by Lauren Royal
“I returned it to the friend it was borrowed from.” This wasn’t exactly a lie, seeing as she’d given it to the friend’s brother.
The gentleman brightened. “Then you could borrow it again.”
“I think not,” she snapped and swished past him.
“I Sonetti?” Mum asked when they reached the other end of the chamber.
“It means The Sonnets. Italian poetry.”
“Why did the fellow’s interest upset you?”
“I don’t even know him!” Rose burst out, and then added in as calm a voice as possible, “I’m here to see the duke. If he means to make me his wife, he’ll not like seeing me doing favors for other men.”
The Presence Chamber was stunning, with great tapestries on the walls and a gilded ceiling. The king and queen sat under a canopy fashioned of cloth-of-gold. After the ceremony of presentation—which Rose found more tedious than thrilling this time—Mum wandered off, leaving her daughter at liberty to look for Gabriel. But she’d barely scanned the chamber when Baron Fortescue appeared and made a bow. “My dear Lady Rose, I’m most honored to see you wearing my bracelet.”
He was dressed in mulberry satin with bunched loops of aqua ribbons. Rose had always admired men of fashion, but it seemed to her that lately the fashions had turned rather frivolous. And she remembered Lord Fortescue better now, most specifically that he was, as Lily had put it, a sloppy kisser.
She didn’t wish to hurt the fellow, but she certainly didn’t want to encourage him. “The bracelet matched my gown,” she told him. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure. I hear, dear lady, that you’ve learned the secrets of I Sonetti.” He grinned, displaying buck teeth. “I’m hoping you’ll be willing to share them.”
Was that why he’d given her the bracelet? She was tempted to tear it off, but there was no reason, after all, to ruin such a pretty trinket. “If I knew any secrets,” she told him archly, “I’d scarcely share them with a man who wasn’t my husband.”
To her consternation, his grin widened. “I entertain fond hopes of being that man.”
“You what?”
“Will you marry me, dear Lady Rose?”
Good heavens, she’d just received her first proposal. This was it—the achievement she’d despaired of ever reaching. The moment she’d looked forward to ever since little Robin Bedingfield had pushed her in a puddle and made her cry, and Mum explained why all the boys were mean to her.
A proposal!
And she felt about as happy as she had sitting in that dirty, freezing puddle.
Better she live all her days as a spinster than bind herself to Lord Fortescue and his sloppy kisses. “Please accept my apologies,” she said, “but my heart belongs to another.”
Though he sighed, he didn’t look surprised. “Best wishes, then, my lady.”
No sooner had Lord Fortescue taken his leave than Lord Somerville made his way over. He raised her hand and kissed it reverently. “I hope you received my flowers.”
“They’re beautiful, my lord. I thank you.” If she remembered correctly, he was an affable fellow whose kiss had been humdrum but not especially off-putting. And his suit was adorned with gold braid rather than ribbons. Perhaps he would ask her to dance. She had always dearly loved to dance.
“I hear you’ve a copy of I Sonetti,” he said instead.
“Not anymore.” If she had his flowers here, she would have dumped them on his head. “And before you ask, I’ve no secrets to share with the likes of you.”
“Ah, I’ve heard tell of your desire for the state of matrimony. In that case, dear Lady Rose, I must ask you to do me the honor of becoming my wife.”
Rose’s first instinct was to scream at the top of her lungs, but causing a scene would only serve to increase her mortification. “It would be an honor,” she said tightly, “but I’m afraid my heart belongs to another.”
“I see.” He swept her a courtly bow. “The duke is a lucky man.”
Dazed, she made her way to a velvet-covered settle. A month ago she’d despaired of ever receiving a proposal, and now she’d collected two in the space of five minutes!
In the next hour, Gabriel failed to appear and four more courtiers proposed to Rose. Two of them were superb catches, men of positions as attractive as their persons. Men Rose would have thrown herself at a month ago. But suddenly she couldn’t stomach the thought of marrying any of them.
And the ones who didn’t propose were even worse, apparently taking her for some sort of lust-crazed doxy. Rose had warned off three of that type already when two more approached as a team. “We hear you have a copy of I Sonetti,” one of them started, a lascivious gleam in his eye.
They both crowded close—so close Rose could tell one of them truly needed a bath. “We were wondering—” the second man began.
“Leave her alone,” Nell Gwyn interrupted, shoving herself between them.
The first one turned on her. “Criminy, Nelly, we were only—”
“Hoping to share her, you beasts.” Raising her dainty hands, she pushed on both their chests. “Go on. Be gone.”
“I don’t even have it anymore!” Rose hollered after them as they scurried away.
“But you did?” Nell asked the moment they were out of earshot.
“What?”
“Have a copy of I Sonetti. It’s all they’ve talked of for days.”
“Yes, I did.” Rose sighed, fearing her mother was bound to hear the gossip. Judging by the dearth of ladies, at least half the women at court were presently crammed into the attiring room, squealing over her translated sonnets. ”But I cannot imagine why everyone finds it so blasted fascinating.”
“The ladies, they’re just curious. They want to know what’s behind all the whispers and scandal. But the gentlemen…well, if you’re not looking for a tumble or two, you’d best stay in company and be watchful.”
From what Rose had seen, there was nothing gentlemanly about these animals. “Surely not all men are such base creatures.”
“Some may approach you with flowery words, but they are men. Inflamed most easily.”
“Then perhaps I should carry a bucket of water.”
Nell laughed, making Rose appreciate the woman’s easy temper, not to mention her helpful advice. Once again, Rose wondered how one so thoroughly indecent could be the only decent person at court.
“Do you know,” Rose said, “you are one of few here who haven’t asked to see I Sonetti. Don’t you want to view the scandalous engravings and read the poems?”
“I’ve no need of such things,” Nell assured her blithely.
“Most ladies seem to think they’d learn something pleasing to their men.”
“Not I.” Nell leaned closer. “Charles”—she dropped her voice to a confidential murmur—“is a very catholic lover.”
Rose frowned. “I thought you were both Protestant.”
Nell’s lips curved into a fond half smile. “I mean that he’s not very imaginative. His tastes run to the simple. However, he more than makes up for that with his prodigious appetite and enthusiasm.”
Rose felt her eyes widening. “Oh,” was all she could think of to say, before quickly changing the subject. “Will there be gaming tonight?”
“Of course. And tomorrow night, there will be a masked ball.”
“Gemini! Whatever shall I wear?”
“Not everyone wears a costume. Just a mask will do, although I suspect you’ll find some of the garb amusing.”
Rose’s mind turned to the gowns she and Mum had brought and what she could possibly create from them. Maybe if she concealed her identity well enough, she’d have an evening free from being questioned about I Sonetti. She watched absently as a beautiful woman walked in and made her curtsy before the king.
Or rather, her bow.
Rose blinked. “Whoever is that?” she asked, staring. Though the tall woman was dressed in silks and satins, the sumptuous turquoise apparel wasn’t a lady’s. “It’s a Cavali
er’s suit she wears! She must think the masked ball is today instead of tomorrow.”
“I think not.” Nell chuckled. “I gather you have yet to meet Hortense Mancini, the Duchess Mazarin?”
“That’s the duchess?” Rose had never seen a woman dressed like a man, but the effect was stunning. A jeweled sword dangled from her belt, and a dark little Moorish boy dressed to match trotted beside her, completing the bizarre picture.
“Are you not jealous of her?” Rose asked candidly, knowing the Duchess Mazarin was yet another of the king’s mistresses.
Nell gave a good-natured shrug. “She has Charles’s attention for the moment, but when all is said and done, he will always come searching for my bed. For I love him, and I don’t believe the lovely Hortense has it in her to love anyone. She has a brilliant mind, but beneath it she’s colder than the Thames in January.”
Rose slanted a glance to Louise de Kéroualle, who was watching Hortense and glowering. “It seems the Duchess of Portsmouth doesn’t share your lack of concern.”
“She has something to fret about,” Nell said with a saucy grin. Taking Rose by the arm, she started toward the Duchess Mazarin. “Louise is a passing fancy for Charles as well, and the coming of Hortense may well mean the end of her reign. Even a king can spread himself only so thin,” she added with a laugh.
“Why does King Charles like either of them?” Rose wondered aloud.
“He’s a man,” Nell told her with another shrug. “His head is turned by a pretty face. Louise is a beauty, and as for Hortense, you must agree she’s extraordinary.”
Drawing closer to the duchess’s rare loveliness, Rose could only nod. Waist-length raven hair framed Hortense’s perfect face. Her flawless Mediterranean skin set off large violet eyes that seemed to change color as she moved.
Nell lowered her voice. “Charles fancied himself in love with her years ago, while she was but fifteen and he still in exile on the Continent. He proposed to her twice. But she thought his prospects poor, and more importantly, so did her guardian, the Cardinal Mazarin. If either had foreseen that Charles would someday regain his crown, today she’d be a queen. Instead, she’s forced to live off her keepers.”
They drew up before the duchess just as she sent her little Moorish boy off to fetch refreshment. As the child trotted away obediently, Nell swept Hortense a theatrical curtsy. “Your grace, may I present Lady Rose Ashcroft, the Earl of Trentingham’s daughter. Lady Rose, this is Hortense, the Duchess Mazarin.”
“Lady Rose. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” The duchess’s accent was melodious, an intriguing mixture of her native Italian and the many years she’d spent in France. “I’ve been told,” she added, raising one arched black brow, “that you’re in possession of a rare copy of I Sonetti.”
“I’m afraid your intelligence is out of date.” Rose pursed her lips. Why should this stranger be the only soul at court—besides, fate willing, Chrystabel Trentingham—who hadn’t heard? “I translated some of the book, but I no longer possess it.”
“Then you speak Italian?”
“Among other languages.” After saying that without thinking, Rose glanced quickly around and was relieved to see that Gabriel still hadn’t appeared.
“An intellectual!” Hortense exclaimed with such enthusiasm Rose half expected her to clap her hands. “You must come to my salon, then.”
“Your salon?”
“A weekly gathering of great minds in my apartments at St. James’s Palace. We discuss all manner of subjects. Philosophy, religion, history, music, art, ancient and modern literature…”
It sounded like something Violet would love, but Rose didn’t share her sister’s passion for scholarly debate. Not to mention she suspected the Duke of Bridgewater would find it a bore. Still, it wouldn’t do to snub a duchess. “Perhaps someday I’ll join you,” she said.
“I look forward to it,” Hortense said as her little Moor returned with a cup of steaming coffee. “Why, thank you, Mustapha.” She patted him on the head, prompting a smile. His teeth looked very large and white in his dark face as he reclaimed his post by her side.
As she sipped, Hortense’s gaze strayed to Louise de Kéroualle. “Look at her,” she said to Nell with a roll of her amazing eyes. “She’s wearing black again.”
Rose looked, too. Louise’s gown was exquisite, but clearly meant to convey grief. “Why black?”
Nell snorted as only Nell could snort. “That hoity-toity French duchess sets up to be of superior quality. If you listen to her, everyone of rank in France is her cousin. The moment some grand lord or lady over there dies, she orders a new mourning gown.”
“Who died?” Rose asked.
“Doubtless some minor prince.” Nell set one of her small hands upon a curvy hip. “I wonder, I do, if Louise is of such high station, why is she such a trollop? I was born to a trollop, so I hold that I’ve done as one might expect. But she was reared to be a lady—don’t you think she should blush in shame?”
Hortense laughed at that, and her laughter was no feminine tinkle. It did her outfit rather proud.
Rose glanced again at Louise. “Does her grace have a black eye?”
Nell nodded. “An unfortunate accident, she calls it. But I overheard two ladies saying she’d done it deliberately, to make her pale skin darker like the Duchess Mazarin.”
To judge from her braying laughter, the Duchess Mazarin thought that a fine jest.
“Lady Rose.”
Rose turned to see the Duke of Bridgewater. “Your grace! I was wondering if you’d attend tonight.”
“You look as though you’ve been having a fine time without me.”
His tone implied he was less than thrilled to find her socializing with two of the king’s mistresses. And now that she thought on it, Rose was a bit scandalized herself. But the truth was she felt more comfortable with these women than she did with most of the others here at court.
Gabriel was the exception, though. Other than proving a tad more amorous than she’d prefer, he’d been the perfect gentleman. “I’m glad you came,” she told him, meaning it.
He drew her a safe distance away. “Where are your earrings?”
She knew she should have worn them. “I adore them, your grace, but they didn’t match my gown.”
“Well, then, these should match whatever you choose to wear.” He fished a tiny silk pouch from his pocket. “A token of my esteem, my lady.”
Rose drew open the drawstring and poured a pair of diamond drops into her hand. The stones winked in the torchlight. “Your grace! They’re exquisite!”
She should have known he would come up with something to outshine all those other men.
“I’m pleased that you like them,” he said, moving close to fasten them on her ears. “Would you care to dance?”
FORTY-SEVEN
“ROSSLYN.” KIT looked up from the sketch he was making of Rose and quickly flipped it over. “What brings you here tonight?”
Rosslyn wandered the drawing room of Kit’s building-in-progress, touching a panel here, eyeing the level there. “Just seeing how you’re coming along.” He squinted up at the half-painted ceiling. “You’ve pulled it off, Martyn, haven’t you? I knew you would.”
Kit glanced overhead at the fat, smiling cherubs the Duchess of Cleveland had requested, thinking, not for the first time, that they didn’t really fit her. The king’s longtime mistress was known to be anything but cherubic. “Something wrong up there?”
“Not at all. It’s stunning, in fact.” Rosslyn lowered his pale blue gaze to meet Kit’s. “Mind if I look around?”
“As you wish.”
Kit lit a second candle and handed it to his friend, then followed closely behind. Not that he had anything to hide. But the last of his men had just left, and he always checked everything one final time before leaving himself.
During the past few days he’d been over every inch of the apartments time and again. Nothing seemed out of place. The materials were u
p to standard, and there was no sign of sabotage, fire or otherwise. Apart from some understandable grumbling when Kit kept them long hours, no one on the job seemed unhappy. No one had sighted Harold Washburn, either.
Apparently the man hadn’t set the fire at Whitehall—or, at the very least, he’d heeded Kit’s warning and was keeping clear now.
“Very nice.” In the master bedchamber, the young earl nodded at a carved mantelpiece. “Gibbons’s work, I presume?”
“Yes.”
His walking stick tapped as he continued his rambling inspection. “I suppose a Deputy Surveyor ought to insist on the best.”
Kit grunted. “I haven’t won the post yet.” Trailing him into the dining room, Kit watched the long tails of Rosslyn’s lavender surcoat flap behind him. “Anyhow, it’s only an interim goal. I won’t be satisfied until the Surveyor General post is mine.”
His friend turned to face him. “I’ll alert Mr. Wren that you’re angling to take his place.”
“Sir Christopher Wren,” Kit reminded him. “But I doubt he’ll find that a revelation.”
Rosslyn waved an elegant hand. “I was jesting. Can you not take a jest?”
“Sorry. I suppose I’m a bit serious these days.”
“Understandable, my friend.” Rosslyn smiled. “Well, I expect I had better get back to court. Excellent job here, Martyn.” Still tapping, he retraced his steps to the entrance. “Excellent job, indeed.”
As the fellow walked out, Kit was only half surprised to see Rose’s mother walk in. “Lady Trentingham. I didn’t know you’d come to Hampton Court.”
“Good evening, Kit.” She watched Rosslyn’s retreating back, then turned to Kit in a swish of yellow skirts. “A friend of yours, is he?”
“An old schoolfellow. Now my rival for the post I’m seeking.”
“Lord Rosslyn doesn’t seem to be working very hard to best you. From what I’ve seen, he spends all his time at court.”
Kit shrugged. “An earl doesn’t have to prove himself the way a common man does.” He could be bitter about that, but he’d long ago decided not to waste his time raging over life’s inequities. Better to spend one’s energies overcoming them. “How did you get in here?” he asked. “The only way is through the privy gardens.”