The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(16)
She was not officially presented at the French court, for that would entail a different sort of visit entirely, but when they reached Paris she and Dr. Dee were invited to a feast at the Louvre. Though Henri III was not present, nor his formidable mother, Catherine de Medici, even the edges of Henri’s court were brilliant. She thought herself immune to the trappings of earthly power, made cynical by her long exposure to Elizabeth’s court. But the elegant details of the dresses, the bold behavior of the women, not to mention the noticeable presence of many red-cassocked prelates of the Catholic church, combined to leave Lucette with a hint of unease beneath her pleasure.
In Paris, they were quartered in the luxurious home of Edmund and Marguerite Pearce, a couple who managed to combine their disparate religions and cultures into a pleasing combination of art and scholarship. Edmund Pearce and Dr. Dee were longstanding friends and correspondents and spent many happy hours the first two days wrangling over books in Pearce’s library. Marguerite took Lucette to Notre Dame (to visit, not worship—it was not nearly as impressive as Amiens Cathedral) and shopping, which she did not mind as much as she expected to. And the third night—Lucette’s final night in Paris—the Pearces threw open their doors for a grand reception in honour of Dr. Dee and Lady Lucette Courtenay.
As one of Marguerite’s maids fussed over Lucette’s hair, curling and pinning it into an elaborate piece of art, Lucette braced herself for the LeClercs. Not Charlotte, whom she loved dearly even if they had not seen each other for years, nor even Renaud, who troubled her only because he was Dominic’s friend and thus might not think too highly of her just now. Rumours were not bound by the seas. Surely they’d heard something in France of Elizabeth’s meddling in Courtenay family affairs and the ensuing strained relationships.
It was the brothers who unsettled her: Nicolas and Julien. And not simply because Walsingham suspected that one or both of the young LeClercs might be working against England. That task was real enough, but so were the memories of herself as a tongue-tied, impressionable child who had followed Nicolas around like a puppy and had loathed Julien for pointing it out. She knew they must be very different after twelve years, but inside she half expected to see the two tall young men who had overawed her at Wynfield Mote.
By the time Lucette descended, there were already several dozen members of the Paris intelligentsia who were the natural crowd for John Dee. But there were nobles as well, the men sharp and watchful beneath their finery, and the women glittering with a sense of their own worth. That was not so different from England. Two or three churchmen moved through the chambers as well, one of them a cardinal in scarlet.
When she heard her name called, she knew Charlotte instantly, even without the pleasure writ large on her friend’s face. It was the same face of early adolescence, round-cheeked and wide-eyed, and she gave Lucette an embrace that crushed a great deal of expensive fabric between them.
But even as she hugged Charlotte, Lucette’s mind was turning, for she had taken in the three LeClerc men and found that she could name them just as easily as if she’d seen them last week. Renaud, of course, was silver-haired but otherwise unchanged. Tall, with broad shoulders and chest, and the bearing of a soldier. Nicolas was nearly as easy to identify, for he was undeniably his father’s son. Though not, Lucette decided, as imposing. There was something—kinder? softer?—about him, as though his edges were smoothed away. But he was still very handsome.
Julien was the shock. He had been taller than his brother even at sixteen, and now he topped both his father and brother by at least three inches. He might even be taller than Dominic, she thought dizzily. His hair was still that wheat-coloured shade, though with streaks of both darker and lighter blond to it. He looked…messier than Nicolas, but also more elegant in the way that only Frenchmen can bring off.
His eyes, Lucette noted, when Charlotte stopped hugging her and turned to her brothers, were still unfriendly. And, worst of all, amused. As though he expected her to fawn and blush and fall over her words as she had when she was a child.
He’d be getting no blushes from her.
Renaud, however, was a pure pleasure to greet. His genuine affection nearly brought tears to her eyes. And Nicolas was as gracious as he’d ever been.
“My dear girl,” he said in English. “You are every bit as lovely a woman as your childhood promised.”
“Merci,” she said, continuing in rapid French. “And you will do me a favor by letting me speak your language. I need the practice.”
“Not at all,” he replied, graciously switching. “You have a lovely accent. I do hope you’ll do me the honour of dancing with me later. It has been…many years since I have so indulged myself.”
With that, Lucette remembered his widowhood, how his young wife had died delivering their only son, Felix. How Nicolas had more or less shut himself up at Chateau Blanclair since then. Touched that he had come all the way to Paris to greet her when he could have waited for her to arrive at his home, Lucette smiled. “It has been the purpose of my voyage to dance with you, Nicolas.”
She tried to ignore Charlotte’s expression—like a cat in the cream—and wondered for the first time what would happen to her investigation if she made the mistake of allowing her childish emotions to get the better of her.
But this was France. Flirting was a game—no more, no less—and she would use it. If she happened to enjoy it, no one need know.