Sorcha lowered her head as if with remorse and bit back the sharp reply that rose to her lips. There would be time, she decided, once she had established herself in her husband’s affections, to wreak her revenge upon Arabella Grey for the slights that had been inflicted upon her several years ago, when Arabella was the Countess of Dunmor. How the mighty had fallen, Sorcha thought with satisfaction. She looked up at her husband. “Of course,mon mari,” she said in sweetly lisping tones, “and you will teach me all I need to know, will you not?”
The besotted bridegroom kissed his wife’s smooth, perfumed hand eagerly, his eyes straying to her half-naked bosom. “We shall stay the night in Paris at my hotel,” he said meaningfully. “Tomorrow is time enough to be on the road, chérie.”
The court adjourned to the Loire Valley, where Lady Grey and Lord Varden were the guests of the Duc de Lambour at his charming and intimate chateau, Rossignol. The chateau, a Gothic structure with whimsical pepper-pot turrets, sat on a hillock overlooking the river. It was surrounded by a forest on three sides, but on the fourth a vineyard rolled down to the Loire. Rossignol was positioned in such a way that it appeared to be the only habitable structure for miles, although it was not. It was actually just several miles’ distance from the king’s home at Amboise.
“Does your wife never come here?” Arabella asked her lover. She had been comfortably settled in an apartment immediately next door to that of the duc’s rooms, which were obviously meant to be those of the duchesse.
“No, my wife has never been here,” Adrian answered her. “She rarely leaves Normandy. I prefer that she stays with the children, for they are her primary duty.” He dropped a kiss on her silk-clad shoulder. “I have never brought any woman here to reside in these apartments since I became duc. The rooms were especially refurbished for you,” he told her. “Do you like the crimson velvet? My vineyards grow a grape that makes wine that color. You shall have it tonight,ma Belle!”
“We cannot,” she told him. “We have been invited to Amboise, for the king is giving a party for the Duc and Duchesse de St. Astier.”
“He seems most taken with the bride and groom,” Adrian Morlaix remarked.
“Perhaps he is considering his own marriage to Margaret of Austria,” Arabella said.
“Charles will never marry the Hapsburg wench,” the duc told her.
“They are betrothed,” Arabella said, sounding logical and most female.
“Betrothals can be broken,” he said.
“So you have told me before, but for whom would the king do such a thing, Adrian?” She turned about and kissed him lightly on the mouth. “If we were betrothed, would you cast me off?”
“Vixen,” he laughed, and then he grew serious. “You must not repeat this, of course,ma chérie, but Louis of Orleans has been secretly proposing for some time now that the king marry Princess Anne, the heiress of the duchy of Brittany. It is most important that Brittany be made a part of France. Franche Comte’ and Artois are not even adjoining territories. Brittany is much more important to us.”
“But the king imprisoned Louis in Lusignan over two years ago,” Arabella said, “and to my knowledge he is still there.”
“But his wife, Jeanne de Valois, the king’s sister, is constantly intervening on behalf of her imprisoned husband,” the duc said. “Although the king still smarts over theGuerre Folle, he is near to forgiving his cousin Louis. Until Charles has children of his own, which means finally taking a wife, Louis remains his heir. The king has always been most fond of him, which accounts for the harshness of his sentence on Louis. He felt most betrayed by Louis’ conduct.”
“But Anne of Brittany is to marry Maximilian of Hapsburg, Margaret’s father, now that his wife, Mary of Burgundy, has died,” Arabella said in a tone that implied that Adrian Morlaix must simply have his facts incorrect, or that perhaps she wasn’t intelligent enough to understand all of this.
“Would you like to place a small wager on the chances of that ever happening,ma Belle?” he teased her. “France will not let Maximilian have Brittany, I promise you.” He tumbled her onto the bed and tickled her unmercifully.
Arabella squealed and hit at him with her fists. “Men! You are all mad!” she said. “Stop, Adrian!Stop!We shall be late if you do not cease this instant!”
Reluctantly he arose from her bed. “Very well, madame,” he said, “but prepare yourself to accept my vengeance for this slight tonight when we return.” Then, with a grin he left her, whistling.
When she was certain that he had gone, Arabella called to Lona. “Go to Lord Varden and tell him I must speak with him privately as soon as possible. Go carefully, for I do not want it looking like I sent for Tony. Do you understand?”
“Then it would be better if you waited until tonight and spoke with him at the king’s fete,” Lona counseled wisely. “Oh, I know you are anxious, ‘Bella, to get us home again to Greyfaire, but you must be careful. To misstep now would be a great tragedy.”
Arabella nodded. “Aye,” she agreed. “‘Tis true that I’m impatient. Dear heaven, Lona! We’ve been gone over a year now, and Margaret has probably already forgotten me!”
“Just a little bit longer, my lady. You’ve been most brave. Even me da says he’s proud of you. You’re a true Grey right enough!”
A true Grey.Arabella almost laughed aloud at Lona’s kindly though innocent words. What would her parents, God assoil their good souls, and her illustrious ancestors think of this last descendant of theirs, who, using her body, sold herself in order to retain what they had so bravely earned with their loyalty and their swords? Well, she had done the best she could, and now that she had the information she had sought for all these months, she could actually think of going home to Greyfaire at last.
It was indeed valuable knowledge she possessed. Charles VIII’s father, the old Spider King himself, had made the betrothal between Margaret of Hapsburg and his son. To not only break off the engagement between the young French king and that lady, but to steal Anne of Brittany from beneath the nose of Maximilian of Hapsburg was no mean feat, if it could be done. Maximilian was not going to take kindly to such a monstrous and double insult. Wars had been fought over less, Arabella knew. She also realized the danger of France possessing Brittany, which until now had been England’s loyal ally. Aye, ‘twas important information, and certainly more than paid for the return of Greyfaire. Her heart soared with joy.
She was unable, however, to hide her happiness that night, and the duc remarked, “I can see that already the salubrious air here in the Loire is doing you some good,ma Belle. You have really been too pale all this winter.”
“Perhaps it is something more,” the king said slyly. “Is it, madame?”
“I do not know, Sire,” Arabella replied in honeyed tones, “but I can indeed say I have never been happier.”
The king had arranged for a troupe of entertainers, and as the rope dancer began her turn, Arabella heard Tony Varden murmur in her ear, “Meet me in the rose garden, my dear. Your Lona has told my Will that you have information for me.” Lord Varden moved on, craning his neck as if most interested in the performance that was so entrancing everyone else.
Certain that no one was looking at her, Arabella moved discreetly to the back of the crowd of nobles and walked unhurriedly toward the rose garden. Once there, she strolled casually amid the fragrant bushes, fanning herself with a peacock’s feather fan with a carved ivory handle set with silver, which the duc had given her. To any who bothered to look, she was simply bored with the entertainment, or perhaps too warm in the early evening heat.
