Twilight of a Queen

by Susan Carroll

  She could not decide which was worse, overhearing him refer to her as a sick old woman or that other betrayal that ran far deeper than she could have imagined.

  He had spoken of Ariane as his sister. Brother to Catherine’s great enemy, the Lady of Faire Isle. How was that even possible? Evangeline and her beloved chevalier had never had any son.

  As yet as she observed Xavier raise his lady’s hand to his lips in a courtly gesture, the memory that had long eluded Catherine crystallized in her mind.

  Beneath Xavier’s rough-hewn appearance, she discerned at last what had long nagged at her: the corsair’s uncanny resemblance to the Chevalier Louis Cheney.

  And if Xavier was the chevalier’s by-blow, his mother could only have been Marguerite de Maitland. One of Catherine’s own women, a member of her Flying Squadron, familiar with Catherine’s inflexible rule. None of her courtesans were permitted to bear a child, to mar their usefulness to her with the encumbrance of a babe. Yet somehow Marguerite had managed to do so and concealed Xavier’s existence, taking her secret to the grave.

  Not only had Catherine allowed the bastard son to make a fool of her, but she had permitted herself to be deceived by the half-mad mother as well. At a time when Catherine had prided herself on being at the height of her powers.

  Catherine’s hands trembled, but she checked her rage. At least Xavier had done her one good. That elixir, wherever he had acquired it from, had given her more command over her emotions.

  Her anger coursed through her in its familiar form, a river of ice through her veins. She would have her vengeance, but nothing so crude as a knife to Xavier’s heart or a rope knotted round his neck. She would bide her time until she found a way to humiliate him as he had done her, crush him so completely he would consider death a blessing.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  DARK CLOUDS ROILED ACROSS THE SKY, THREATENING TO unleash a barrage of rain at any moment. But Jane found it an improvement over the previous day of heat and unrelenting sunshine.

  The gray skies seemed better suited to her own mood and that of her companion at the kitchen table. She had succeeded in coaxing Abigail to dress and join her below-stairs, although Jane was now sorry that she had.

  As they broke their fast together, Abigail did nothing but lament the loss of her fine plates and being obliged to eat from a wooden trencher.

  “And the bread is stale,” she grumbled. “There is no butter and I so long for some fresh grapes.”

  “There were none to be had, madame,” Violette said from her fireplace corner where she was busy darning hose. “The crops have all been very bad again this year.”

  “You might have found some if you had looked harder.”

  “I am sure Violette did the best she could. You can survive without grapes,” Jane said, her tone more acid than she intended.

  Abigail nibbled at her bread and frowned at Jane. “You certainly have been in an ill humor these past few days. I have no idea why. I am the one who aches so that I am fortunate to snatch more than three or four hours sleep a night.”

  That was four more than she had had, Jane thought. But she suppressed the retort. When Abby was in one of her peevish moods, she had no interest in anyone’s misery but her own. If Jane had complained of sleeplessness, she might have to explain the reason for it and she had no wish to do so.

  She believed she had begun to reach some sort of center of calm, of resignation, when Xavier had erupted back into her life two days ago and completely overset her again.

  Why he had done so, she was still uncertain. She supposed that his unique code of honor had demanded that he make certain she was not carrying his child.

  Jane had been relieved to discover that he was no longer a fugitive, but the mere sight of him had reopened all her longings, all the heartache she had sought to suppress.

  Since she could not deter him from his course with regard to the Dark Queen, Jane would as soon not know what he was up to. She was no longer troubled by any wistful dreams or alarming nightmares. That was because she could scarce sleep at all for tossing and turning, worrying about Xavier.

  It was far more than the man deserved, she had fumed as she punched her pillow, wishing she could have pummeled some sense into him. He had managed to get the price lifted from his head, so why must he risk his life by continuing to dupe the queen with his feigned magic?

  Did acquiring another ship really mean that much to him? Apparently it did, far more than she had ever meant to him, Jane reflected bitterly. Otherwise he might see how afraid she was and pay more heed to her advice.

  “Jane!”

  Her cousin’s voice cut into Jane’s unhappy musings. She straightened in her chair and focused her attention back on Abigail.

  “Have you been listening to a word I’ve said?” Abigail demanded.

  “Yes, you said you do not like—” Jane racked her mind for something that Abigail had yet to complain about. “The weather?”

  “As it so happens, I do hate all this rain. It does nothing but storm in Paris.”

  “This is the first day the sun has not shone since I arrived,” Jane attempted to point out, but Abigail had already continued on.

  “What I said was how much I have come to loathe Paris. But I have had a letter from the Margates. At least some of my old friends have not forgotten me. They have asked me to come and stay with them in Calais. I am sure I could get them to invite you as well.”

  “How good of you,” Jane murmured, but her dry tone was completely lost on Abigail.

  “It would be perfect if we could but find a way to get there. Calais would be a convenient place to embark for England if the invasion succeeds.”

  Jane stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The invasion of the armada. Do you hear nothing of what goes on in the world on that witch island? If the rumors are true and the Spanish succeed in overthrowing Elizabeth …”

  Abigail faltered before Jane’s icy stare. Apparently even her cousin was not so obtuse that she failed to notice the tension that had come over Jane.

  “You would rejoice, would you not, Jane? You do want to go home.”

  “I have no desire to see—” Jane began sharply, only to break off. Realizing that her cousin was staring at her, Jane amended, “That is, I see no sense in making plans for something that may never happen.”

  “But—”

  Jane stood up abruptly. If Abigail went on rejoicing at the prospect of England falling prey to the Spanish, Jane knew she would become angry and they would quarrel. And when quarreling with Abby over matters of politics or religion, one might as well shout at the kitchen cat.

  “I believe I shall go out for a while, tend to the marketing. We have need of more bread and perhaps I shall find you some grapes.”

  “Dear God, Jane, have you forgotten you are a lady? To go wandering about the stalls bartering for food like a common maidservant—that is Violette’s task.”

  “Violette is already doing the work of ten servants and that footman of yours is of little use.”

  “Scrubbing floors and washing linen is beneath a footman. It is Gerard’s task to—to run errands and to fetch things.”

  “And to look fine in his livery,” Jane said. “The man is a lazy lout, Abby I suspect you hired him mostly because he has strong calves and fills out his trunk hose so well.”

  Abigail’s cheeks reddened. “That may have been a consideration. A footman should reflect credit upon one’s household.”

  Jane smiled wryly and went to fetch the market basket.

  “It is going to rain. You’ll get soaked and catch your death,” Abigail called.

  “I am not as delicate as you, Abby. I shall make haste and return before the storm breaks.”

  “But what if I need you for something? My head—”

  “You will be fine. I will be back directly.” Jane snatched up the basket and darted out the kitchen door before Abigail could raise any further objections.

  She on
ly slowed her steps when she reached the gate, half-fearing to be pounced on by more of the Bentons’ creditors. But perhaps the tradesmen had finally given up. The past two mornings Jane had been left in peace.

  Mindful of the sky threatening overhead, Jane set off at a brisk pace. As she wended her way through the streets, Jane could not help recollecting how much her poor brother had adored Paris.

  Ned had waxed almost lyrical over the city’s exuberance, gaiety and excitement. Glancing about her, Jane saw little sign of that Paris. The city struck her as being as sullen and dismal as the clouds gathering overhead.

  The constant civil war, too many seasons of bad crops, and blighted livestock had taken their toll. There appeared to be far more beggars thronging the streets than there were housewives and servants patronizing the open stalls.

  The wares offered by the greengrocer, the baker, the wine merchant, and the butcher were scant and overpriced. Jane paused by the poulterer’s, wondering if she could afford one of the scrawny hens on display.

  The woman in charge of the stall was a hard-faced creature. When she quoted her price, Jane flinched. The woman watched unsmiling as Jane dug through her purse and pored over her meager amount of coin.

  She had learned many valuable things about managing a large household when she had become the wife of Sir William Danvers, but bartering in the marketplace was not one of them.

  “That—that seems terribly expensive,” she said.

  “I cannot give my birds away, madame,” the woman huffed. “Do you want the hen or don’t you?”

  “No, I—I am sorry, I—?”

  “Yes, she does,” a voice cut in.

  Jane whirled about, startled to find Xavier standing behind her. Small wonder he was able to convince the queen he was a necromancer. The man possessed the uncanny ability to spring out of nowhere.

  Too confounded to say anything, Jane watched agog as Xavier swept past her. In a few moments, not only had he persuaded the vendor to cut her price in half, but he had charmed a smile out of the woman.

  Only when Xavier prepared to hand over his own coin, did Jane snap to her senses.

  “No,” she said. “I can’t allow—that is, I don’t want the hen.”

  Cheeks firing with embarrassment, she turned and walked rapidly away. She did not get very far when Xavier overtook her. Seizing hold of her basket, he plunked the hen inside.

  “Stop,” she cried. “What do you think you are doing?”

  “Keeping you from starving?”

  “I—I am not. My cousin and I are doing well enough.”

  “So well that you have milliners and tailors and boot-makers hovering outside your door, ready to snatch the last crust of bread from your table.”

  “As a matter of fact, no we don’t. Only this morning—” Jane broke off, regarding Xavier with sudden suspicion.

  “How do you know which tradesmen have been dunning us?”

  “A logical surmise.”

  But Jane was not fooled by his air of studied nonchalance. She regarded him with a mingling of dismay and mortification. “It was you. You have been paying them off. That is why they stopped hounding us.” She was struck by another realization. His arrival in the marketplace could have been no coincidence.

  “You have been watching the house, following me.”

  Xavier blustered, starting to deny it only to shrug and give over the attempt. “Someone has to look out for you if you persist in staying in this damned city.”

  “But you have no obligation to me.” She looked around and lowered her voice as she added. “I am not carrying your child. You owe me nothing.”

  “And you would as soon not be indebted to me either.” He heaved a vexed sigh. “You aren’t. As ever, I have my own selfish motives. I would like to be restored to my sister’s good graces. If you write and tell Ariane how generous I have been, perhaps she will no longer despise me.”

  “I don’t believe that she does, nor Miri neither. But I also don’t think Ariane would approve of money that you acquired—” Jane bit down upon her lip, unable to give voice to the suspicion that troubled her.

  But Xavier appeared to understand her reluctance all too well.

  “It is not money I obtained from the Dark Queen if that is what you are afraid of. I can occasionally earn money through honest means.”

  “I am sorry,” Jane faltered.

  “I acquired it by—”

  “You don’t have to explain, Xavier.”

  “Yes, I do.” A hint of color stained his cheeks as he went on. “I am rather good at sketching out maps of the voyages I have taken and I have been able to sell a few to men who also hunger for a glimpse of a far-off horizon. It seems even in a city as desperate as Paris, there are a few other foolish dreamers like me.”

  “If your maps are anything like your drawings, I am sure they are wonderful.”

  “Yes, occasionally if I am not sure of the route, I even invent an island or two. I could name one after you, Jane.”

  “Oh, no,” she protested, horrified. “You must not.”

  The taut set of Xavier’s mouth widened into his familiar grin. “I was only teasing you, my dear. I make my charts as accurate as possible. We would not want to send some poor fool sailing off the end of the world, would we?”

  “No,” Jane agreed, reluctantly smiling back at him. The tender amusement in his eyes, the warm curve of his lips wreaked havoc with her emotions. Xavier would be the first to deny it, but the man was capable of great kindness. She was sure that his continuing to look after her betokened no more than that. She could not allow herself to be charmed into losing her heart again.

  When several fat droplets of water struck her cheek, she glanced up and said, “It is beginning to rain. I must be getting back to my cousin’s.”

  “You’ll never make it,” Xavier said, seizing her hand. “You had best come with me.”

  “But where are we going?” Jane asked, stumbling in her efforts to keep up with his long strides.

  “Back to the inn where I am staying.”

  “W-hat?” Jane hung back, her heart racing with a mixture of alarm and anticipation.

  “Only to have a glass of wine in the taproom.” Xavier angled a wicked look down at her. “What else did you think I meant?”

  THE RAIN BEAT AGAINST THE WINDOWS OF THE ROYALE François, but the interior of the taproom was snug and dry. The tavern was thronged with Parisians seeking refuge from the downpour, the conversation heated as it had been most of the summer, condemning the king for his extravagant follies that had brought the kingdom to the brink of ruin.

  Fear ran strong that another massacre was in the offing, but this time the target would not be Huguenots, but the king’s rebellious Catholic subjects. And where was the duc de Guise? Never had Parisians been in greater need of their great hero, the champion of the true faith. Complaints and speculation ran rife through the tavern, but were conducted in low terse voices, as though His Majesty’s spies lurked everywhere.

  The only ones who appeared oblivious to the tension were the odd quartet seated near the taproom’s front window. The lady appeared far too prim and proper to be seen abroad with such disreputable-looking companions.

  Jane perched on the edge of her chair, feeling slightly bemused. Since her banishment from her life in England, she had been in all manner of situations she could never have predicted. Becoming the confidante of a girl who had been hailed as a notorious witch, attending a council of daughters of the earth, making love to a man at midnight within a circle of mysterious standing stones.

  But never in her wildest flights of fancy had Jane imagined herself doing anything like this, the proper Lady Danvers frequenting a tavern, drinking with pirates.

  There had been something challenging about the way Xavier had introduced her to his two shipmates. His stern gaze seemed to warn his two men to be on their best behavior, a warning that was unnecessary.

  Jane had never met two men more courteous, even among
st all the nobility of London. Especially the one called Pietro. She had heard tell of the savages who inhabited the New World but she had never been this close to one before.

  Despite his alarming size, there was nothing of the savage about Pietro. He had a voice like velvet and the eyes of a sage, gentle and wise.

  As for Jambe du Bois, his piratical appearance was greatly diminished when he doffed his cap, revealing a balding pate.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, your ladyship,” the little man addressed her in her own tongue. “After one sight of your lovely face, I can see why our captain was in no hurry to leave Faire Isle.”

  He raised her hand to his lips and proceeded to salute it with great enthusiasm until Xavier intervened.

  “That will do, you old dog,” Xavier said, rescuing her hand. His fingers lingered over hers before releasing her.

  “You did not get too wet, did you, my lady?” Jambe asked. “We could shift to a spot nearer the fire.”

  Jane shook her head, assuring him she was fine. “It was a happy chance that your inn was situated so close to the district where I reside.”

  “Oh, that was no chance. When the captain learned where you were living, he insisted upon us moving from—ooof.” Jambe broke off, apparently upon receiving a sharp jab in the ribs from Xavier. His threatening scowl caused the old man to subside.

  Jane mulled over what Jambe had blurted out. So Xavier had changed residence from one inn to another. To be closer to her? Jane tried not to reflect too much upon that.

  She twisted her hands in the folds of her skirt, feeling a trifle shy. She had no idea how one went about conversing with pirates.

  She turned to Jambe. “So you are an Englishman, Master …” She floundered, unsure how to address a man who went by such a strange sobriquet. “Master Leg?”

  The old man grinned. “Actually the name is Arthur Inchcombe, milady, formerly of London.”

  “Inchcombe?” Jambe du Bois’s true name stirred her memory. Owing to her late husband’s connection to the wine trade, Jane had become familiar with many of the prominent guilds and artisans of London.