The Devil's Mistress

by Laura Navarre

  “Oh, you might be surprised by what His Majesty tolerates,” Lady Carey said. “Henry delights in escaping all the fuss and bother of court. ’Tis all a grand amusement for him—like a boy playing truant from his lessons.” Her voice was warm with genuine affection for her former lover, apparently unleavened by the bitter dregs of his defection.

  “His Majesty has many grave duties, Lady Carey. If he wishes a respite—why, that is not surprising.”

  “He wishes to press his suit with Anne.” The lady offered a placid shrug. “She resists bedding him, you know, until he can secure his divorce. This manor’s primary appeal, as far as Henry is concerned, will be that it’s too modest to house the queen and her retinue.”

  “Bene. I wish him and your sister a joyful holiday.” Allegra reckoned the dates. She should allow two days to return—better three, to be cautious. “They’ll arrive before Twelfth Night?”

  “Oh, aye, so he says. The lovers will slip away while the court proper makes its progress to Whitehall, so that Richmond can be sweetened.”

  Henry Tudor’s massive court followed an itinerant lifestyle, shifting frequently with all their furniture, linens, plate, and retainers from castle to castle. A necessary activity, if a cumbersome one, as the privies quickly became fouled and the stench unbearable when they lingered.

  God love her, how she loathed these drafty English castles, with their narrow windows and frowning heights. They were little more than heaps of moldering rock, crouching like peasants before their betters, the fires always smoking, the privies always stinking, the floors unspeakably fouled beneath the rushes. Even the king’s best castles could not compare with the airy light of an Italian palazzo, but she’d had to resign herself to such conditions.

  Allegra still dreamed of the Borgia villa on the Brenta canal, its saffron walls bathed in lemon sunlight, tiled roofs rising against skies of eggshell blue, clusters of grapes hanging ripe from the vine. Their summer home, where she’d passed the only years of peace and happiness she’d ever known. How sad and neglected the villa must be now, linen-draped furniture like ghosts in the darkness, the grapes rotting on the vines…

  Firmly she recalled her straying wits. Mary Carey’s sky blue eyes might be innocent as the Virgin’s, but Allegra saw the shrewdness behind them.

  “Was there some reason you came to fetch me, Lady Carey?”

  “Why, I came for the pleasure of your company. Are we not supposed to be keeping company, while you teach me the Italian tongue?” The lady laughed, and Allegra resisted the instinct to hush her. Her disquiet had deepened with the darkness. Scarlet sunset spread like a bloodstain across the sky.

  “Do you truly wish to learn, my lady? We might take a lesson here—”

  “Countess, you’re a dreadful tease. Don’t plague me with your language now! Why under Heaven do you think I came traipsing out here? I’m burning to hear what happened between you and Joscelin last night. I delayed our arrival as long as I could, but your Spanish nursemaid…that repugnant little man…insisted we press on. We’re fortunate not to have frozen.”

  Allegra had already planned what she would say, how she would report her progress. Pinning a smile to her lips, she assumed a mischievous tone. “’Tis true your brother didn’t think much of your timing. Still, I’m certain he would not have wished to find you frozen on the road.”

  “Well, your priest has been glowering at him…and me…all day. I gather you were interrupted at an inconvenient moment?”

  “Let us say the timing could have been better.” Allegra managed a languid smile. Not difficult to do, when she recalled the ache of desire in her belly, the twinges of pleasure that tightened her nipples when he tongued her… “As you know very well, my lady, these matters of love cannot be rushed.”

  “Indeed. You are certainly more skilled than I at seduction. ’Tis rather a profession for you, isn’t it?”

  Allegra turned away to hide her disgust. God love her, she felt soiled and cheapened by Thomas Boleyn’s sordid scheme. How weary she was of pretending to be Don Maximo’s mistress.

  “Pity,” Lady Carey said, “but sometimes a bit of frustration is just the thing to whet a man’s appetite. No doubt you’ve been counting on that—a woman of your…experience?”

  How Joscelin would loathe her in the end. If God was kind to her—for once—she would be long gone from court before he hated her.

  She forced a brittle shrug and thought of practicalities. “It would be helpful, Lady Carey, to house the priest as far from me as possible.”

  “Already done—I do have some wit, you know. I’ve lodged you and Joscelin in connecting chambers. Judging by the way he looks at you, my brother will be beating down your door.”

  Heat pulsed through Allegra, throbbing sweet and heavy between her thighs. Santo Spirito, that was no lie. She ached for his slow, hot kisses, the drugging heat of his hands on her body, his hard sinewed length nudging against her.

  Lady Carey frowned. “You’ll know how to manage him, of course. But if I were you, I might…trifle with him a bit longer. Prolong his yearning, so to speak. Bring his passions to a fever pitch, though we daren’t wait too long. He mustn’t suspect your intentions or my father’s role.”

  “Never fear, my lady, I have not forgotten the terms of our arrangement. You may reassure Lord Rochford that I know how to manage the business.”

  “You are very cold.” The other made a pretty moue. “Have you no room for love in that clever heart?”

  “None at all,” she said softly. “I take great care never to fall in love.”

  “Poor Joscelin! I do believe you’ll break his heart.” Lady Carey sighed, as if at last she felt regret. “But my brother has never been one to tumble headlong into love—not since that French whore betrayed him. Perhaps the two of you are well suited, after all.”

  Allegra stared in dismay at the suckling pig, gleaming in a mound of stewed apples, that the serving-girl thumped down on the trestle table. She supposed they must be grateful to be served anything at all when their arrival had thrown the manor into such disarray. Cobwebs still draped the hammered beams overhead, and some hasty attempt to fling Yuletide holly and ivy over the struts had only made it worse.

  They would have to labor like Sisyphus to prepare the place, with Henry Tudor descending on them like an amorous god at Twelfth Night.

  “Merciful Heaven, what a reprehensible feast.” Seated on the hard bench beside her, Mary Carey treated the dismal meal as a splendid joke. “The servants are fortunate indeed to be dealing with Joscelin rather than my father. Lord Rochford would order the hide whipped from their backs for sloth.”

  Seated below the salt, the Boleyn retainers slid wary glances at each other. Lady Carey paid the unhappy guardsmen no heed.

  “Come, sister, don’t be bloodthirsty.” Taking the carving-knife, Joscelin dismissed the serving-girl with a smile. “We’ll set it right tomorrow, oui? I’ll go to the village myself to buy livestock and a few good barrels of fresh-brewed ale—”

  “I advise you to adopt Lord Rochford’s method,” Fausto said, his black eyes burning. “It’s well known that erring servants are greatly improved by flogging, and their souls also benefit from such instruction. Rather like erring women.”

  Allegra’s stomach clenched as though he’d punched her. A vision reared before her of Casimiro in one of his red-faced rages. But how could the priest possibly know of that? Only three of them had shared that dark secret, and both Casimiro and his brother had taken it to their graves.

  Glancing up, she met Joscelin’s steady regard—his eyes clear amber in the firelight, warm with concern. They hadn’t spoken privately since the inn last night. Unfortunate that she’d been forced to behave so coldly with the priest, forced to mock her tarnished virtue, as though its loss meant nothing. Sir Joscelin Boleyn was too virtuous himself to understand the bitterness beneath her disdain.

  “Tell us, sister.” Joscelin steered them away from the unpleasant topic. “How
does your Italian progress?”

  “Molto bene,” Lady Carey said prettily. “It goes very well, though I’m certain the countess will tell you I’m not a quick student.”

  “Nay, it’s a pleasure to speak my mother tongue.” Allegra had been careful to teach Mary a few phrases on the road, to cover this eventuality. The lady was not dull-witted—what Boleyn could be dull in that scorpion’s nest and not be consumed by the others? But the focused effort of learning a foreign tongue seemed alien to Lady Carey’s nature, and she was easily discouraged.

  While the other demurred, Allegra heaped praise on her indifferent pupil. “Lady Carey’s progress in a mere two days has been astonishing. Or should I say, stupendissimo?”

  Glowing, Mary speared a morsel with her fork—a continental innovation that had finally come to England. “The countess is a devoted tutor, but far too kind. If only we could study a more appealing lexicon…say, the language of love…I’m certain I should learn more quickly.”

  Fausto frowned and crossed himself. “That would be unseemly, for both the pupil and the teacher. You had better set yourself to study some improving religious tracts, my lady. Think less of carnal things and more about the state of your soul.”

  A defiant spirit possessed Allegra, though she knew the priest was baiting her. “Surely love is godly—why should we not speak of it? Per favore, my lady, what words do you wish to learn?”

  Quick to seize her moment, Mary gleamed with mischief. “What is the term for love?”

  “Quite similar to the French term,” Allegra said. “Amore.”

  Across the table, Joscelin’s eyes seared into her. “If we’re speaking of loveplay, a man must be able to compliment a woman’s beauty—to tell her she is bellissima?”

  She tingled. “Si, that is correct. Just as a handsome man would be called bello. I was not aware you knew my mother tongue.”

  “Aye, my brother is quite the polyglot. Like any proper diplomat, he’s well-versed in the use of tongues.” Mary laughed, the matchmaker in her clearly delighted with the current of sensual tension flowing across the table.

  “My sister is too generous.” Joscelin waved a dismissive hand. “I learned a few courtesies—no more than that—when I rode with France on the Italian campaign.”

  Allegra toyed with her food. How little she knew him, after all. She must never forget it, or grow complacent in his presence.

  Mary trilled another laugh, playing the empty-headed miss to perfection. “And if a man wishes to call his lady dearest…beloved…how would that be said?”

  Joscelin’s eyes held Allegra’s, the hint of a smile curling his lips. “Amantissima, he would call her…my beloved.”

  Her skin flushed beneath her green velvet gown. Too near the fire—in more ways than one.

  “Tell us, Contessa,” Fausto said, “drawing upon your…particular expertise…what would a man call his mistress?”

  “Damnation, that’s enough!” Pushing to his feet, Joscelin scowled at the priest. “Mind your tongue, man, in the ladies’ presence. Another slur like that one, and you’ll be taking your meals with the servants.”

  As the other towered over him, Fausto eased back in his chair, giving himself room to react. Alertness fired in his features—fearless, even eager for confrontation, an uncommon reaction for a lifelong scholar confronted with an armed and angry swordsman. How lightly his hands rested on the table, so near the concealment of his voluminous black sleeves.

  Oh, be wary, her instincts whispered.

  “Pray do not concern yourself, Sir Joscelin,” Allegra said. The priest was baiting her, no question, but she need not rise to it. “I can hardly answer the question, Frey Fausto, since we’re already reproached for unseemly talk.”

  But she did not relax her vigilance until Joscelin sat, still scowling. Yet her position in Maximo’s household explained the priest’s hostility. Like any hypocrite, Fausto would not rebuke his wealthy patron, so she must carry the blame.

  “No matter,” the priest said. “I have recalled the word I was seeking.”

  Whore, harlot, bed-swerver—that is what he means. And how can I deny it, after what I promised to do?

  Joscelin growled in warning and thudded down his cup. A few drops of claret dotted the linen tablecloth with a garnet stain, dark as blood.

  Beneath the table, her foot brushed his, a silent entreaty to let the crisis pass. He shot her a sharp look, his jaw tight with anger.

  “Let’s speak with better cheer,” he said at last. “Let’s not forget that it’s the holiday season, oui? I don’t know your English customs, and it’s a pity we’re missing the court revels, but we can still make merry here. Should we choose a Lord of Misrule for the New Year?”

  Gamely his sister took up the gauntlet, and the meal passed without further quarrel. Allegra held up her share of the discussion and did not look toward Fausto. Doubtless the weasel was memorizing every word she spoke, every glance or smile she exchanged. Well, if the don wanted her to draw Joscelin into her coils, he could not object to her methods.

  “Music!” Mary cried, as the servers bore away the picked-over bones. “We must have music for our revels. Do you play, Countess?”

  “She plays like a virtuoso,” Fausto said, and she knew he did not speak of music. Allegra ignored him and accepted a wedge of gooseberry tart. She had lost her appetite, but the pastry would occupy her hands.

  “If she sings like an angel, that would not surprise me,” Joscelin said. “I’ve observed there’s little the signora cannot do…with dazzling effect.”

  “I can follow a tune.” She struggled not to blush like a schoolgirl. “Alas, I have little talent on the lute or the virginals. My sister—”

  Too late, she swallowed the words, appalled by her slip. For three years she had never once mentioned her family, except to Maximo. That she yearned suddenly to break her silence, to confide her fears in Joscelin, ought to fill her with alarm.

  If I were any other woman, I would think myself in love with him.

  “Your sister?” Joscelin poured her more claret. “I didn’t know you had a sister. I’d like to hear more about her—indeed, your entire family. Do they live in Genoa?”

  While she weighed her reply, Fausto snorted in disdain. “They’re a bastard branch of the Borgia clan. Is it any wonder she’s ashamed of them?”

  A flare of anger burned through her. “You say I’m ashamed of them? To the contrary, I’m proud of my lineage, proud of their achievements. My sisters are barely ten years old, yet they play the lute like maestros, write their letters in Latin and Greek, attend Mass three times a day, and care for my ailing father with devotion. Are these accomplishments to be ashamed of?”

  Joscelin stared at her, interest kindling in his face. “Where are they, your sisters? They must be beautiful, n’est-ce pas, if they’re your kin. Do they never come to court?”

  “They live far from here.” The pain of remembrance squeezed her chest. Aye, they were lovely, with her mother’s dark sloe-eyed beauty, shining like jewels from the miniature she wore against her heart. Even at seven years old, when she told them goodbye, they had been bright and quick. In captivity, who could say what they had become? A stab of grief pierced her heart. “My sisters do not come to court. My father is ill, and they don’t leave his side.”

  “Then their devotion is admirable—but you must miss them. How long since you’ve seen them?”

  “Three years.” Her throat ached with bottled tears.

  “Her father is stone blind,” Fausto said. “A helpless invalid, utterly dependent on his daughters’ support. Sometimes our elders outlive their dignity.”

  Allegra was startled by his knowledge. When had the don made his confessor privy to her family history? “Blind he may be. But never in his life has my father been helpless.”

  Fausto’s face twisted. “Perhaps you’re correct, for no Borgia ever born has been helpless. Isn’t that so, Contessa?”

  Chapter Twelve

>   “He hates you very much, oui?”

  Joscelin’s hand was strong under her elbow as he escorted her from the hall. Sweet with claret, his warm breath teased her cheek. Even distracted, every nerve tingling with wariness from Fausto’s hostile comments, Allegra’s knees weakened. She forced herself to reply coolly, to hold her disguise in place.

  “I assure you, Don Maximo is not susceptible to violent emotion. He considers hatred a waste of energy and fixes his intent on practical outcomes. Santa Maria, why should he bother hating me? If he tires of my company, he may simply send me away. My presence at court is due solely to his sponsorship.”

  “You are very evasive.” Joscelin took a candle from the waiting servant to light their way upstairs. “I was talking about the priest.”

  “Oh…the priest?” Allegra played for time, shadows shifting around them as they climbed. “Fausto doesn’t know me well enough to hate me. He joined the don’s household barely a month ago, with a letter of commendation from Charles of Spain’s own confessor.”

  “Yet the don trusts him to chaperone you.”

  “Fausto makes a great show of his piety.” Allegra grimaced. “He is normally discreet, and Maximo says his theology is sound—which, coming from Maximo, is a great compliment. As for myself, I suppose my unorthodox presence in the household offends him.”

  “I don’t know.” He slanted a wary glance over his shoulder. “He’s rancid with malice toward you—and to me, it looked personal.”

  She fought the powerful temptation to confide in him, the man Henry Tudor had ordered to investigate her. But the shadows had closed in behind them, and her instincts hissed for caution. Beatriz would be coming soon to unlace her…and, of course, to spy on her. Who knew how many ears strained in the darkness to listen? She rested her hand over Joscelin’s and squeezed.

  He was quick-witted enough to heed the warning, and turn the subject. “Mon Dieu, your hands are ice! We must get you warm again.”