Dark Angels

by Karleen Koen

  Consideration itself? thought Alice. I’m a fool.

  HIS GRACE THE Duke of Buckingham was taking his own sweet time about returning to England.

  Let us make the most of our time in Paris, Alice told her aunt.

  She led Renée and her aunt from shop to shop, to exclaim over the selection of fabrics, colored feathers, soft leather for gloves and shoes, fans, ribbons, buttons. She introduced them to her seamstress. She arranged to have the dancing master to the court call and give her aunt lessons. She bit her tongue when, without being asked, he gave Renée lessons, too. She took her aunt to meet Madame de Lafayette, who had been great friends with the princess; they walked in the large gardens of Luxembourg Palace, which belonged to La Grande Mademoiselle, and admired the elaborate fountain built by Catherine de Medici; they went to look at the huge stone triumphal arches King Louis was having built as part of widening the streets in Paris. They drank coffee and hot chocolate at small cafés; the Spanish queen of France had brought with her the habit of drinking chocolate, and the Turkish ambassador had introduced coffee sweetened with sugar. They went to the Palais Royal, Monsieur’s residence in Paris, and called upon the two little motherless princesses, and there, Alice had a note delivered to Beuvron. “Call upon me,” she wrote. “I miss you. Come and gossip. I must look at properties in the Marais. Come and be my guide.” But the days in August glided by, and he did not call. She persisted, sending him a second note, and then, a third. And in the midst of it all, she wrote Balmoral a very long letter describing the funeral.

  ALICE THREW DOWN her embroidery needle in disgust. She sat before a wooden stand, a large circle of embroidery held in its frame. She was doing beadwork. It was all the fashion to work hundreds of tiny beads into elaborate embroideries. “I’m going blind. Oh, when are we returning to England? Let’s pack our trunks and go, Aunt Brey.”

  “There’s no need for that.” Aunt Brey looked up from a letter that had been delivered. “His Grace the Duke of Buckingham has his secretary write that we leave in four days.”

  A footman walked into the salon. “Comte Armand Beuvron asks if you are receiving?”

  Alice clapped her hands, ran to meet him at the door. He looked his old self, lively, fresh faced, ready to be diverting or diverted.

  “I had given up on you, Beuvron! We’re just leaving for the Marais. Nothing could be better. Do say you’ll come with us. Aunt, I want to introduce you to the man who took me under his wing when I first came to Princesse Henriette’s household. I don’t know what I would have done without his good advice and kindness.”

  “You’re her Beuvron, are you?”

  “But you’re too young to be Mademoiselle Verney’s aunt,” Beuvron said. “There must be some mistake, or your niece lies to me. Surely I speak to no more than an older sister.”

  “You’re too kind.” Aunt Brey was frosty, but Alice could see that she was flattered. After an afternoon with Beuvron in his spirits of old, he would have her eating out of his hand.

  Outside, she and Beuvron walked a pace or two ahead of her aunt. “Why haven’t you called on me?”

  “Shame. I don’t forget how I’ve treated you, even if you are kind enough to do so.”

  So what’s driven you now? thought Alice. They strolled around the elegant square called Place Royal, a statue of King Louis’s father at its center, stately town houses offering an even expanse of windows that overlooked the square, talking of Princesse Henriette’s funeral. He had been among the mourners representing Monsieur’s household, and now he shared long-ago gossip about the princess with her.

  “King Louis and Princesse Henriette were lovers. It was a terrible scandal. The Queen Mother had a fit, demanded they behave more decorously. That’s how La Vallière happened, you know. She was to be a decoy—flirt with my maids of honor, Madame told him—only King Louis fell madly in love. La Vallière was the only one he had eyes for, and believe you me, others tried to entangle him, including the highborn witch who has now succeeded.”

  “That must be ten years ago. How can you know this? You were but a child.”

  “How old do you think I am?”

  “Twenty if you’re a day.” His face was pleasant and smooth, but his eyes, as Alice stared into them, said something else. “No,” she amended. “You’re as much as twenty and five.”

  “Add seven more years to that and you’ll be close to truth.”

  “Do you take some potion to make you ageless?”

  “As a matter of fact, my sweet, I do. There’s a witch called La Voison who sells them and many another thing. Everyone goes to her.”

  “Was Monsieur jealous?”

  “Well, his taste does not truly run in that direction, but Princesse Henriette was his new wife, and they were young and so beautiful together. You cannot imagine it, the couple they made then. They both liked dance and music and people around them; and their taste was exquisite, their coffers bottomless, and at once their chambers were filled with such fun, and our queen, you know”—Beuvron lifted his shoulders, shrugged good-naturedly—“half nun, half dwarf, worse then than now. Not really a companion to the dashing young man our king was. Madame was so engaging—it was as if no one saw her until she was to be married, and there under our noses was this sparkling, vibrant sprite. And fun, what fun she was to be with! We all flocked to her chambers, and the king enjoyed himself there, too, and began to realize that he was, after all, king. He took her from Monsieur, just scooped her up, and where it had been the three of them together, it was suddenly the two. Shocking. His mother nearly had a fit. Monsieur was numb with surprise and hurt, and then La Vallière ensnared His Majesty, with innocence no less.”

  “And lost him, too.”

  “Oh, that was foretold. She simply wasn’t able to keep pace. And she had no flair, no head for court politics. Wouldn’t ask a thing of him, let her looks go. She looked like a hag only three years ago, I do assure you, thin as a rail, starting like a rabbit if anyone said boo to her. Everyone was ashamed for him. And who was she, after all? A soldier’s daughter, a nobody. I’ll say this for the new one, she may have a tongue like an adder, but she comes from among the highest families in France, and it shows. She dresses superbly, keeps a fine table, knows everything that is going on, and is the wittiest woman in France to boot. She had us crying with laughter at supper the other night. If you could see her do her imitation of La Grande Mademoiselle, you would die with laughter. We nearly did. The king was choking with it. He can’t be bored. That’s where La Vallière made her mistake. She began to bore him. And children?” He shuddered as if they were talking of street rats. “Children ruin a woman, or at least they ruined her. La Montespan spits hers out like a cat, doesn’t look back, and no one is the wiser.”

  “So there is a child between them?” asked Alice, greatly pleased with this gossip she would take back.

  “Secreted away. The husband, you know, is a wild man who would claim it as his if he could find it. He is not taking the loss of his wife with sangfroid. Wore black all last year, and when anyone asked him why, he said he was mourning his wife. His Majesty is not used to anyone saying no to him. And make note, if you please. Gossip says both are his mistresses, but only one of them continues to conceive. Interesting, don’t you think?”

  They stopped before the huge carriage opening of the town house that had once belonged to the great Cardinal Richelieu. It was on the market for an enormous sum, and Alice was considering it for her father. She squeezed Beuvron’s arm. “I’m so glad I screwed up my courage and wrote to you, though I’d given up that you were going to call. That which put a wedge between us is past.”

  “Dead and buried. This is a very grand town house. Is your father so rich?”

  “No, but he has many friends among the gold merchants in London. I was thinking he might put together a group to buy this.” Gold merchants were the ones who made loans. She glanced at Beuvron’s face and then away, said lightly, “Have you need of money?”

&nbs
p; “Is the sea filled with water? I owe you far too much already. Come, let us look through this great pile of stone the grand cardinal built and see if we find any ghosts. There ought to be a few. If these stones could speak, what a tale they’d whisper. He and the Queen Mother were great enemies. We were at war with Spain, and she was Spanish, and her loyalty was not to France, at least not then.”

  And so, charming, full of gossip, he led Alice and her aunt from chamber to chamber as if it were his and it would be his honor to sell it to them. The clerk who’d opened the doors for them scarcely had the opportunity to open his mouth.

  BACK AT LORD Montagu’s, Alice left Beuvron in the gardens, went to her bedchamber, picked up a small box, and came back down the stairs with it. Her aunt sat in the chamber overlooking the gardens, her view Beuvron, as she played solitaire. “What have you there, Alice?”

  “Some letters I wish to share with Beuvron.”

  “Ah. Stay where I can see you, please. He is a charming but completely frivolous man, I must say.”

  In the garden Alice sat so that her back was to her aunt, opened the box with a key she kept in a secret pocket sewn in her gown.

  “Fortunate you,” said Beuvron, his eyes on the coins piled within the box.

  “My father insists I take it in case there should be some misfortune. Be without anything, friends or family, but never coins, is his motto.” She quietly stacked some between the two of them. “Yours.”

  “Alice, I cannot—I owe you far too much as it is.”

  “You possess knowledge of something I wish to know. Answer my questions, and we’re even and more. I want to know about the day Madame died.”

  “I cannot speak of it.”

  Alice replaced the coins inside the box, shut the lid, but something in Beuvron’s face, a flicker of desperation, caught her eye. He had huge debts, as she knew. She decided to gamble. She took a stack of coins back out, placed them beside him, and shut the box, saying, “I must go inside now. Enjoy the sun a moment before you leave. If you go through the door on that wall, you’ll find yourself on the street. Now, I expect you to come with me tomorrow. There’s a different house, one that belonged to some high constable of the kingdom and looks like a fortress.”

  He put his hand over the coins. The pleasant convivial mask of perennial boy slipped, and he looked older, sharper. “Ask me what you will.”

  “Was the poison in the water? The same water was given to a dog, and it didn’t die. And the prince drank some of the water. So it couldn’t be. Did the Chevalier de Lorraine send some special poison?” And when Beuvron made no answer: “So he sent the poison through Henri Ange, yes? Did Monsieur know?”

  “Every time someone dies in Paris, the world screams poison.” Beuvron spoke wearily, looking past her as her servant, Poll, brought dogs to the door leading to the garden. The small spaniels scampered across the terrace to paw at Beuvron, whom they recognized.

  “Her dogs? You take them back with you? I’m glad.”

  “King Charles wants them.”

  He stood, bowed to her. “At what time do you desire my company tomorrow?”

  Annoyed, she knew better than to push. “Ten of the morning.”

  THEY STOOD TOGETHER in the courtyard of a house built in the fifteenth century, looking up at intricate iron balconies while her aunt examined the stonework under the windows, magnificent boars’ heads set on medallions. Beuvron dropped something into her hand. It was a tiny fobbed watch with a blue enamel cover, a diamond at the center of its face. It was the current fashion for men to pay their bets with little watches like these. “My luck’s changed. I won last night. It might be that something was rubbed on the rim of the cup.”

  Alice became still, afraid any move would silence him.

  “And your own little queen had best beware. His grace the noble Duke of Buckingham plays a double game. He spent an hour with the Marquis d’Effiat, and they did not speak of fashion. And he had the witch Voison brought to the house at which he stays.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “She sells potions, Alice, love potions, powders. Poisons.”

  Just then a man paused in the huge opened gates, wide and high enough for carriages to pass through. “Mademoiselle Verney, is that you?” he called.

  Beuvron’s face went pale, and he took a step back as Alice watched Henri Ange enter the courtyard, walk up to her, smiling his even smile, his eyes intent on her face. Her heart began to beat loudly in her ears.

  “Imagine meeting up with you again. A small world, is it not?”

  “How do you do?” said Alice, remembering his arms around her, the ominous whisper in her ear, Thank you, my dear Henri Ange. “Where are you now? Not with Monsieur’s household anymore, I understand?”

  “No,” he answered, not answering. “Beuvron”—Ange’s eyes flicked over the other man—“it’s been some time since we’ve seen each other. How are you?”

  “Well.”

  “He’s escorting my aunt and me as we look at property,” said Alice, linking her arm into Beuvron’s. “No one knows Paris better. In truth, he’s not well. I dragged him from his sickbed.” That’s why he’s acting the odd way he is, she almost babbled; but she was able to bite it back.

  “You’re moving here?”

  “Oh, no. My father dabbles in property. I play his chamberlain.”

  “Fortunate father to have such a devoted daughter. Might I borrow Beuvron from you if you’ve finished your business? I’m thinking of buying some property myself.”

  Alice could literally feel Beuvron shudder against her. “Not today,” she said firmly. “We have more to see, and I must have his opinion, even if I put him on his deathbed.” Dismayed by her unfortunate choice of that word, she turned abruptly toward her aunt, blurting, “Let me introduce you to my aunt.”

  “You were in Monsieur’s household, too, were you?” Aunt Brey said in her bad French after Alice made introductions.

  “I was.”

  “Were you at Madame’s funeral?” asked her aunt.

  “Alas, no. The cathedral was packed, and there was no room for underlings such as myself, no room, so to speak, at the inn.”

  “That Bossuet’s sermon was magnificent. You must buy a copy of the broadsheet and read it. What a pity her death was,” said Aunt Brey. “You know people in London believe her poisoned.”

  “Is that what they’re saying?”

  “Indeed they are. They say the young men of Monsieur’s household did it, that that lover of his was behind it all.”

  Ange smiled, as boyish as a cherub. “People will gossip, won’t they? The truth is too prosaic.” He looked directly at Alice. “They want someone to blame.”

  She shuddered the way Beuvron had done earlier. Ange saw it, and his smile broadened. “I must take my leave of you, but it’s a pleasure to have come upon you so unexpectedly, Mademoiselle Verney. Are you and your aunt in Paris long?”

  “No,” said Alice.

  “Well then. Mademoiselle, Lady Brey, I’ll take my leave. Beuvron, old friend, we’ll meet up again soon, I promise.”

  He bowed and walked through the stone arch of the courtyard gates. Alice and Beuvron followed him to the street and watched him cross the square.

  “I’m going to faint,” said Beuvron. “Did you hear him threaten me?”

  “Come with me to Lord Montagu’s. Tell him what you’ve told me. Come back with me to England.”

  “I won’t say a word to Lord Montagu.” Beuvron was on the verge of hysteria, his voice shrill. “And I’m begging you to say nothing! If you value me as a friend, you’ll keep what was said between us, because if I’m asked by anyone, I will deny everything! Everything. Sacred heaven, I feel ill. I must have a glass of wine at once. I’ll have to test every bite I put in my mouth for months. What ill luck that he should be passing. I leave you, Alice, and I beg you, for your sake and mine, to keep silent.”

  And he, too, crossed the cobbled street, choosing the opposite d
irection Henri Ange had.

  “Where is your little friend?” asked Aunt Brey when Alice joined her in the vestibule of the house.

  “He isn’t feeling well.”

  AT THE PALAIS Royal, Beuvron ran upstairs to the attics, which overlooked all of Paris, to a bedchamber he was allotted when his coins were low and he could afford no rented lodgings. He slammed the door behind him and stood gulping in air, as if it hadn’t been safe to breathe before.

  “Lovely afternoon.”

  He jumped, turned, said, his voice shrill, out of his control, “You frightened me out of my wits. What do you think you’re doing in my chamber?”

  Richard lounged back in the chair in which he sat. “It seemed the perfect place to wait.”

  “How did you get in?”

  “No one pays any attention if you know how to dress.”

  And Beuvron realized the English lieutenant was dressed in livery, like all the footmen in the house, his hair tied back in a neat horse’s tail, black ribbon to hold it.

  “Do I owe you money? Is that it?” He was undone by seeing Ange, by Richard showing up in his chamber like a ghost. “You’ve come at the proper time, if so.” He pulled coins from a pocket, tossed them on the bed. “If you want more, you’ll have to wait in line.”

  “I desire information.”

  “Doesn’t everyone?” Beuvron was sharp.

  “Who else is talking to you?”

  “Alice Verney.”

  Richard smiled. The smile was wide, startling. Sacred heaven, Richard was beautiful. Beuvron felt himself half seduced. “What does she ask for?”

  “Why should I tell you?”

  Richard pointed to the coins on the bed. “For more of those than you can imagine.”

  “Who would pay?”

  “A great man.”

  “What does he want?”

  “He wants to know about a certain casket of letters, would like the letters.”

  “I can’t do that.” Beuvron was shrill again. “I won’t do that.”