The Devil's Mistress

by Laura Navarre

  A moment of silence encased them, fragile as glass. Lightly, his finger brushed the fan-shaped scars that stood pale beneath her cuff. Of all the spiteful court, this man alone knew how she’d earned them. A tongue of warmth swept up her arm and danced across her skin.

  “Signora Grimaldi.” His voice caressed her name, spoken so low no other could hear. “I’ve been overbold—and you more than tolerant. May I be bolder, and ask the honor of fighting in your name?”

  Now here was another first. The tourney was passing from fashion in much of Europe, but her husband had allowed no man to fight in her name and live.

  “Many men would find the honor dubious, to say the least.” Not allowing herself to linger, she withdrew her hand and unthreaded the crimson ribbon from her sleeve. “I’ll grant you a boon this once—under my terms.”

  “Name them.” He shot her a piercing look.

  “They are simple, Sir Joscelin, but not to be negotiated. Don’t seek me out again.” She forced the words past an unexpected pang of regret. “Surely you see that I am not a woman at liberty to accept such attentions.”

  She expected to see chagrin, not the dogged resistance that tightened his features. His armor clanked as he twisted—Santo Spirito, could he not be more discreet?—to stare toward the queen’s canopy. Thus, Allegra witnessed the precise moment when Don Maximo Montoya and Sir Joscelin Boleyn first locked stares across the tourney field.

  For a heartbeat, the Spanish Ambassador froze—so still he seemed not to breathe. Nothing changed in the sharp-bladed beauty of his features, though the wind lifted the ends of his jet-black hair and gold brocade, and ruffled them like the flames of Hell.

  His silver eyes flashed once, the flicker of lightning that preceded the storm. Then the don inclined his head in silent promise. Gooseflesh crawled across Allegra’s skin. She’d seen that look before, when Don Maximo marked a man for death.

  Tearing her eyes away, she found Joscelin, jaw clenched as he returned the don’s challenge with a curt bow. His stallion screamed and tore the earth.

  “That’s him, n’est-ce pas?” Joscelin muttered through his teeth, gripping the reins in his fist.

  “Santa Maria, you are a trial,” she whispered, dread sinking in her belly. “He’s deadly with a blade. No man challenges him.”

  “If no other man will defend you, then I must—unless I’m mistaken, and you welcome his attentions?”

  Here was her moment to escape, a golden opportunity to lead him away from the dangerous truth. Yet somehow, the lie congealed on her tongue.

  “Here is your token.” Without grace, she thrust the crimson ribbon into his gauntlet. His fingers closed around the fragile silk. “Take it and be gone.”

  “When will we speak again?” He reined hard against the box, his eyes intent on hers. So much for the promise she’d sought to extract.

  “I should say never.” Should say, but don’t? Why do I lead him along?

  “When, signora?” he repeated patiently, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

  “Only when I deem it suitable.” She saw resolve gleaming in his gaze, those bottle-green depths firing to amber, teasing her skin like a caress. “Be warned, signor. That moment may never come.”

  Or she might meet him once—but only to persuade him to stay away.

  “Tonight,” he murmured, his tone husky, making it a promise. Allegra’s stomach fluttered as he tied her scrap of ribbon around his steel-plated biceps. “I’ll arrange an opportunity. You need only grasp it.”

  Sir Joscelin Boleyn was defeating his fourth opponent when Allegra spied the lady approaching her. Still, she kept her eyes on the field as Joscelin thundered down the green. With a resounding crack, his lance shattered against the breastplate of Sir Francis Bryan. A ripple of applause rose from the viewers.

  Her heartbeat quickened when the lady sank gracefully beside her, in a cloud of damask rose. When she recognized the blue-eyed blonde whose perfumes she mixed, Allegra’s nerves tightened with wariness.

  Lady Mary Carey rarely came to court these days. Perhaps she merely wished to commission a fragrance—but somehow, Allegra doubted it.

  “My brother’s a rare marvel, is he not?” Lady Carey smiled. “My father is on tenterhooks lest Joscelin come up against the king and forget that he’s expected to lose.”

  “I concede your brother is a formidable fighter.” Allegra seasoned light amusement into her tone. “He does not approach the contest as entertainment…unlike his poor opponent.”

  “All battle for Joscelin is a matter of deadly earnest.” Lady Carey watched her brother hammer down the course, a fresh lance arrowing before him. “’Tis how he rose to favor at the French court. Before my father acknowledged him, Joscelin earned his reputation and his income by the sword.”

  “Indeed? I thought he served as a diplomat.” His lethal prowess with the crossbow still made her quiver, the deadly competence that had slain the wolf.

  If there was anything she respected, it was an efficient killer.

  “My brother serves now in other ways. But he hasn’t lost his soldier’s instincts—merciful God!”

  A crack like lightning split the air. Before them, Sir Francis pitched backward from his saddle, dislodged by Joscelin’s lance. The unfortunate fellow sailed through the air and hit the sand with a crash. A whisper of relief escaped Allegra’s lips as the man hoisted himself to an elbow—miraculously uninjured.

  As Joscelin galloped courteously after Sir Francis’s loose horse, she struggled to contain her appreciation. Bad enough the man wooed her so directly, before Don Maximo’s very eyes. She dared not worsen the situation by seeming to admire him in return.

  Tearing her eyes away from that powerful frame, blazing silver in the sunlight, she beckoned a server for wine. “May I assist you in some way, Lady Carey?”

  “Perhaps you may.” The lady sipped, her cerulean eyes pensive. “I can’t avoid noticing my brother’s…interest in you, Contessa. He’s never been one for hiding his inclinations. ’Tis a sight more difficult to ascertain your interests.”

  Santo Spirito, she’d feared it would be this. Joscelin’s flirtation with her was dangerous and inappropriate, so now his ambitious kin would put a stop to it.

  “Like other ladies at court, I deem your brother is not…unattractive.” Allegra forced a brittle laugh. “Given his connections, one must assume his fortunes are on the rise. But, as you’re aware, my affections are engaged elsewhere.”

  While this reply was digested, Allegra wondered who’d sent her. She’d never found Mary Carey to be overly clever—merely the first Boleyn to gain the king’s bed. She’d gotten two babes from it, but little else to advance her prospects. Just a hasty marriage to a tolerant courtier and exile from court once her sister took the stage.

  Delicately, Lady Carey cleared her throat. “Do I understand you to mean that you don’t…reciprocate his interest?”

  “Another man’s interest has its uses, of course.” Allegra spoke her lines bitterly, despising them. But the role she played at court demanded it.

  Perhaps Mary will do the ugly work for me and carry these words to her brother. If so, I must be grateful…and regret nothing.

  “The Spanish Ambassador has many pressing concerns.” Allegra sketched a cynical shrug. “And he is well familiar with the diversions I have to offer him.”

  “So my brother’s naught but a convenient rival, intended to make Don Maximo jealous?” Beneath her fashionable French hood, the lady looked concerned. “I feared as much. How not, when my sister provides such a dazzling example of how to lead a man?”

  “I cannot claim Mistress Anne’s expertise in the art. She plays for a far richer prize. Nonetheless, I confess a motive for seeking entrée into your sister’s circle.”

  Innocent as a babe, Lady Carey gazed at her.

  “The Spanish sun is setting over the English isles,” Allegra said. “Soon the king may banish the Spanish Ambassador from this court.”

&nb
sp; “Indeed, he may banish his own queen.” The blonde nodded. “Although, of course, I understand these political matters so poorly.”

  “There is nothing for me in Italy.” Allegra made a playful moue of regret, as though she didn’t ache for home. “I possess neither lands nor wealth. If I may become useful to your family, signora, I believe this course would be…preferable.”

  Mary said nothing, but watched another pair of knights gallop onto the field. Sunlight flashed on the king’s armor, lighting his secret in letters of fire. Declare I Dare Not.

  Well, Henry Tudor was not the only one who dared not declare. Allegra joined the applause as the spectators cheered their king. She felt Don Maximo’s discerning gaze, weighing her discourse with a Boleyn sister. He would think she did his bidding—to ingratiate herself with the clan.

  Let him think so, and be thrown off the scent.

  “You should speak with my father,” Lady Carey said. “He would tell you I’m likely to bungle any intrigue. But there is one message he asked me to convey.”

  “Oh? Then I’m anxious to hear it.”

  “My brother’s purpose in coming to court is to make a good marriage, with a respectable Englishwoman who brings lands and title to the match. Indeed, a certain lady is all but chosen, though I’m not at liberty to tell you her name.”

  Allegra absorbed the news like a blow to the back—jarring and painful, driving the breath from her lungs. Why had he claimed he felt no hurry to marry? That his father was threatening him with an English bride?

  Of course, she barely knew the man. They’d hardly spoken, and he owed her nothing. Why should it bother her that their dalliance was a mere diversion from the important business of seeking a wife? Why should it distress her that he, like all men, lied?

  She drew a veil of indifference over her face. “For a man of his years, one must expect it, of course.”

  “My brother is four-and-thirty…ancient for a first marriage.” Curious sky blue eyes lingered on her. “All the more reason why my father is eager to conclude the match quickly.”

  “And Lord Rochford considers me a distraction.” Allegra managed a cool smile. “Sir Joscelin should be courting her favor, not wooing another man’s mistress. I quite understand you.”

  “Actually, I’m not certain you do. My father is prepared to offer you certain…considerations…in exchange for convincing Joscelin that your interest lies elsewhere.”

  So now we come to the bribe, coated in honey by this soft-faced miss. She has no way of knowing that what I must have, Thomas Boleyn cannot give me. The freedom of Alessandro Borgia and his daughters stood well beyond the Boleyns’ grasp.

  Anger flared through her, though she knew herself a fool for it. Bribery was the lubricant that oiled the gears at court, no different here in England than at the Grimaldi palazzo in Genoa. While she struggled to calm herself, the disguised king galloped down the course and knocked the shield from his opponent. Beneath the thunderclap of applause, she forced out the words.

  “From what little I know of him, signora, your brother is a man not easily dissuaded. What makes you believe he will heed me?”

  “Actually, I don’t believe he will,” Lady Carey said. “For I know my brother very well. My father is a brilliant courtier, but he does not understand passion as I do. This is why I persuaded him to…alter the terms of his proposal.”

  “I am listening,” Allegra murmured. A sickening suspicion lodged in the pit of her belly.

  “Signora Grimaldi, we want you to seduce my brother. Tonight, if at all possible.”

  “Gesù!” The oath slipped out before Allegra could guard her tongue. “I—believe I’ve misheard you.”

  “Tumble him into your bed,” Mary said frankly, meeting her gaze without blushing. “Give him the tossing he so evidently desires, whisper pledges of undying love in his ears…indulge his every sensual whim. I’m certain you know how to go about it.”

  The lady’s eyes flickered over her. Allegra felt soiled, though this was hardly the first such proposition she’d been forced to endure.

  “Then convince him he means nothing to you.” Lady Carey shrugged. “Better still, ask him for a costly boon—make it clear he’s naught to you but a business transaction. Believe me, this will cure his affliction far quicker than any rebuff.”

  Distress closed her throat as Allegra stared down at the pampered hand clutching her sleeve. Bedsport for her had always been distasteful, the arena where Casimiro indulged the worst of his perversions. Would Joscelin Boleyn too shed his cloak of decency in the unpleasant grapplings of the boudoir?

  Santa Maria! No matter how decent he appears to be, I could never force myself into his bed. The bed of another man who lies to me.

  “Where would Don Maximo abide,” she asked faintly, “while I am seducing your brother?”

  Lady Carey leaned close, enveloping her in a cloud of damask rose.

  “Henry is furious with the queen for appearing today. He says she defied his order to remain secluded, that she seeks to garner the people’s sympathy. He plans to banish her to a distant manor, to repent her willful ways. It would take little to ensure that your ambassador goes with her.”

  As the words sank in, the staggering prospect of freedom yawned before her.

  Corpus Christi, to be free of him! Never to lay eyes on Don Maximo again—never to hear his purring threats or suffer his hands upon me.

  Somehow Allegra dragged her wits together. “If His Excellency accompanies the queen into exile, he will insist upon my presence.”

  “But I’ve taken a fancy to you.” Mary laced their arms like bosom friends. “My loving sister will ask the king to keep you here. Then, after you seduce my brother, you may return to your Spaniard with our blessing.” She paused. “Or perhaps you’ll choose another protector—one whose prospects are brighter than Spain’s.”

  Cautiously Allegra glanced left and right. The king’s rival had gone down, pinned to the trampled earth beneath his thrashing horse. Around her the citizens of London were on their feet, shouting for the victor.

  “It would have to be set in motion quickly,” she whispered. Don Maximo had ears in every corner. “At any cost, you must act before Twelfth Night.”

  “You may leave the timing to my sister, who will not tarry. As part of the arrangement, it goes without saying, your discretion is expected. Your Spaniard must never learn of this and challenge Joscelin to one of his lethal duels. Nor must my brother discover our arrangement.”

  “I understand you.” This was an opportunity she dared not miss. If any force in England could move Don Maximo against his wishes, that force was Henry Tudor.

  Of course, she would never consummate the arrangement. After the demons she’d faced down in her lifetime, the ire of Thomas Boleyn did not dismay her. What Joscelin would think of her when this farce was over, she did not care to contemplate. But at least, God willing, he would survive Twelfth Night.

  How long would it take her father to respond? Everything hinged on that.

  “Very well.” Allegra stared over the tourney field, where attendants swarmed like ants around the fallen knight. “You may inform Lord Rochford that we have an understanding, and that I will keep it private.”

  “Excellent.” The blonde gathered her skirts to rise.

  “Lady Carey.” Allegra gripped her hand. “Per favore, do not bungle the timing. The don must be sent away before Twelfth Night—or else we are all undone.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Come, my pet,” Don Maximo murmured. “It’s time to polish your glittering court facade.”

  Before the court’s watchful malice, Allegra flashed a dazzling smile and suffered him to lead her into the dance. The musicians struck up a pavane, its stately measures well suited to an ambassador’s dignity.

  Bitterly, she knew they made an elegant picture: both blazing with the dark beauty of fallen angels, and both corrupt with secrets. Her blood velvet skirts whispered against the don’s whipcord f
rame, while he gleamed in jet and silver like an icy star. Was she truly the only one who sensed his menace?

  “Tell me, where is our gallant champion this evening?” Don Maximo said, as they glided across the floor.

  She merely arched her brows in query, as if she possessed no notion of whom he inquired.

  The don tutted in mock reproach. “You know perfectly well whom I mean, Allegra. Where is your ardent admirer, the Boleyn bastard?”

  “I cannot imagine.” Allegra feigned indifference, her fingers barely touching his as they circled through the measures. “Perhaps he’s having his bruises soaked. I am hardly the man’s keeper.”

  “You made certain to praise his prowess, didn’t you, when Lady Carey sought you out?”

  Gesù, did the don have ears everywhere? No matter, for she’d already prepared her lie. She kept her eyes downcast, seemly as a virgin, watching her skirts sweep the flagstones.

  “You will find this quite amusing, Excellency. It seems Sir Joscelin is to be married.” She uttered an artful laugh. “As you might imagine, Lord Rochford is anxious to avoid any…complications. I am offered recompense for the favor of convincingly spurning him.”

  “How unconventional.” The don waited.

  Over his shoulder, she slid a glance toward the throne, where Henry huddled in counsel with her other adversary, the cardinal. Tonight the king blazed in cloth-of-gold and a collar of brilliants across his impressive shoulders, but his handsome face glowered. Allegra wondered what Campeggio had said to spark the royal temper. Some papal counsel to keep his Spanish wife, no doubt.

  Under the guise of the dance, Don Maximo drew her close. The sickening spice of ambergris enveloped her.

  “You will seem to oblige Lord Rochford—will you not, Allegra?”

  “Of course.” She curved her lips in a brittle smile.

  “But it suits our interests to keep Sir Joscelin dangling after you a while longer, does it not? For how else will you betray him by Twelfth Night?”

  Allegra struggled to absorb this unpleasant reminder, letting him revolve her through the dance. As her perspective shifted, her eyes slid across the crowded hall.