“I remember it every day,” Dominic retorted. “And I desire the peace it ensures between our countries. I have no wish to clash with you in the field again.”
“Nor I. After all, the last time I ended up your prisoner.”
Dominic could not shake the suspicion that there had been more than one point to Renaud’s conversation; he just wasn’t sure he had followed them all. It worried him, even as he watched Minuette charm the French right and left. She was as lovely here as in England, but her spontaneity and freshness were even more noticeable in the mannered court. Of course, next to some of the Frenchwomen, even Elizabeth looked positively impulsive.
But Elizabeth was here for a political purpose, and her position kept her to a strict round of carefully orchestrated public events: hawking with King Henri and the dauphin, afternoon visits to nearby noble homes, attending a Catholic mass with Queen Catherine de Medici and the young Princess Elisabeth. Minuette could move more freely. One morning might be spent walking in the classical gardens with Elisabeth and Mary of Scotland, the two royal girls chattering with Minuette as though they had known her all their lives while dogs of various sizes played around them. Another day Minuette received a private tour of Saint Denis, the magnificent church raised by Abbot Suger in the twelfth century and burial place of French kings. As Dominic made it his business to always know her whereabouts (and ensure Harrington was with her if he could not be), he received many assurances of her interest in and enthusiasm for France.
The promised word from the Spanish ambassador came just three days before their scheduled departure from Fontainebleau. It was smuggled to Dominic in code, amidst a sheaf of innocuous dispatches from home. Deciphered, it gave him directions to a meeting place at midnight (why is it always midnight? Dominic wondered) and instructed him,Come alone and do not dress the gentleman.
That last order was considerably easier than the first. Dominic only dressed as a duke when forced into it; by choice his clothing, though well made and of expensive fabric, was unadorned and somber and easy enough to conceal him in the dark. Butcome alonemeant leaving Harrington out of it, and the big, silent man had a sixth sense for trouble. He plainly did not believe Dominic when he said he was tired and would not need him again that evening, but he respected Dominic and left when finally ordered. Dominic couldn’t swear that Harrington wouldn’t stand watch for his return, however.
The directions led him to an unsavory section of Paris that, beneath its seediness, held the outlines of old glamour. London had places like this, where the nobility could go slumming without actually delving into the worst of poverty and apathy. Dominic had been to such places a handful of times, though never for pleasure. It was, he admitted, perfectly suited to a clandestine meeting of gentlemen, for they would not stand out as long as they adapted the slightly furtive air of men looking for a hard drink and an easy woman.
There was an abundance of both drinks and women in the front room of the indicated public house, but as directed Dominic went straight through, up the rickety stairs, and knocked once on the second door on the right of the unlit landing.
It was opened noiselessly by the Spanish ambassador himself. Simon Renard was in his early forties, with darkish hair and a lighter, red-tinged beard. Dominic knew of him, from his earlier studies for Rochford, and he knew the man was highly intelligent and, like all good spies, innately suspicious. Renard looked past him into the shadows of the corridor, to ensure he had come alone.
Without a greeting, he let Dominic enter and shut the door before saying a word. “Shall it be Monsieur Courtenay tonight?” he asked in accented but clear French. “We would not want titles thrown about freely. I understand this meeting will never have taken place.”
Dominic pointedly sat down on the only chair in the room, a rather precarious cane-bottomed seat, leaving Renard to choose between standing or perching on the bed that no doubt usually saw quite other activities. Renard chose to lean against the door, in a pose Dominic recognized. It was usually his own.
There was no point in waiting for the ambassador to begin things; as Renard had said, this meeting was William’s idea. And though he no doubt knew the topic—or guessed shrewdly—it was still Dominic’s job to state it aloud.
“My king is interested in Prince Philip and his matrimonial intentions.”
“Vraiment,I had heard you are no diplomat, but still…” He shrugged. Clearly Renard had not expected him to state it with such bluntness. “If it is plain speaking you want—then tell me, does your king truly think he can marry a French princess on one hand and send his sister to Spain on the other hand? It would be the strangest of marriage beds all around.”
Dominic could not be blunt about the next part; he had to hint without revealing anything. “My king respects Spain and recognizes her great power. To wed his own dearest sister to Spain would be an honour beyond measure. There is no tie greater than that of blood. Where his sister goes, the king’s heart will follow.”
The Spaniard’s eyes narrowed. “I thought your king’s heart was to be found here, with the little princess at the French court. Can a heart be split?”
“The love for a bride may grow cold—but the love for a sister is forever.”
“And does your king’s love grow cold?”
“It may be that winter is coming for certain loves.”
The ambassador’s expression was thoughtful, and discerning. Dominic was as satisfied as he could be that he’d been understood. Elizabeth to Spain, in exchange for an alliance when William withdrew from his French marriage plans.
With a single nod, Renard said abruptly, “The message will reach my prince, you may be assured. Perhaps a reply may be brought to England itself?”
“It is likely.” In other words, another ambassador would soon be allowed in London.
“Then perhaps you and I will meet again, Monsieur Courtenay. I have always wished to see England.”
With his hand on the door to let Dominic out, Renard paused at the last minute. “Winter is coming for certain loves, you say. Is it possible that a new love has withered the old?”
Dominic met his gaze without blinking. “You would have to ask my king.”
He left the public house at once, not at all tempted to linger for a drink. It was a relief to have that done, and now he could focus on getting the women back to England. Returning Minuette to William, true, but also one step closer to ending the French game, one step closer to the decision point.
Distraction cost him dearly. He only heard the footsteps at the last moment, just quick enough to half deflect the blow from behind. The cudgel glanced off the side of his head rather than landing full on. He stumbled and his attacker moved in once more. But Dominic was paying full attention now and stepped into the attack, which threw off the other man’s balance and allowed Dominic to slam his palm into his attacker’s nose. A crunch and a gush of blood, and then the man ran. Dominic began to give chase, but his steps were not entirely steady and he had not gone far before another man swung out of a doorway and seized his arm.
Dominic braced and prepared to elbow him in the face when a familiar voice shouted, “Don’t be a fool, Dominic!”
Only one man pronounced his name in that fashion, with the long vowels. Dominic lowered his arm and said, “Why in the devil’s name are you following me, Renaud?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
