Idiot! Joscelin flogged himself without mercy, the memory of Allegra’s disillusionment spearing through him, the way her amethyst eyes had burned at his betrayal. She’d made damnably clear last night that she wanted nothing to do with him—and who could blame her?
Either she’ll welcome this act—my penance laid at her feet—or she’ll curse my interference. Briskly he rapped on the door. A disinterested voice told him to enter.
Joscelin braced for the unpleasant shock of finding Allegra in the don’s bed. If he did, at least it would prove once and for all the nature of her relations with Maximo, and resolve this raging controversy between his head and heart. He would know, beyond question, that his belief in her innocence was misplaced.
Steeling himself, he flung the door open.
Relief swept through him to find Maximo Montoya alone, and the bed unoccupied. Joscelin took himself in hand and assessed his surroundings—searching for any advantage he could use.
By palace standards, the space was no more than adequate, poorly placed overlooking the stables, whose pungent aroma lingered on the air. Since the Spanish suite stood in disfavor, this did not surprise him. Even so, Joscelin knew enough about quality to recognize that these apartments were exquisitely furnished by their occupant, who obviously possessed deep pockets and impeccable taste.
A massive bed draped in bronze brocade reared before him. Priceless tapestries of Biblical scenes and portraits of olive-skinned Spaniards gleamed like jewels in the shadows. A fortune’s worth of gilded volumes in three languages stood neatly arranged. An eclectic blend of subject matter leaped out: theology, history, philosophy, military strategy. In one corner, a prie-dieu crouched before an ornate crucifix, an ivory Christ writhing amid ribbons of scarlet blood.
Don Maximo lounged behind his writing table. Before him, candles burned amid curling parchments as his quill slashed across them to inscribe his elegant script. Despite the early hour, the ambassador blazed in a doublet of sapphire damask that would cost Joscelin a year’s income. Diamonds glittering at his fingers and throat, black hair and beard impeccably barbered, the Spaniard was the epitome of sophistication, wealth and breeding.
He made Joscelin over-conscious of his own mongrel roots and the lean state of his coffers. But he quashed his sneaking sense of inferiority. If he served Boleyn interests and pleased his father, he too would become a man of substance.
As he finished his document, the Spaniard glanced up. His eyes fell on Joscelin, and those ascetic features sharpened like a drawn dagger. A sense of menace crawled across Joscelin’s scalp as that cold gray gaze swept over him, noting every detail of his demeanor. His instincts recognized a mortal enemy—like an adder coiled in his bed.
“Why, Sir Joscelin Boleyn. What an unexpected…pleasure…to encounter you.”
“Bonjour, Excellency.” Joscelin bowed, giving the man the courtesy his diplomatic rank demanded. Unlike the other’s cultured dialect, his own accent was steeped in provincial flavor. “I’m gratified you know me without a formal introduction.”
“Why, how should I not?” Don Maximo smiled. “Information is my stock in trade. I make it my business to know everything that occurs at this court and everyone who occupies it…no matter how minor their rank.”
One brow arched in subtle derision at the worn crimson velvet of Joscelin’s doublet—the only garb he possessed that was remotely suitable for a royal audience.
“Also, I must confess,” the don said, “my mistress and I have discussed you.”
My mistress. Joscelin’s jaw clenched as the casual label dropped like a stone in his gullet. He restrained the challenge that clamored on his lips and held to his objective. I’m doing this for Allegra’s sake. She must know, for her own safety, what was said in the king’s chamber.
“Monsieur,” he said gruffly, “it’s on Contessa Grimaldi’s behalf that I’ve come.”
“Somehow, I am not surprised.” The don’s eyes gleamed as he laid down his quill. “She is magnificent, is she not? Allegra possesses all the siren allure of Salome when she danced for the Baptist’s head, and the dangerous beauty of Eve before the fall…as seductive and corrupt as the Devil could fashion her.”
Joscelin bristled and clenched the rolled parchment in his fist. Hearing the sly insinuation in those silken tones, he yearned to plant his fist in the bastard’s sneering face. How could any man so denigrate a woman dependent on his protection?
Yet, beneath the complacency of a man with a beautiful mistress, a whiplash of cruelty curled in the don’s voice. For a heartbeat, he nearly fancied Don Maximo hated her.
Joscelin forced out a curt reply. “From what I’ve seen, monsieur, half the men at this court would like to supplant you as her protector. Fortunately for you, they’re too wary of your reputation with a blade to trespass on what they perceive as your terrain.”
“What they perceive?” The skin drew tight over those patrician features. Joscelin’s muscles quivered—ready for anything—as the don prowled to the window, moving with the grace of a trained fencer.
“Perhaps you know that she was born a Borgia, from a bastard branch of that mighty clan.” The don paused before the window. “Her father christened her Allegra Nerezza, and she was certainly well named. Loosely translated, the name means ‘bright darkness’.” The don looked over his shoulder, his silhouette etched against the light. “For she brings darkness to those who love her.”
A chill raced over Joscelin’s skin. For a heartbeat, he wondered if he’d been mistaken. She was an accused witch, charged with murdering her own husband. By her own admission, her beauty had driven her brother-by-marriage to madness and kin-slaying.
Then he recalled the wrenching grief in her gaze, the haunting sorrow—the unlikely air of innocence. “You seek to warn me away from her, Excellency?”
“Now, why under Heaven would I seek to do that?” Don Maximo laughed in genuine amusement. “If ever I wish to issue a warning, Sir Joscelin, you will entertain no doubt of it.”
This was a dangerous man. Joscelin scented menace on the air, lurking beneath the Spaniard’s ambergris fragrance like the putrid reek of the battlefield. But he would be damned if he overlooked the cretin’s insinuations.
“Speak plainer, monsieur. Do you allude to the men you killed for wanting her?”
“In part.” The older man inclined his body in a fencer’s bow. “I make it a habit to defend what is mine, but make no mistake. Although it may have been my blade that slew those unfortunate men, it was their desire for her that lured them to their doom and sent their souls plummeting to Hell.”
His pupils dilated, pools of blackness swallowing the silver rims. “Let us recall her husband, the ill-fated conte, murdered in his own house—who died cursing her name. Before that, there was Ilaria Borgia, renowned perfumer of Venice—Allegra’s own mother, who died because a man desired her daughter.” The don turned toward the window, so Joscelin could see only the high curve of his cheek. “Allegra’s brother-by-marriage, Innocenzo Grimaldi…the most pious and celebrated scholar in Genoa, a man devoted to God, destined for a brilliant career in the Church. You would not imagine how brightly his star burned, outshining all others in the celestial firmament.”
Joscelin studied his averted profile. “You speak as though you knew him.”
“Oh, I knew him,” Don Maximo whispered, laying one hand gently against the mullioned window. “We studied theology at the same monastery when I too was a second son and destined, as I thought, for the Church. But that was long ago, before Allegra cast her lure.” Steel entered his tone, and his hand fell away. “One look at his brother’s new bride, and Innocenzo was infected by her dark beauty like a wasting fever. She played upon his obsession like a lute…until he, too, died for love for her.”
Joscelin ached to shout his denials. But then the ambassador would wonder how he knew—and that he was unprepared to share. Allegra’s secret would be safe with him.
“Why don’t you number yourself
,” Joscelin muttered, “among those who love her?”
“I learned well from my predecessors in her bed. You may believe I have taken care never to fall in love with her.” The don cast him a sidelong glance full of spiteful mischief. “Surely you know, Sir Joscelin, that it is possible to enjoy a woman in your bed without handing her your heart and a carving knife.”
Joscelin burned as the image flashed before his eyes: Allegra’s white limbs entwined in the bronze draperies of that decadent bed, her ebony curls tangled with loveplay, her violet eyes languid with passion.
The image seared his brain until he thrust it away, recalling what drove him here. He’d made a risky gamble, and staked his father’s goodwill on it. Now he must put steel in his spine, and play his hand to the finish.
Clearing his head, he studied the portrait on the wall, a youthful Don Maximo, shrouded to the chin in sober black, beside a plain-faced woman whose liquid eyes welled with sorrow. Two stiffly posed boys completed the ensemble.
“Tell me, Excellency, what does your wife think of your romantic exploits? Doesn’t it vex her that you openly keep a mistress?”
“Consuela knows better than to think anything at all about my affairs. She administers my Spanish estates in accordance with my guidance and raises my sons to be good soldiers of Christ, which is all that I require. She neither knows nor cares what I do here.”
“That must be convenient for you…but not very fulfilling for her.” Joscelin felt surprised at himself. Wasn’t that precisely the manner of orderly, profitable union that his father planned for him with Catherine Carew? He’d never made the mistake—not since Gabrielle, so many years ago—of seeking a love match. When had he begun to abhor the idea of a loveless union?
The ambassador strolled back to his place and swung his poniard aside to sit. “Unless I am much mistaken, you came here this morning to discuss not my wife, but my mistress.”
“Oui.” Joscelin’s grip tightened on the parchment. “I’ve just come from the king.”
“Ah, the privileges of bearing the Boleyn name. Even a bastard son with questionable French connections may be granted access to the king in his privy chamber, before he has even broken his fast. No doubt Mistress Anne arranged it.” Don Maximo glanced over a document. “And how did you find His Majesty?”
“In robust health, as always.” Impatiently, Joscelin muttered the expected pleasantry. “Looking forward to the hunt today.”
Indeed, for the past hour he’d watched in disbelief the king’s rising, a ritual as elaborately choreographed as a coronation. The Esquires of the Body and the King’s Gentlemen and Grooms had reverently passed the priceless garments into the royal bedchamber—even the king’s body linen. Finally, when the king emerged resplendent and consented to be shaved, Joscelin was beckoned discreetly by the Usher his sister had bribed.
His brief audience with Henry Tudor was anything but private, the king’s broad shoulders draped in linen while his barber bustled with knife, comb and scissors; Grooms of the Chamber coming and going; half a dozen anxious petitioners hovering about. But, after Thomas Boleyn murmured a word in the royal ear, Joscelin had gotten what he came for—despite that unpleasant intervention from Cardinal Campeggio.
Now he unrolled the parchment to display the lines scrawled across it, with the flamboyant Henry Rex blazoned across the bottom.
“Last night my brother George had the good fortune to win an estate over a lucky throw of dice. Nothing too grand, just a manor house with orchards. But the location is remote, far too modest to house the court—barely two days’ ride from here. Like any good courtier, George offered its hospitality to the king, for a private rendezvous with my sister.”
“Indeed?” The don held crimson wax over a candle to melt it, seemingly absorbed in his task. “If Henry cannot banish his inconvenient queen, he will slip away from court with his mistress. It would hardly be the first time. The king takes a child’s pleasure in eluding his retainers.”
“A man could hardly blame him, given the swarm that attends him—even to the privy. The fact is, monsieur, that I’m dispatched by royal decree with my sister Lady Carey to prepare the manor for a quiet royal visit.”
“Ah, so you will leave us.” Delicately, the don dropped hot wax onto his letter. “I trust you will return before Twelfth Night? Since you are newly come to court, you will not know the marvelous spectacle of it.”
“I believe so.” Joscelin frowned. Indeed, when he proposed the scheme to Mary, she’d seemed delighted, but she too had been adamant to depart before Twelfth Night. He’d resolved to ask her about it later.
“And what, may I ask, has your business to do with me…or my mistress?” The don pressed his seal into the wax.
Joscelin gritted his teeth. “It seems Mary’s taken a fancy to Contessa Grimaldi. The king has authorized the signora’s absence, along with Mary and myself, to prepare the manor for his arrival.”
The news sparked no dramatic reaction. The ambassador merely lifted his letter and scrutinized the seal. “I was not aware that Lady Carey and my mistress were so intimately acquainted.”
If the wretch referred once more to Allegra as his mistress, Joscelin would plow his fist into that supercilious face. “Mary has recently returned to court. The signora promised to teach her Italian, which my sister has long wished to learn.”
“Indeed?” Abruptly, the don shifted subjects. “Somehow I was under the impression, Sir Joscelin, that you came to England to arrange your marriage.”
Caught off guard, Joscelin stared. “I wasn’t aware my father’s plans were common knowledge.”
“Perhaps they are not, as of yet. Still, I should think Catherine Carew might take it amiss, were you to slip away for an assignation with another woman—not to mention a woman like my mistress.”
How the Devil does he know about Catherine Carew? Joscelin struggled to conceal his amazement. His father had only mentioned her for the first time yesterday.
“’Tis but a short journey,” he said stiffly, avoiding any reference to Catherine Carew, “and we shan’t be alone. Besides, since the king approved it, no one would question it, n’est-ce pas?”
“Hmm.” Those keen eyes observed Joscelin. “Perhaps you are not overly eager to rush off to the bridal bed after all. Is that it, Sir Joscelin?”
The bloody fellow’s perception was positively uncanny. “I intend to marry soon, but what does it matter? The king has decreed this journey.”
“So you have said.” Don Maximo leaned back and tented his fingers. “The signora cannot travel without some escort, I am afraid. These English roads…they are so uncertain.”
Oui, the roads were uncertain. But if the man was genuinely concerned for Allegra, Joscelin would eat his hat. “I’ve already thought of this. Several Boleyn retainers will accompany us on the journey. Also, monsieur, I’m not unhandy with a blade.”
“So they say. You know all about bloodshed, don’t you?” Again those black pupils widened, until his eyes were swallowed by darkness. “Unless I am greatly mistaken, it was your remarkable aptitude for butchery that inspired the King of France to knight you, was it not?”
“Oui.” Joscelin was startled that this great man had troubled to investigate his own hardscrabble history. “I accompanied King Francis when he invaded the Italian states. I did my duty, nothing more, but he knighted me for it.”
“It’s said that to protect the king you slaughtered a regiment four times the size of your own, to the last man. How…heroic.” Don Maximo barely seemed to breathe. Then he blinked, and the shadows receded from his eyes. “We were speaking of your journey, were we not? I trust you will have no objection if my confessor Frey Fausto Mephisto accompanies the signora…along with her maid, of course.”
Joscelin recalled the hollow-faced youngster who’d interrupted his dance—and the zealot’s gleam in his eyes. The thought of wooing her under the priest’s censorious gaze was daunting. God-a-mercy, Allegra would barely be able to breathe un
der such stifling scrutiny.
But surely they would manage to find some respite during the days ahead. The important thing was to distance her from the ambassador, and the poisonous accusation Campeggio had made to the king.
“If you require it, Excellency, then so be it.” He bowed. “Would you be good enough to inform the signora to meet me at the stables? We depart in one hour.”
“I have no doubt the signora is already informed.” The don smiled. “Allegra, my pet…you may join us now.”
Chapter Nine
“You are angry with me.” Sir Joscelin’s voice carried above the rattle of tack and the crunch of hooves in snow.
Aye, she was angry with him. Indeed, it surprised Allegra how much anger at his betrayal burned in her belly. But she knew better than to show it—though she’d overheard only the end of his discussion with Maximo and itched to know what she’d missed.
She turned away in her saddle, breath frosting white, and scanned the countryside. Bleak and bitter as only an English winter could be.
Beneath the sky’s blue blaze, a mantle of snow encased the rolling fields, neatly sectioned by box hedges and fences. Smoke drifted from the chimneys of thatched cottages. Beside the road, a pair of red-cheeked children—her sisters’ age—held hands and watched their cavalcade clatter past. Allegra’s heart ached as she stared after them.
“We’ll be together for several days, oui?” Joscelin said. “And the manor’s on the small side. It will be tedious for you to ignore me the entire time.”
“I’m hardly known for my garrulous company.” Despite her plan to treat him coolly, heat rose in her cheeks. “If you desired a torrent of witless babble, you would have done better to choose another lady.”
Mistress Catherine Carew perhaps…your intended bride? That was one tidbit she had overheard. Not that it should dismay her. Lady Carey had said he would wed. But Joscelin had not denied it.
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