“Who is it from?” FitzWalter demanded.
“Lord Varden,” Arabella replied. No further explanation was necessary, as FitzWalter knew who Anthony Varden was. “He is sending his coach for me on Midsummer’s Eve. We are to attend a fete given by the king.”
FitzWalter nodded and returned to polishing his sword, but Lona began to fuss.
“That’s but three days away, my lady! How am I to alter one of those gowns that the queen brought for you inthattime?”
“Lona.”Arabella spoke a gentle warning.
Lona looked to where Avice was sweeping the salon and shrugged. “She don’t know what I’m saying, my lady, when I speak English. Why, my French is far better. I don’t think she speaks half a dozen words of English, andnosurely ain’t one of them. The slut has bedded four of the men already, and has her eye on Fergus MacMichael, but if she makes an attempt in that direction, I’ll scratch her wicked eyes out!”
Arabella laughed, but FitzWalter cautioned, “Never assume anything, lass. Besides, what if someone were listening at the door who could understand you? They’d wonder why our queen was kind to our lady under the circumstances. In future be more careful, daughter.”
“The queen was kind because she felt guilty,” Lona said sharply, “and well she should! I’ll be more careful in the future though, Da.”
On Midsummer’s Eve Arabella was ready when Lord Varden’s coach called for her. The queen might have been charitable, but she had chosen the gowns she gave Arabella well, with an eye for the most flattering colors. Arabella suspected that the gowns had come from the queen’s own wardrobe, for although Elizabeth of York’s hair was darker, she was also a blonde. She was taller, however, and so the hems of the garments had been raised, and she was slightly stockier than Arabella, though not as ample in the bosom. Clever Lona had recut the bodice using the excess material from the skirts.
Arabella’s gown was of sky-blue silk, having a bare shoulder and a low neckline, with tight-fitting sleeves ending at the wrist. The overgown was a brocade shot through with a pale gold metallic thread, almost the same color as Arabella’s hair. A gilt leather girdle encircled her hips. From it hung a silver-gilttussoirethat helped to hold up the skirt which had an underskirt of ivory brocade embroidered with gold and small seed pearls. A long train lined in ivory satin added an elegant touch. Her shoes matched her gown, and her jewelry was spare. She wore a simple gilt chain about her neck, from which hung a pear-shaped pearl drop. On her hands she had only her signet ring.
Lona handed her a pair of ivory kidskin gloves embroidered with seed pearls, and a drawstring bag of blue silk containing a pomander even as an elegantly attired gentleman entered the hallway.
“Lady Grey. I am Anthony Varden. Welcome to Paris!” He bowed politely, but the smile he gave her was dazzling.
Arabella was astounded, though she hid her surprise well. That this man should be Henry Tudor’s friend stunned her. Unlike the king, who was a somber man, Anthony Varden was obviously a gentleman who enjoyed life to its fullest, a fact that amazed Arabella, considering Lord Varden’s physical appearance. Though the nobleman had the face of an angel, he was small of stature—no taller than Arabella herself—and one of his shoulders was just slightly higher than the other. Remembering her manners, she curtsied.
“Merci, my lord. I am indeed grateful for your kindness.”
He offered her his arm. “Then, madame, let us depart, for Midsummer’s Eve is upon us and the festivities will soon begin. All of Paris will be celebrating, and it will be hard to get our carriage through the streets as it is.”
Once inside the coach and safely under way, Anthony Varden turned to Arabella, saying, “It is safe to speak here, Lady Grey. My servants are English and loyal beyond all to king and country.” He assessed her frankly. “God’s bones, I can see why Henry sent you. You are ravishing, madame, and will surely lure several big fish into your nets for us.”
Had it been another man, another time or place, Arabella might have been offended. Instead she laughed weakly. “I think the king mad to have sent me here,” she answered Lord Varden. “I have spent most of my life away from cities and courts; and I am no wanton to lure a man.”
Looking even more closely at her, Anthony Varden could see that she was telling the truth. Damn Hal for a fool, he thought, but they would all simply have to make the best of the matter. “I would not want a woman of experience in this matter, Lady Grey,” he told her gently. “It is your naiveté that is so alluring. As for the rest, I will guide you. You need fear nothing, for I am your friend and will not desert you.”
“I am not even certain what I am to do, or how I am to act,” Arabella admitted nervously. “I am really a country mouse, my lord.”
He smiled. A warm smile that reached all the way to his gray eyes. “Did you not spend some time at the Scots court, my dear?”
“Aye, my lord, I did. My husband was half brother to his majesty, King James III, and is uncle to the current king,” she told him, not certain how much he knew of her background. “My former husband,” she quickly amended. “We did not, however, spend a great deal of time at court, for Tavis loves his home at Dunmor.”
“The French court,” said Lord Varden, “is a sophisticated court, but despite the sophistication, human nature is the same the world over, I have found. Familiarize yourself with its charming, dangerous, and jaded inhabitants. In particular I would have you be aware of Adrian Morlaix, the Duc de Lambour. He is close with both the Beaujeu faction at court and the young king himself. ‘Tis a rare feat balancing between those two. He is privy, I suspect, to certain information that would be of use to King Henry.”
“How will I know him, my lord?”
“He will seek you out sooner than later, my dear, for the Duc de Lambour is a great connoisseur of beautiful women. As you are new to court,andbeautiful, you will be eagerly sought out by the gentlemen. I would suggest you be chaste with them all. Most will eventually fall away, but Adrian Morlaix will not. The challenge your virtue presents will prove totally irresistible to him.”
“And shall I eventually succumb to him, my lord?” Arabella said softly. For some reason she felt close to tears.
Anthony Varden could see the moisture shining in her eyes, and he again silently damned his Tudor friend. “That must be your choice, and yours alone, Arabella Grey. It very well may be that you can play the game and win it without surrendering your chastity. But highborn women who take lovers are never ostracized here, so if it must come to that, you need not distress yourself unnecessarily. Besides, a woman as beautiful as yourself surely cannot live without love. To entrap the Duc de Lambour in Cupid’s snare would make you asuccès fou,my dear, I assure you.”
“Does he not like women, then? Is he married?” Arabella inquired curiously.
Anthony Varden laughed. “Oh, Adrian Morlaix likes women very much, I assure you, and aye, he has a wife. A mousey little thing of a surprisingly robust nature, who dutifully presents him with a child every other year. He keeps her away from the court, although I did see her once several years ago, when they first wed. She and their children live in a large chateau in Normandy which the duc visits, but only often enough to get another child on her. Adrian stays with the court most of the time, acquiring and discarding mistresses with shameful rapidity.”
“He sounds a most dreadful man,” Arabella said.
“But he is not,” Lord Varden assured her. “He is charming, witty, and surprisingly kind, but he does bore easily.”
