The Devil's Mistress

by Laura Navarre

  Now he must choose with open eyes: either to obey and win the prize of his father’s regard or to protect Allegra from her mother’s fate. Allegra with her knife-sharp cunning, her lithe assassin’s body, her killing arts sheathed in a siren’s flesh. Allegra with her glittering smile and her yielding softness, her boldness and her artifice—the proud beauty who stood against Henry Tudor, the Church, and the Holy Roman Empire, and made it all look effortless. Would he let another man’s greed destroy her?

  “What manner of man,” Joscelin said, “would send a woman who’s served him to torture and death? Or do you deny her service—that you ordered her to bed me and then betray me?”

  “Ah.” His father stilled. “She must have told you. Or was it Mary who weakened? Well, this is what comes of relying on a woman. A few kisses and words of wooing, and they spill all their secrets—”

  “So you admit it,” Joscelin said, low and furious. “You conspired against me—the son who never once in his life did anything but serve you. You set out to humiliate me, then toss aside the woman who helped you like a soiled garment. How could you do it?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” His father spread his hands. “I did it for Anne, and for all of us, to discredit our Spanish rivals. And I did it for you, to remove a dangerous distraction that jeopardized all we’re working for.”

  “Never claim you acted on my account! You schemed against me with my own sister, and turned Mary against me too. All to advance the only cause that matters—the cause of Thomas Boleyn.”

  His father studied him carefully. “Every man works for his own interests, and every woman does the same. Do you think the arrangement didn’t benefit Contessa Grimaldi as well?”

  “Leave her out of this! Her reward for serving you would be an accusation of witchcraft and then the fire. Do you deny it?”

  “Very well, Joscelin, we’ll do this your way. I am no different than any other courtier, except that I’m more clever and successful at winning. Is that any reason to despise me?” He gave him a wry smile. “Why so upset, my son? You too will benefit when the Spanish fall. Have I outraged your old-fashioned sense of honor?”

  Speechless, Joscelin shook his head. If he turned his back on his father now—surrendered the battle that had driven him all his life—what would he do instead? A memory filled his mind, lavender eyes sparking with passion, and the haunting sweetness of jasmine…

  “Let us not quarrel over this woman, my son.” His father squeezed his shoulder—the friendly clasp of equals, that rare moment of recognition that Joscelin had lived for. “In truth, I’m pleased that you’ve returned ahead of schedule. I have excellent tidings for you—a prize that should more than compensate for this unfortunate misunderstanding with the Italian woman.”

  Zut! Did his father think him so easily swayed, like a child diverted by a pretty bauble?

  When Joscelin said nothing, Rochford stepped back, a furrow digging between his brows. “You should rejoice with me, my son. The king has appointed me Earl of Wiltshire and Ormonde—one of the highest titles at court.”

  Joscelin stared blankly at his jubilant expression, seeing the avarice and self-interest he’d always despised but never acknowledged in his own sire. Lord Rochford had won a lofty new title and, no doubt, the lavish estates and revenues to finance it. The benefits would trickle down to the Boleyn offspring, himself included, for he knew his father favored him. Why did it seem an empty victory?

  “You know what this will mean, of course,” his father said. “George will assume my prior title and become Lord Rochford—a substantial rise for him. As for you, your brilliant performance in the tourney has brought you to the king’s attention. With my encouragement, he has awarded you a plum new placement—as one of his Gentlemen Pensioners.”

  A week ago, this news would have thrilled Joscelin beyond measure. To earn such recognition so soon after his arrival! His father was smiling broadly, anticipating his reaction.

  “Just think, Joscelin, you’ll be one of the king’s closest companions. You’ll guard his person and ride with the King’s Majesty whenever he ventures forth. Who better with a sword to ensure his royal safety? Not to mention, the duty places you in a position of unparalleled access to Henry. Your influence will benefit all of us, and we’ll all reap the rewards. Now, what do you say to that?”

  Joscelin stared at his father’s expectant face, but his chest felt hollow. None of this meant anything to him now.

  His father’s brow furrowed. “Needless to say, my elevation and yours have favorably impressed the Carews. They are now convinced that you’re a coming man. Today they consented to your marriage with Mistress Catherine.”

  “Mistress Catherine?” Joscelin recoiled, and surprise flickered in his father’s face.

  Zut, he was so weary of posturing like an actor on stage, always minding his face and his tongue, carefully supporting the Boleyn policies, no matter how dubious he might privately find them. What was Catherine Carew but a pretty child with a full purse? Suddenly he knew, beyond all doubt, that he could not resign himself to a lifetime of that empty marriage.

  He wanted no woman in the world except one. One who possessed wits as sharp as a fencing blade, the boldness of a seasoned adventurer, the dark beauty of a Madonna and a courtesan’s smile—

  “My son, you seem taken aback. I’ve promised Nicholas Carew that the marriage contract will be negotiated and the banns posted upon your return.” His father paused. “Now that you’re here, some tasteful wooing of Mistress Catherine would not be inappropriate.”

  “Mon Dieu.” Still reeling beneath the percussive waves of discovery, Joscelin shook his head. Belatedly, he noticed that he towered head and shoulders over his aging father. Somehow, he’d never before seen the difference. “My thanks for your efforts, but I don’t want to become Henry Tudor’s Gentleman Pensioner. And I certainly don’t want to marry Catherine Carew.”

  “So, my son, you refuse to accept these privileges that I fought to obtain for you. Do you find the honors so unexceptional? Do you think they come so easily? Do you, perhaps, see a better prospect for a man with your antecedents?”

  “I think that our interests no longer coincide.” As the words left his mouth, the weight of a crushing burden lifted from Joscelin’s shoulders. Whatever the consequences, he could have made no other choice. If only Allegra…

  Disappointment flickered across his father’s lined features as he turned away. Pacing to the window, the old man peered out at the falling snow. “I can guess the reason for your choice, although I can’t claim to approve. It’s that Grimaldi woman, isn’t it? You’ve fallen in love with her.”

  Joscelin’s first impulse was to deny it. No matter how drawn to the woman he felt, how compelling he found her, he’d scoffed at any notion of love since that fiasco with Gabrielle—who’d also betrayed him.

  Aye, Allegra fascinated him as no other woman, highborn or common, had ever done. But never call it love! She’d shown him facets of her character he could never overlook—her skill at deception, her assassin’s training, her unflinching talent for self-preservation. Surely she could never be trusted.

  “Mon père.” Clearing his throat, he addressed his father’s back. “I am sorry for disappointing you.”

  “You realize, of course, that you’ll have to leave court. You can’t refuse the king’s offer and remain. Henry will be mortally offended, and he’s unlikely to let you represent English interests at the French court any longer. Frankly, I can’t think of a feasible alternative, just now, to offer you.”

  “I expect nothing from you.” Again, Joscelin felt the rightness of his choice. Strength and purpose flowed through him—a vigor he hadn’t felt in years. “It’s past time I find my own place in the world.”

  “So be it.” His father paused. “I will keep the matter private for a time, in the hope you may come to your senses.”

  “I’m certain that I won’t.” A smile tugged at his lips. “I’m afraid I’m a hopeless
case.”

  Lord Rochford hesitated. “I presume you’ll take the contessa with you?”

  “Ah…that I can’t say.” He didn’t know how he felt about Allegra, but he knew he could never betray her. “Certainement, she’s left the court to pursue other interests, and I’m certain she won’t return. She’ll pose no further threat to Anne, I swear it, whatever Don Maximo says against her.”

  His father shrugged. “I suspect Henry won’t be overly concerned with Spanish wishes. Securing his divorce remains the king’s primary objective. We can trust our Anne to make certain of that.”

  Joscelin nodded, but his thoughts were consumed by Allegra waiting for him nearby—or so he hoped. Wherever he chose to go, however he earned his bread, he could decide nothing until his tangled feelings toward her were resolved.

  For the last time, he bowed to his father—the man he had respected and loved all his life, though Thomas Boleyn could no longer dictate his conscience. Though the uncertain light draped his form in shadow, his father stood very still. In his erect carriage, Joscelin fancied he saw regret.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Through the flurries of snow gusting across the road, Joscelin studied the dark blur of the abandoned farm—miles from the immediate danger of Richmond—where Allegra had promised to wait. No glimmer of light shone through the old boards, and the blizzard had obliterated any trace of her passing.

  Despite the clamoring voices of doubt, he kneed his stallion forward, cursing, into the storm’s teeth. When he reached the stable and fumbled to open the door, the wood groaned like a man in pain.

  This infernal place is dark as a tomb, damn it. Cautiously, he led his stallion inside, the musty scent of hay making him sneeze. Still, he battled the wind and won, dragging the door closed behind him. With the wind muffled, a sudden hush descended.

  As he searched the darkness, his misgivings intensified. Clearly Allegra hadn’t waited, despite the promise he’d managed to pry out of her. Damnation, why should he be surprised—now that he knew what she was? Not the Spaniard’s mistress, but his hired assassin.

  “Allegra?” Without much hope, he pitched his voice to carry. “Are you here?”

  Straw rustled, and his stallion whinnied. Swiftly he drew his sword. A narrow beam of light pierced the darkness.

  “I am here…as promised.” Sounding amused, Allegra emerged, her lantern held high. “Pray do not appear so surprised to find me.”

  “Mon Dieu.” Joscelin sheathed his sword, and the vise of tension eased its grip. He stamped snow from his boots and led his exhausted stallion into a stall. “At least you had the sense to wait.”

  “This English weather conspires against me. Otherwise, I would not have waited.”

  “Christ, at least you’re honest.” He shot her a wry look.

  Beyond the circle of light, her slender frame blended with the shadows. Her gown and mantle were stark black wool, of good quality, but plain. Suited to a goodwife or merchant’s widow—anything but what she was. Against her raven hair, the pale oval of her face was serene as a saint’s.

  Only her lush mouth and the seductive hint of jasmine betrayed her. But he knew how quickly her stillness could fire into a predator’s twisting grace.

  Beneath his regard, she arched her brows. “I presume you came alone?”

  “Oui.” Impatient, he tugged at his stallion’s girth, to give the hard-working animal some rest. “Did you think I’d lead the Knight Marshal straight to you? I’m in this neck-deep now, Allegra. If I’m accused of the priest’s murder, I’m a dead man.”

  A shudder worked through her. “Indeed, it’s a poor reward for leaping to my defense. Believe me or not as you will, but I wanted to protect you from this.”

  “So you say.” Unwilling to accept anything she said on faith, he gave a Gallic shrug.

  “Santa Maria! Why did you pursue me?”

  It’s that Grimaldi woman, isn’t it? His father’s voice whispered in his ear. You’ve fallen in love with her.

  Discomfited, Joscelin dodged the question. “I’ve brought provisions and left the castle peaceful as a church behind me. If your ambassador’s making mischief, the Sergeant Porter knows nothing of it.”

  “Don Maximo must have decided to keep it quiet. I hoped that he might. Steel drawn in his chambers inside the Verge of the Court, his confessor murdered, his Boleyn rivals accused of the crime, and his mistress gone missing. These things won’t reflect well on Spain.”

  “The king will also want to keep it quiet,” he said—wanting to reassure her despite everything, damn it. “A priest’s murder won’t please Rome, and Henry won’t want any distraction from the marriage trial.”

  A flicker of disquiet passed over her features. “If he hears of my role, the cardinal is certain to take a special interest. He does not love me, as you’ll recall.”

  A surge of protective instinct rolled through him. But he knew the Devil’s Mistress needed no man’s protection.

  “Even if the cardinal does nothing,” she said, “Don Maximo will surely pursue me.”

  “Zut, you left the man half dead! Even if he springs from his bed like the risen Christ, he’ll have to wait until the weather breaks. I advise we do the same—or risk losing the road in this stygian night, oui?”

  “I don’t like the prospect of delay. Is the weather so dreadful?” Looking uneasy, she cracked the door and peered out. A wicked wind lashed into the stable, and she struggled to close it.

  Too aware of her nearness, his head swimming with her fragrance, Joscelin set about ensuring his stallion’s comfort. She watched him with shadowed eyes whose secrets he couldn’t read.

  “I tried to leave you behind, you know,” she said. “Yet here you are—armed and provisioned for travel. You know this road will not take you to Belhaven.” Warily she eyed him as he emerged from the stall and slung his loaded pannier into a corner. “I trust you don’t intend to try stopping me.”

  “I doubt that I could. You’re determined to reach London.” He looked around to see what else needed doing. Her black mare was lodged nearby, placidly nibbling at her hay—as accustomed to adventure as her mistress, apparently.

  This place was no palace, but it offered shelter. Watching him, Allegra gestured with sudden violence.

  “Do not play me for a fool, Sir Joscelin Boleyn! Either your father sent you after me, or you are defying him outright. What do you hope to gain by following me?”

  “From my father—nothing.” He tossed a blanket over piled straw to make a bed. “He’s newly made Earl of Wiltshire, and I’m appointed to the Gentlemen Pensioners. It’s the recognition I’ve worked for, a post to make any man’s fortune.”

  “Indeed?” She stared. “Then all the more is your place at Belhaven—or Westminster, at the king’s side.”

  Against all his instincts, Joscelin knotted his jaw and said nothing. Why tell her he’d declined the post and his advantageous marriage? Why admit that he’d flung his father’s respect back in his face—that he’d ruined his life for her? Why should he place those weapons in her hand, when she’d already cut his heart to ribbons?

  “Ah,” she said softly. “Should I congratulate you on your pending marriage? Should I offer my felicitations to you and Mistress Carew? I confess, I am amazed by your persistence. Surely you haven’t forgotten my letter? I meant every word of it—”

  How skillfully she twisted the knife in his chest. “To Hell with your damn letter! Oui, here I am, like a besotted fool—I, the man who saved your life and held my silence. I’ve even abetted your flight from justice. Think what more I might have done for you, if you hadn’t betrayed me.”

  God-a-mercy, how can I ever trust her? I’ve thrown away everything, and for what? Do you think a woman like her could ever love anyone?

  “Oh, Joscelin. You’re not a fool.” Her polished courtier’s voice went ragged, her face ravaged by torment—but she was an accomplished actress. “You are the most honorable, decent, straightforward man I’
ve ever known. Please don’t begin lying to me now. Did you follow me because someone sent you, or because your code of honor would allow no less, no matter what you think of me?”

  He stared into her imploring gaze, and reminded himself she was not what she appeared. “Merde, I’m not here for my father’s sake. And I’m no paragon of virtue—just a man, like any other.”

  “Then why did you follow?” she whispered, sounding wretched. “I’ll be the death of you, Joscelin. You must tell me the truth.”

  “I must tell you the truth?” Stung by the implication, he strode forward to confront her. “I followed you all the way from Belhaven, in the Devil’s own weather, to hear the truth from you!”

  Determined to strip away her masks, once and for all, he pulled her toward him and stared down at her blazing face. “My head could roll for defending you tonight, Allegra. Nom de Dieu, you owe me the truth!”

  Her breath heaved as she stared up at him, her lilac eyes swimming. Damnation, he wished he could read the clever brain that fired all that beauty.

  “You want to know how I become what I am, don’t you?” Her hands splayed across his chest. Even through his leather jerkin, her touch made his cock tighten. “You want to know how I learned the killing arts, why I came to embrace this path.”

  The killing arts, she called them, as though a hired killer were just an exotic brand of performer. Distaste crawled in his belly, yet he burned to hear her story. She stood quivering before him, taut as a drawn bow, and he realized he must be hurting her—gripping her wounded shoulder. Abruptly he released her.

  “Oui, Allegra, I want to hear these things. But first, we should tend your injury.”

  “Already done.” She stepped back. “I can do more than kill, you know. I have some skill at treating wounds, and I treated myself while I waited. Fear not, the injury won’t kill me. Apparently Fausto was too proud of his swordplay to poison his blade.”

  Shuddering at the thought of an insidious poison spreading through her, Joscelin glanced at the door. Outside the snow fell so thickly they could barely discern the road; no search for them could be mounted under these conditions. Still, she took the precaution of dimming the lantern.