  “Make your arrangements and be ready to leave with us tomorrow.”

  “I will. And if I might make a suggestion—there is little you can do about Northumberland tonight. But you can keep a careful eye on your young Mistress Wyatt. I am certain many others will be watching her tonight as well. Perhaps even one who should not be watching her in quite the manner that he is.”

  He did not elaborate, but Elizabeth carried that enigmatic warning with her throughout the evening. Surely it was one of the French royals—probably the king himself—Walsingham had meant. Though Henri was known to be devoted to his mistress, Madame de Poitiers, she was not the only woman he had betrayed his marriage with and surely he could appreciate another beautiful young woman. And if he suspected that William found Minuette alluring, the enticement would be even greater. But it was their final night at court, so how much trouble could the French king lead her into?

  It proved easy to watch Minuette that night, for she was as brilliant and dazzling as Elizabeth had ever seen her. Although Elizabeth herself was dressed in cloth-of-silver with a fortune in diamonds and pearls in her hair and around her neck and sewn to her gown, she knew that for once she did not match her friend for brilliance. Minuette was like a flame, in a gown of crimson and ivory velvet and her hair caught back from her face with a fillet of gold. She was beautiful and charming and, as Elizabeth watched her with increasing concern, pitch perfect in every movement.

  It had to be an act, Elizabeth judged. Minuette was never that studied. Everything she did tonight appeared to aim at an effect, from flirting with the French king to drinking cup after cup of wine brought to her by eager young (and not-so-young) men. What on earth could have made Minuette put so much energy into this performance? Was she aware of the swirling rumours about her relationship with William? Although if that were it, Elizabeth would have expected her to act with more decorum, not less. Minuette’s behavior tonight could only reinforce the opinion that she was all but William’s mistress. And after all, perhaps that was the right effect to aim for. If the French believed her to be the king’s mistress, they would not think to worry about her as an impediment to the French marriage.

  Elizabeth might have intervened, just to make certain Minuette was behaving with political deliberation, but she saw that Dominic was watching Minuette just as closely. From his expression, he liked what he saw as little as Elizabeth did. Let him deal with it, she thought. Dealing with things is what he does best. Elizabeth returned her attention to the Cardinal of Lorraine and allowed herself to be lulled by outrageous French compliments.

  Minuette had never drunk so much at one time in her life. She found the experience quite heady. The wine blurred the edges of her painful emotions—most of them. She could not think of the half-dressed woman leaving Dominic’s room without wanting to hide away and never see anyone again. Especially Dominic.

  But the catch was that even alone all she could see was him. His hair tousled from sleep (or not), his body bare (and beautiful, her treacherous mind whispered), the play of torchlight and shadow on the muscles beneath his skin as he passionately kissed the woman who had clearly just come from his bed … the woman it had taken Minuette only a moment to identify as Madame de Poitiers’s lady, Aimée.

  Minuette was not an innocent. She knew men took women to their beds whom they would never take anywhere else. One had only to meet Eleanor Percy to know that. It wasn’t as though she herself was sleeping with Dominic, so why should he not seek release elsewhere? A woman at the French court was ideal in many ways—a momentary thing, a woman he would not see again nor probably even wish to. Just because Dominic took most things far more seriously than William, that didn’t mean bedding a woman was one of them. No doubt he did that as casually as most men.

  But she could not bear the thought of any woman touching him, kissing him, being undressed by him … He said he could wait for me! she raged.

  She was silent as Carrie dressed her for the closing banquet and dancing. The maid tried to engage her in conversation multiple times, but Minuette deliberately ignored her. If she once admitted what had happened last night, the hurt of it might overwhelm the anger. And she needed to remain angry. It was anger that had fueled her so well last night that she had flung the dead rat out of her window by its tail (after removing the velvet shroud) without flinching. The broadside she had burnt. At some point she should let Dominic know about it. But not tonight. Tonight she was going to make Dominic regret with all his heart that he hadn’t waited for her.

  Drinking definitely helped fuel her anger—and her recklessness. It also seemed to make her plenty desirable, since she could hardly choose with whom to dance. Even the French king partnered her in a galliard, and she smiled headily and laughed at all his witticisms, most of which she did not understand.

  At each moment her every breath alerted her to Dominic. She had never felt so sensitive to his presence. Tonight she wanted him to watch her. Tonight she wanted him to want her.

  A tiny whisper of a conscience (this time sounding like Elizabeth) kept up a commentary of sarcasm beneath all her actions. Oh yes, this is the final impression you wish to leave on the French court—that you are tipsy and wanton. But another, deeper voice, echoed beneath that one, Dominic’s whispered words at Framlingham: Wanton is not always wicked.

  She didn’t think he would say that to her tonight. She didn’t have to look at him to feel the force of his disapproval from across the ostentatious, overly decorated Salle des Fêtes. You don’t like this, she thought, sipping wine and giggling inanely at a gentleman whose name she hadn’t bothered to learn. Well, isn’t that too bad. At least I have all my clothes on.

  The worst moment was when she found herself accidentally face-to-face with Aimée. From the rich waves of her hair and the insolent way she held herself, she might as well have been wearing only the thin gown she’d worn last night. Minuette turned abruptly away, and heard the lilt of Aimée’s laughter and a phrase spoken with mock pity: la pauvre vierge anglaise!

  Poor English virgin.

  Conversations began to wane in and out of her attention. She wasn’t interested in talking—she mo
ved from dance to dance and from man to obliging man. The French were nothing if not obliging. So obliging that Minuette often found herself having to step out of a too-intimate embrace or pretending not to understand the coyly worded invitations to join a man somewhere more private.

  Only one man reached through her recklessness. Renaud LeClerc danced with her quite late in the evening and warned softly, “In my experience, mademoiselle, arguments are better settled with either words or a sword than with wine.”

  “You think I need a sword?” Maybe she did at that.

  “I think directness is always preferable to games, mademoiselle.”

  She tilted her head in unthinking flirtation. “I thought the French liked games.”

  He leaned in closer. “But Dominic is not French. And you are only bewildering him.”

  He drew back and held her eyes with his, until her heart pounded in her ears.

  “Did you ever think that perhaps Dominic is the one bewildering me?” she whispered.

  “Yes, talking things over is not Dominic’s strong suit. All the more need for you to take the lead.”

  He bowed and kissed her hand, then squeezed it before leaving her on the edge of the room with her head swimming and eyes stinging with tears she dare not shed. What was she doing? He was right. It was Dominic she should be dancing with, not these men whose names she did not know and whose faces she would never see again.

  Time to remedy that.

  Being hit on the head and then surprised by the wrong woman in his bed was not conducive to being well rested. It wasn’t so much Dominic’s head that ached as it was his entire being. He was sore and sick at heart and eager to return to England’s cleaner, sharper air. If last night’s encounter with Aimée had done anything (besides frustrate him), it had made him ponder how much longer he could endure pretending not to love Minuette. He was loyal and he was disciplined—but he was also a man. Something had to give sooner rather than later. If he could make her understand how he felt, how desperately he wanted her and how achingly difficult it was not to throw himself at her every time they were alone, then maybe she would agree to tell William the truth.