* * *
Mary Magdalene was the name that came to mind as I raised my hands overhead in a simulation of prayer, to allow the small wicker dress frame to slip over my shoulders and settle onto my hips. Or Mata Hari, but I was quite sure she’d never make the Calendar of Saints. I wasn’t sure about the Magdalene, for that matter, but a reformed prostitute seemed the most likely among the heavenly host to be sympathetic to the venture being now undertaken.
I reflected that the Convent of the Angels had probably never before seen a robing such as this. While the postulants about to take their final vows were most splendidly arrayed as brides of Christ, red silk and rice powder probably didn’t figure heavily in the ceremonies.
Very symbolic, I thought, as the rich scarlet folds slithered over my upturned face. White for purity, and red for…whatever this was. Sister Minèrve, a young sister from a wealthy noble family, had been selected to assist me in my toilette; with considerable skill and aplomb, she dressed my hair, tucking in the merest scrap of ostrich feather trimmed with seed pearls. She combed my brows carefully, darkening them with the small lead combs, and painted my lips with a feather dipped in a pot of rouge. The feel of it on my lips tickled unbearably, exaggerating my tendency to break into unhinged giggles. Not hilarity; hysteria.
Sister Minèrve reached for the hand mirror. I stopped her with a gesture; I didn’t want to look myself in the eye. I took a deep breath, and nodded.
“I’m ready,” I said. “Send for the coach.”
* * *
I had never been in this part of the palace before. In fact, after the multiple twists and turnings through the candle-lit corridors of mirrors, I was no longer sure exactly how many of me there were, let alone where any of them were going.
The discreet and anonymous Gentleman of the Bedchamber led me to a small paneled door in an alcove. He rapped once, then bowed to me, whirled, and left without waiting for an answer. The door swung inward, and I entered.
The King still had his breeches on. The realization slowed my heartbeat to something like a tolerable rate, and I ceased feeling as though I might throw up any minute.
I didn’t know quite what I had been expecting, but the reality was mildly reassuring. He was informally dressed, in shirt and breeches, with a dressing gown of brown silk draped across his shoulders for warmth. His Majesty smiled, and urged me to rise with a hand under my arm. His palm was warm—I had subconsciously expected his touch to be clammy—and I smiled back, as best I could.
The attempt must not have been altogether successful, for he patted my arm kindly, and said “Don’t be afraid of me, chère Madame. I don’t bite.”
“No,” I said. “Of course not.”
He was a lot more poised than I was. Well, of course he is, I thought to myself, he does this all the time. I took a deep breath and tried to relax.
“You will have a little wine, Madame?” he asked. We were alone; there were no servants, but the wine was already poured, in a pair of goblets that stood on the table, glowing like rubies in the candlelight. The chamber was ornate, but very small, and aside from the table and a pair of oval-backed chairs, held only a luxuriously padded green-velvet chaise longue. I tried to avoid looking at it as I took my goblet, with a murmur of thanks.
“Sit, please.” Louis sank down upon one of the chairs, gesturing to me to take the other. “Now please,” he said, smiling at me, “tell me what it is that I may do for you.”
“M-my husband,” I began, stammering a little from nervousness. “He’s in the Bastille.”
“Of course,” the King murmured. “For dueling. I recall.” He took my free hand in his own, fingers resting lightly on my pulse. “What would you have me do, chère Madame? You know it is a serious offense; your husband has broken my own decree.” One finger stroked the underside of my wrist, sending small tickling sensations up my arm.
“Y-yes, I understand that. But he was…provoked.” I had an idea. “You know he’s a Scot; men of that country are”—I tried to think of a good synonym for “berserk”—“most fierce where questions of their honor are concerned.”
Louis nodded, head bent in apparent absorption over the hand he held. I could see the faint greasy shine to his skin, and smell his perfume. Violets. A strong, sweet smell, but not enough to completely mask his own acrid maleness.
He drained his wine in two long swallows and discarded the goblet, the better to clasp my hand in both his own. One short-nailed finger traced the lines of my wedding ring, with its interlaced links and thistle blossoms.
“Quite so,” he said, bringing my hand closer, as though to examine the ring. “Quite so, Madame. However…”
“I’d be…most grateful, Your Majesty,” I interrupted. His head rose and I met his eyes, dark and quizzical. My heart was going like a trip-hammer. “Most…grateful.”
He had thin lips and bad teeth; I could smell his breath, thick with onion and decay. I tried holding my own breath, but this could hardly be more than a temporary expedient.
“Well…” he said slowly, as though thinking it over. “I would myself be inclined toward mercy, Madame…”
I released my breath in a short gasp, and his fingers tightened on mine in warning. “But you see, there are complications.”
“There are?” I said faintly.
He nodded, eyes still fixed on my face. His fingers wandered lightly over the back of my hand, tracing the veins.
“The Englishman who was so unfortunate as to have offended milord Broch Tuarach,” he said. “He was in the employ of…a certain man—an English noble of some importance.”
Sandringham. My heart lurched at the mention of him, indirect as it was.
“This noble is engaged in—shall we say, certain negotiations which entitle him to consideration?” The thin lips smiled, emphasizing the imperious prow of the nose above. “And this nobleman has interested himself in the matter of the duel between your husband and the English Captain Randall. I am afraid that he was most exigent in demanding that your husband suffer the full penalty of his indiscretion, Madame.”
Bloody tub of lard, I thought. Of course—since Jamie had refused the bribe of a pardon, what better way to prevent his “involving himself” in the Stuarts’ affairs than to ensure Jamie’s staying safely jugged in the Bastille for the next few years? Sure, discreet, and inexpensive; a method bound to appeal to the Duke.
On the other hand, Louis was still breathing heavily on my hand, which I took as a sign that all was not necessarily lost. If he wasn’t going to grant my request, he could scarcely expect me to go to bed with him—or if he did, he was in for a rude surprise.
I girded my loins for another try.
“And does Your Majesty take orders from the English?” I asked boldly.
Louis’s eyes flew open with momentary shock. Then he smiled wryly, seeing what I intended. Still, I had touched a nerve; I saw the small twitch of his shoulders as he resettled his conviction of power like an invisible mantle.
“No, Madame, I do not,” he said with some dryness. “I do, however, take account of…various factors.” The heavy lids drooped over his eyes for a moment, but he still held my hand.
“I have heard that your husband interests himself in the affairs of my cousin,” he said.
“Your Majesty is well informed,” I said politely. “But since that is so, you will know that my husband does not support the restoration of the Stuarts to the throne of Scotland.” I prayed that this was what he wanted to hear.
Apparently it was; he smiled, raised my hand to his lips, and kissed it briefly.
“Ah? I had heard…conflicting stories about your husband.”
I took a deep breath and resisted the impulse to snatch my hand back.
“Well, it’s a matter of business,” I said, trying to sound as matter-of-fact as possible. “My husband’s cousin, Jared Fraser, is an avowed Jacobite; Jamie—my husband—can’t very well go about letting his real views be made public, when he’s in partnership with Jared.” Seeing the doubt begin to fade from his face, I hurried it along. “Ask Monsieur Duverney,” I suggested. “He’s well acquainted with my husband’s true sympathies.”
“I have.” Louis paused for a long moment, watching his own fingers, dark and stubby, tracing delicate circles over the back of my hand.
“So very pale,” he murmured. “So fine. I believe I could see the blood flow beneath your skin.”
He let go of my hand then and sat regarding me. I was extremely good at reading faces, but Louis’s was quite impenetrable at the moment. I realized suddenly that he’d been a king since the age of five; the ability to hide his thoughts was as much a part of him as his Bourbon nose or the sleepy black eyes.
This thought brought another in its wake, with a chill that struck me deep in the pit of the stomach. He was the King. The Citizens of Paris would not rise for forty years or more; until that day, his rule within France was absolute. He could free Jamie with a word—or kill him. He could do with me as he liked; there was no recourse. One nod of his head, and the coffers of France could spill the gold that would launch Charles Stuart, loosing him like a deadly bolt of lightning to strike through the heart of Scotland.
He was the King. He would do as he wished. And I watched his dark eyes, clouded with thought, and waited, trembling, to see what the Royal pleasure might be.
“Tell me, ma chère Madame,” he said at last, stirring from his introspection. “If I were to grant your request, to free your husband…” he paused, considering.
“Yes?”
“He would have to leave France,” Louis said, one thick brow raised in warning. “That would be a condition of his release.”
“I understand.” My heart was pounding so hard that it nearly drowned out his words. Jamie leaving France was, after all, precisely the point. “But he’s exiled from Scotland…”
“I think that might be arranged.”
I hesitated, but there seemed little choice but to agree on Jamie’s behalf. “All right.”
“Good.” The King nodded, pleased. Then his eyes returned to me, rested on my face, glided down my neck, my breasts, my body. “I would ask a small service of you in return, Madame,” he said softly.
I met his eyes squarely for one second. Then I bowed my head. “I am at Your Majesty’s complete disposal,” I said.
“Ah.” He rose and threw off the dressing gown, leaving it flung carelessly over the back of his armchair. He smiled and held out a hand to me. “Très bien, ma chère. Come with me, then.”
I closed my eyes briefly, willing my knees to work. You’ve been married twice, for heaven’s sake, I thought to myself. Quit making such a bloody fuss about it.
I rose to my feet and took his hand. To my surprise, he didn’t turn toward the velvet chaise, but instead led me toward the door at the far side of the room.
I had one moment of ice-cold clarity as he let go my hand to open the door.
Damn you, Jamie Fraser, I thought. Damn you to hell!