No, it was the thought that she might fall on her face, become an object of derision, and be rejected from the Court. Then they would never find Henri, who would be free to speed off to London with the invasion plans, and Angus would spend the rest of his life thinking himself personally responsible for the death of the Jacobite cause. It did not bear thinking about.
“Try not to think about it,” her husband said, unconsciously echoing her thoughts. “If this fails, there are other ways to achieve our aims. Don’t worry.”
He did not say what the other ways were, but he would find one. He always did. She felt a little better, but even so, at the top of the stairs she halted, allowing the following couples to pass her before stamping her feet hard on the marble floor.
“What on earth are you doing, my dear?” Sir Anthony asked, puzzled.
“If it worked for the girl at Tyburn, it might work for me, too,” she said.
It did, a little, and the couple were smiling as they entered the Salon of Apollo, where the dance was to take place, which made an impression immediately on the man who had been intermittently keeping an eye out for them.
Both Sir Anthony and Beth were surprised on entering the salon. They had expected an enormous, luxuriously appointed room. Luxurious it certainly was, but it was not large, by Versailles standards, and there were no more than fifty couples standing in groups chatting. It was a small dance then, as the messenger had said. Even more strange that they had been invited.
One end of the room was dominated by a carpeted dais, at the top of which was an elaborate gilt and burgundy damask throne under a canopy of cloth of gold. The throne was currently unoccupied. Beth gave it no more than a cursory glance, relieved that the king was not yet present, and that she would have a little time to familiarise herself with her surroundings before he put in an appearance.
She stayed at her husband’s side as he reacquainted himself with the courtier in blue, today in green, who he had so successfully accosted earlier in the week. She allowed the conversation to flow around her for a time without listening or taking part, absorbed the admiring glances of the men and the envious darts of the women, and started to relax a little.
The courtier introduced the baronet to others of his acquaintance, and a conversation took place in which the fact that Britain was in all but name at war with France was courteously avoided. There would be no controversy tonight. Beth nodded and murmured polite responses, a cipher at her husband’s side, but listening now, and observing the courtiers. She would take a lesson from Anne Maynard, and echo the expressions and mannerisms of the company.
Sir Anthony was far more unobtrusive at the French Court than he was in England, she noticed. More than one man wore paint and rouge, was dressed in brightly coloured clothes and adopted affected gestures. He was at home here, chattering merrily, insinuating himself into the company.
After a time the musicians entered and took their places at the opposite end of the room from the dais. The throne was still empty. The conversation continued. Everyone was very friendly. It would not be onerous to dance in front of these people, Beth told herself. She thought that perhaps the king had changed his mind and would not make an appearance after all.
Then a man who had been lounging casually on some cushions on the steps of the dais, and whom Beth had only seen glimpses of through the mass of courtiers, and to whom she had paid no attention, stood, and the hubbub quietened. The throng moved to the sides of the room, bowing and curtseying, and the man took the hand of the beautiful slender lady in green silk who had already risen beside him.
King Louis XV of France moved down to take his place on the parquet floor, clapped his hands, and the music started.
It was as Alex had told her. The king and his partner performed their elaborate sequence of steps to much applause before leaving the floor to the next couple, and so on, down the social ladder.
Beth watched, memorising foot positions, hand movements, the carriage of the body. They were all very accomplished. She realised now what a good teacher Alex was. If she could perform the steps exactly as he had taught her, she would not be greeted with derision.
Then her husband was taking her hand, squeezing it reassuringly, smiling, and leading her to her place on the floor. She felt as though a million eyes were watching her, ready to find fault. She felt the colour drain from her face. She turned her head, looked into Sir Anthony’s eyes, Alex’s eyes, and saw there only love, and the confidence that she could do this, reassure their place at Court. And give them the chance to find Henri. Oh God.
Her gaze roamed panicked over his shoulder and met that of the woman standing by the king. She had noted Beth’s sudden pallor and was scornful, mocking, uncertain. It was the gaze of a woman who had thought her beauty unsurpassable, and who had just discovered she was wrong. The challenge was given, and accepted. It was what Beth had needed. She raised her head, and smiled. If she could only remember which foot to start with, she would be fine.
“Wait three counts, right foot,” Sir Anthony whispered as the music started. She moved forward into the reverence and the million eyes melted into the background, leaving only herself and Alex, dancing for Angus in their room. She did not stumble, or look at her feet, or mess up the turns.
“That was wonderful, my dear,” Sir Anthony said as they left the floor to applause a few minutes later.
“The other couples performed much more complex moves,” she pointed out. She felt exhilarated, drunk. They would not be laughed out of the palace. The beautiful woman no longer looked mocking, but sour. Beth reminded herself that she was not supposed to be making enemies, but friends. She would make amends later. She could afford to be magnanimous in victory.
“Their moves were more complex, but not as well executed,” her husband pointed out. “You have a natural grace. I am proud of you. Now, for God’s sake relax and enjoy yourself. I doubt we will find the one we seek tonight, but I am sure we will have other opportunities.”
The evening progressed. Beth drank one glass of wine, then two. The king returned to his cushions, chatting amiably with his companions, watching the dancing. People talked and talked. Her faced ached with smiling, and she was weary. She had become separated from her husband now, and during a pause in the conversation, looked round for him in vain.
A man approached, dressed in dark blue silk, and because of the noise of music and laughter had to repeat himself twice before she understood what he was saying. Then he took her arm and led her to the bronze-clad figure lounging on the steps, who rose to his feet. She curtseyed, deeply. The courtier moved back a few paces.
“You dance very well, Lady Elizabeth,” King Louis said, smiling. The woman had also risen.
“I had an excellent tutor, your majesty,” Beth replied.
“Ah,” he said. “The best tutors of dancing, as of many other things, are French. What is his name? Perhaps I am acquainted with the man.”
“I think not, Your Majesty, although I hope you soon will be. My husband taught me the steps of the menuet only this week.”
“Only this week?” The king’s eyes widened. “But you must certainly be adept in other dances. No one could learn the menuet so quickly otherwise.”
“I am familiar with some of our English country dances, Your Majesty.”
“Then I look forward to partnering you in one at our next meeting,” he said. Was he flirting with her? Surely not. Although the beautiful woman seemed to think so. She moved forward now, eyes flashing.
“And where is your husband?” she asked. “I would like to meet such an accomplished man. You must treasure him.” Her eyes scanned the room.
“Indeed I do. He is a most unique individual,” Beth replied. She did not give the woman a title. If rebuked, she could claim, rightly, that she did not know it.
Louis’ eyes were occupied with Beth’s fichu. The woman’s gaze passed from him to her enemy.
“I must compliment you on your dress, Lady Elizabeth,” she sai
d. “I was unaware that the remnants from the wall hangings had been put on sale to the general public.”
The Peters’ outfits did indeed match the colour of the burgundy and gold-embroidered wall hangings. It was a coincidence. Sir Anthony had found it amusing. So had Beth, until now.
Louis raised his eyes from Beth’s bodice and smiled. He had a strong, rather than a handsome face, she thought. Regal, certainly, and the eyes were shrewd, but there was something petulant about the mouth.
“For myself, I take it as a compliment to my good taste that you should see fit to attire yourselves in a colour I favour so much. Red becomes you, ma chere. As green becomes Marguerite.”
Beth’s mind raced. Green was the colour of envy. Had the girl Marguerite noticed? Yes. She was astute, then. And probably knew the king well. He must often utter double entendres. Red was the colour of passion. Take care. Take it at face value.
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Her smile was innocent, pleased at the compliment to her attire, no more. Louis raised her hand to his lips, then changed his mind, drew her towards him and kissed her lightly on the mouth. He nodded at the servant who took his place at her side.
“I look forward to furthering our acquaintance in the near future,” the king smiled, before turning away. She was dismissed
It seemed to be the servant’s job to escort her back to her husband, or if he could not be found, to keep her occupied with light conversation until he returned or some other company could be found to amuse her.
The man was of medium height, slender, handsome, polished, a little effete, perhaps. His eyes were green and reminded her of Thomas’s. His nose was snubbed slightly at the end. He had a small white scar over one of his eyebrows, the left one. They were black, which meant his hair must be too, although it was concealed beneath a powdered wig at the moment. She noted everything about him, committed it to memory. His words flowed over her, polite enquiries about how she was finding France. He was a courtier. She was wasting her opportunity. The evening was coming to an end and the king had left. Taking their cue from him, everyone else was preparing to leave. In a moment Sir Anthony would come looking for her.
“Do you live in Versailles, my lord, or are you also merely visiting?” she asked her companion.
He did not correct her use of title. A lord, then.
“I do indeed live in the palace, my lady,” he replied. “I have the great honour to be a member of the king’s staff.”
“Really?” she replied, with genuine interest. “How exciting! In what capacity are you employed?”
“I have the honour to be a gentleman of the bedchamber, my lady.”
“That is a most privileged position, is it not, Lord…ah…?”
“Not a lord, I regret.” Ah. He did regret it. He hoped to be one, then, one day. He bowed, introduced his lowly self, a mere Monsieur, and then Sir Anthony appeared,with her cloak, and a languid, pleasant expression on his painted face, beneath which was a coldness she had not expected. The Monsieur melted away into the background and disappeared, and then Beth’s arm was taken by her husband and she was led away to their carriage.
She was ecstatic, relieved beyond measure that the evening had been such a success, could not wait to discuss it. But when she leaned forward to whisper in Sir Anthony’s ear, he shook his head and jerked his hand at the roof of the coach. She sat back. It would have to wait, then, until they were safely in their room and could not be overheard. What was wrong with him? Now they were not being observed, the languid expression had vanished, but the cold rage had not. Something had happened. What was it?
She found out as soon as the door of the room closed and was locked, and Sir Anthony exploded into Alex before he had even taken off his wig, which was the first thing he always did, hating it. He tore it off now and hurled it into the corner of the room with a blast of Gaelic invective which Beth was glad she did not understand. Angus obviously did. He remained by the door, silent, wary.
“The bloody, lascivious, fornicating bastard!” Alex raged.
“What? Who are you talking about?” Beth asked, confused. Her mind was so full of her chat with the courtier, all that had happened before it had faded from her mind.
“Who the hell d’ye think I mean?” he said, his eyes blazing. “The king. Louis. So that’s why we were invited to the palace. I had wondered. He saw ye in the chapel. He thinks he can ogle your breasts, kiss you in public, and get his panderer to butter you up for his bed. Well, if he thinks I’ll stand by while he fucks my wife, he can think again. I’ll see him in hell first!”
Beth stared at him.
“Don’t you think I might have some say in all this?” she said coldly. “I hardly think Louis is likely to drag me off to his bed by force, do you?”
“No,” Alex replied. “He’s more subtle than that. He’ll woo ye, probably buy ye expensive presents, arrange for us both to be invited to a very private function, and then make sure we’re separated, so he can take ye off somewhere and seduce you.”
“And you really think I’m going to let him do that?” she said, her voice rising to match his.
“No, Ye’re not. I’m no’ going tae let him get the opportunity. I’ll…”
He broke off as Beth’s open palm cracked hard against his cheek. She swung again and he ducked back adroitly, grabbing her hand as it flashed past his nose. She pulled against him, and his grip tightened.
“What the hell’s wrong wi’ ye, woman?” he shouted.
“What’s wrong with me? Do you think so little of me, that you think I’ll be persuaded into committing adultery with a man, king or not, by a few words of flattery and some presents? Well, I have respect for myself, even if you don’t!” she cried, close to tears. She blinked them back, angrily. “And if you think that Louis has the slightest chance of fucking me, as you so delicately put it, no matter what he or his panderer does, then it’s you that’s the bastard, not him. And it’s you that can go to hell!”
With a supreme effort she detached herself from his grip and stormed towards the door. Angus moved quickly out of the way. She had her fingers on the handle when Alex’s voice halted her.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. It was not the words, but the tone that made her turn round. The rage had vanished, replaced by remorse. And pain. She moved back into the room. Angus stood forgotten, in the corner now.
“Alex,” she began, and hesitated, searching for the right words. “I married you because I love you. Surely you know that?”
“You married me tae get away from your brother,” he replied.
“No. I married Sir Anthony to get away from my brother. I married you, in Rome, because I love you. I do not love lightly, Alex. I haven’t told you that, because I thought you already knew it.” She looked at him, her eyes intense.
“I do know it,” he said, averting his gaze. “But I couldna stand tae see him make eyes at you like that in front of the whole Court. Christ, I was on the other side of the room and I could tell what he was doing, it was that obvious. He even looked at me and smiled before he kissed you! He made a fool of me, an’ a whore of you, in front of everyone!”
“You’re wrong,” she replied. “He made a fool of Sir Anthony. Sir Anthony wants to be made a fool of, to be underestimated. You should be pleased by your success. He showed me that he finds me attractive. He can only make a whore of me if I let him, which I assure you I do not intend to.” She moved closer, took his hand in both of hers. “If you get this jealous of every man who finds me desirable, Alex, you’re never going to have a moment’s peace,” she said softly. “I’m beautiful, you said so only yesterday. It’s a weapon. We can use it to our advantage. Men want me. But you are the only man who has had me, and I don’t want any other. If you trust me you will accept that and learn to deal with men admiring me, knowing I’ll not let it go further than that.”
He looked at her, his eyes dark, unfathomable. But the pain had diminished, at least.
“I trust you,” he sai
d after a moment. Some of the tension left his face.
“Good,” she replied. She took a deep breath. “Then relax, for God’s sake. And tell me what a panderer is.”
Angus took Beth’s advice, although it had not been addressed to him, and relaxed. He came forward out of the shadows.
“A panderer is a man who helps to procure women for another man, for sexual purposes,” he said. “Not something I have need of myself. I wouldna think a king would, either. Is Louis deformed, or something?”
“No,” Alex said. He went to the dressing table, began the nightly ritual of removing his paint. “But not every king wants to be bothered wi’ the chasing himself, particularly if he might be publicly rejected when he does. So he employs someone like yon laddie who was blethering wi’ ye to pave the way for him, find out the woman’s interests, see if she’s amenable.”
Beth was stunned. She still had a lot to learn about royalty, that was obvious.
“So you mean…? But he didn’t ask me anything about myself. He was talking about Paris.”
“Aye, tonight he was. But we’ll be invited again, soon, ye can depend on it. And next time he’ll get ye to one side and find out what you like, your favourite colour, if you’re partial tae jewels, or flowers, and what ye think of your husband. He’ll be very subtle about it, and charming too. I saw ye hanging on his every word tonight, and, well, I thought he was winning ye round. I can see now I was wrong.”
She laughed, unexpectedly, joyously. He looked round at her, puzzled. Now the paint was removed, he had a faint pink mark on one cheek where she had hit him.
“You’re right,” she grinned. “I was hanging on his every word. He was fascinating. Far more interesting than the king. I can’t wait to meet him again and have a much more detailed conversation. I intend to find out everything there is to know about him. In fact, nothing will make me happier than going to the palace and seeing the king’s panderer there. If he’s not there, I’ll be desolate.”
“Christ, was he that good?” said Angus. “I must meet the man, get some tips.”
The Mask Revealed (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 2) Page 23