The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(18)
“What do we ever want? Information.”
“And how do you propose I go about it?” He must be rattled, or he would not have posed such a stupid question.
The cardinal, with as much righteous delicacy as possible, said, “I am not aware that you have ever encountered difficulty in gathering information from comely women. Surely you do not need a man of the Church to tell you how.”
“Lucette Courtenay is a guest of my family, and I can hardly seduce such a guest in my father’s home.” Never mind that the thought instantly brought with it irresistible images of seduction, with Lucette in his arms, that dark hair tumbled round her bare shoulders…
Heaven above, but he was in trouble.
“I don’t care how you do it, LeClerc.” Ribault leaned closer, words barely above a whisper that made the threat all the more intense. “This girl is the best chance we have ever had of gaining inside information about the very heart of the heretic’s court. Get us what we need to bring us nearer to restoring God’s light to the benighted people of England.”
The cardinal stalked away in a swirl of crimson robes while Julien cursed inventively and soundlessly. He didn’t dare openly disobey. Which meant spending more time with Lucette than was wise for either of them.
If his heart leaped treacherously at the thought, he shoved it firmly away. Lucette was nothing more now than a job. And he was very good at his job.
FIVE
Mary Stuart had not been in such a good humour in a very long time. Indeed, she had difficulty remembering when last she’d felt so hopeful. When she’d first married Darnley, she supposed. She had been carried away then both by her passion for the handsome young man and the satisfaction of exercising her royal will, for she had found great pleasure in marrying him despite the vocal protests of her recalcitrant council. Sometimes she wondered if her love had been more about Darnley himself or about getting her own way.
Well, she’d long since learned that lesson. Men were to be used, not trusted. And her satisfactions now depended solely on herself. Much more practical. Not that she minded having handsome men around her. There had been the Duke of Norfolk, of course, though that had ended badly for both of them. (Admittedly, rather the worse for him, since he’d lost his head on her behalf.) Her present guardian, the Earl of Shrewsbury, was attentive enough, certainly polite and careful of her status, and his wife had become a good friend.
Stephen Courtenay, however, the young Earl of Somerset, had made a very welcome addition to Mary’s household at Tutbury. Besides being decorative, he was intelligent and astute. A boy of few words, but those few always well-chosen and nicely balanced between loyalty to his own queen and kindness to the imprisoned queen he spent time with.
And such a convenient source of familial information.
“I hear from my friends in Paris that your sister made quite the impression with Dr. Dee,” Mary said conversationally one afternoon, as Stephen and she played cards. “It seems everyone in society is highly taken with her beauty and conduct.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Stephen said.
“And now she has gone on to…Chateau Blanclair, is it?” Mary probed. She knew perfectly well it was; her correspondents were well-informed.
“Yes.”
Mary sighed in exasperation. “Really, sir, you could converse with me in more than one syllable words.”
“So I could.” His quick grin saved the remark from impertinence and moved it into the category—just—of courtly flirting.
Mary laughed. “So what will your parents say if your sister decides to remain in France with a husband? Or more pertinent, perhaps, what would your queen make of the matter?”
Mary naturally knew the gossip, that Elizabeth believed Lucette Courtenay to be her niece. No one spoke of it openly, for the Duke of Exeter was held in high regard and was, besides, a most forbidding man. And the Duchess of Exeter? Well, Mary remembered Minuette Wyatt during her few weeks at the French court. Mary herself had not yet been wed to Francis and had felt a most unusual envy of the older, beautiful, and utterly charming Englishwoman. Had Minuette betrayed her husband with the late king of England? Mary supposed no one living knew that except the woman herself. And what, in the end, did it matter? Elizabeth believed it, and that made it a fact in the murky world of politics and royal intrigue.
And Mary knew very well how to manipulate such facts.
Stephen Courtenay was unusually well-controlled for such a young man; he did not openly rise to the sting of Mary’s insinuation. “It would, naturally, be a great sorrow for all of us if my sister chose to live out of England. I must say I do not consider it likely, for none is more attached to my mother’s home at Wynfield Mote than Lucette. For one who so deeply loves the essence of the English countryside to give it up for France…?” Stephen shrugged.
Mary was somewhat taken aback by the flood of words, and could only conclude that Stephen was, despite what he said, a little afraid of that very outcome. She knew how to play on that fear. “But love of a person can so easily strike, laying waste to even love of a home. Would you begrudge your sister if she found love in France?”
The hazel eyes that met hers were steady and, despite his youth, unflinching. “Does Your Majesty begrudge the loss of your country for the love of a man?”
She flushed deeply. “You are out of your depth,” she spat angrily. “Do not presume on my good nature to insult me.”