Chapter 9 #2
Of course, Prince Charles was not so young anymore, and could not afford such a fine artist these days.
That only made this miniature—a gift from the prince himself—a treasure.
And a reminder of what should be. Murray’s idol was reduced to wandering Europe, dependent on the charity of various monarchs.
That must change.
That would change.
The prince’s father, James III, wasn’t expected to live long. Then Charles would be rightful king.
King Charles III.
Murray intended to make him king, in fact, of Scotland if not of England. If only his careful plans had not been so dogged by mishap.
First the old king had died, appropriately suffering an apoplexy while trying to force his bowels.
Murray rejoiced to see any of the Hanoverians dead, but it had not suited his plan.
The old upstart had been a German autocrat in the true Hanoverian style.
He hadn’t been popular and his death would have been accepted with little upset, perhaps even with pleasure.
If George II’s eldest son had lived to claim the crown, he would have sufficed. He’d have ascended the throne a dissipated middle-aged man.
The present usurper, however, George II’s grandson, was a handsome young man, recently married to a dutiful wife expecting her first child. He had been born and raised in England, and didn’t even have a German accent.
The English people would not like his death.
But in the end, it didn’t matter whether they liked it or not. The king would die, and the stone would do the rest.
The Stone of Destiny. What the English—curse their thieving hearts—called the Stone of Scone.
Reputed by myth to be Jacob’s pillow, it had been used as part of the coronation ceremonies of Scottish kings as long as memory could tell. In 1303 it had been wickedly stolen by Edward I, murderer of Wallace, as part of his attempt to seize Scotland as he had seized and subjugated Wales.
As further blasphemy, the stone had been incorporated into the coronation chair here in London, in Westminster Abbey. Every English monarch since then had been crowned while sitting on top of the sacred stone of Scotland.
It made no difference to Murray that these days the thrones of England and Scotland were joined. When James VI of Scotland had inherited the throne of England, he should have stayed in Edinburgh and governed his kingdoms from there! And he should have had the stone taken back to its rightful home.
If he’d done that, then surely the Stuart line would not have experienced such disasters.
But look what had happened. James’s son, Charles, had been beheaded by those wicked Parliamentarians.
Charles’s older grandson had eventually been restored as Charles II but, despite a virile sowing of wild oats, had failed to create a legitimate child to inherit the throne.
Then Charles I’s other son, James, had shown signs of righteousness. He’d embraced the Catholic Church and even talked, so it was said, of restoring the monarchy and the stone to Scotland. Of course the English had turned on him and thrown him out, denying even that his son was his true child.
That son’s son was Murray’s beloved prince, who had led so valiant an invasion in 1745. It would have succeeded, Murray was sure, if only James III had sworn his coronation oath on the Stone of Destiny in Scone, in Scotland.
Charles III would do so, and so come in time into the right.
Murray chuckled. The English would grieve at their king’s death, but they’d crown another one, never realizing the real disaster. They’d lost the stone. The new monarch would not be able to be crowned on the stone, which would be far away in France with the rightful king, awaiting its journey home.
They already had it in a safe place, just waiting for the box in which it would travel. In time, the Stone of Destiny would work its magic and the false line of Hanover would rot away without invasion or violence.
Which left just the last task, killing the king.
In the gloomy hall of Walgrave House, under the disapproving gaze of Roman senators and the blank one of a footman, Fort turned to Elf. “Do you require any refreshment, my dear?”
Strangely embarrassed by the impassive servant, Elf shook her head, reminding herself that she was masked and powdered beyond recognition.
“Come then.” And he led her up the wide stairs she had crept down but a few nights since.
In moments she entered his bedchamber, and memories of her previous visit caused a frisson of fear. Strangely, it merely seemed to add to the passionate excitement driving her.
Glancing at Fort, she saw the man who was going to guide her through the maze of carnal sensation. Because she’d demanded it. Perhaps, after all, she was Lisette the exploiter, not Elf, the nurturing savior.
She had no idea except that she wanted him, wanted all he had to offer. She wanted the fornication thundered against from the pulpit, and the guilty pleasures whispered about behind fans.
All thought shattered at the touch of his hands on her shoulders, thumbs brushing her collarbone. She looked up, helpless in the first winds of a growing storm.
“I would prefer that you take off the mask,” he said softly. “I will keep your identity secret, my word on it. Carnal pleasure is best enjoyed with all barriers down.”
For an idiotic moment, she was tempted, but she shook her head and he let the matter go. With a wry smile, he traced the edge of the soft leather, and the merest brush of his fingers sparkled on her skin. Then he cradled her head, teasing the edge of her jawbone with his thumbs.
“I do wonder who you are . . . But,” he added, brushing his lips over hers, “it hardly matters now, and the element of mystery is intriguing.”
He kissed her again, a dozen wayward, fleeting kisses, kisses so tantalizing that she stretched closer, seeking to trap and relish them. His smiling lips evaded hers, but his tongue touched. A flicker of hot moistness.
She laughed and did the same to him, dancing lips and tongue at play, until he snared her close. No mechanical, testing kiss this. It rendered her wax beneath his flame.
Warm, liquid, ready to be consumed.
At last he released her lips, and she turned her dizzy head against his chest, drifting under the touch of his hands. The wide sleeve of his dark monk’s robe had fallen back to his elbow, revealing one strong forearm, sinuously decorated by raised veins.
She’d seen arms like that on the stable grooms. Were all gentlemen like that beneath the silk and lace?
Why had she never noticed before how beautiful a muscular arm could be? She curled up one hand to touch, to adore the entrancing masculinity.
A shift in position let her put lips to one line of vein and she traced it.
“What are you doing?” he asked, still for a moment.
“You have beautiful arms.” She traced back up the vein with her tongue, then looked up at him, amused by the expression in his eyes. He almost looked embarrassed.
“I am pleased if I please you. You have beautiful arms, too.” And he kissed from bare knuckle to naked elbow, then from bare shoulder—slowly—to the exposed swell of her breasts.
Letting the pleasure of his lips form the undertone, Elf continued her own exploration. She pushed up the loose sleeve to expose his upper arm, hard muscle beneath her hand.
Since leaving childhood, she’d never seen a gentleman’s bare arms. Except Walgrave’s a few nights before, she remembered. Then, however, she’d been distracted by the naked whole.
Oh, and Ferron’s, revealed by his toga. No competition there.
Men’s arms, she thought dazedly, pushing his sleeve all the way to his broad shoulder, deserved more attention. But it was perhaps as well they be kept veiled or women would be in constant danger of this madness of desire . . .
Her overdress fell open.
She looked down in surprise, then laughed. One-handed, he’d unhooked it. Now he escaped her explorations and slid it off her shoulders. Turning her, he began to loosen her laces.
For a moment, she felt deprived of touch and sight, but then the mere vibration of his touch, felt in her spine through layers of buckram and silk, wove its own special magic. Her eyes drifted closed . . .
“Look,” he breathed, moving her slightly. “Look, Lisette.”
Opening heavy lids, Elf saw a picture . . .
No.
She saw herself in a mirror. In a long cheval mirror she saw a white-haired, white-masked woman in a glittering stomacher and scarlet petticoat being undressed by a dark-robed, black-masked monk.
Lud. It was the stuff of wicked dreams!
Perhaps that was what made it so exciting.
For it was. Over and above any love, any lust, beat the wild drum of the forbidden. Of something wicked in the air.
Perhaps he heard it too. He looked up as he began to pull the laces loose, and smiled into her eyes in the mirror. “I think you’re right, naughty Lisette, about the mask. Costumes do add a little something, don’t they? But then, you’re an innocent . . .”
That question again. How she must puzzle him. “I am a virgin,” she said into the mirror. “But I don’t feel innocent at the moment.”
“You certainly won’t feel innocent in the morning.
That, I promise you.” He had the laces loose enough, and now he slipped the shoulder straps over her shift, until it no longer compacted her breasts.
In fact, he moved it just beneath them so they seemed to be bursting forth, nipples standing proud through the delicate silk.
Instinctively, she covered them.
He laughed and nipped at her neck. “Comfort them then, Lisette, while I make you pure white.”
The bow of her petticoat lace surrendered to a tug, and it slithered into a scarlet pool at her feet. He pulled her hands from her breasts so the stomacher could follow it.
She was, as he had said, pure white now, from her white-powdered hair, through her white leather mask, over white ladylike skin and filmy silk calf-length shift.