Chapter Twelve #2
She left the candle burning in the room and, gingerly pulling it free from the rat’s body, brought the broadside with her to show Dominic.
He’ll be in bed, she thought. If he didn’t hear her knock, would she dare enter his chambers and wake him herself? The thought made her stomach clench, not unpleasantly, as she imagined leaning over him, touching his shoulder or even his face as he slept.
Think about the rat, she commanded herself, not the image of Dominic in bed, looking up at her with those dark green eyes that pulled her into recklessness. What did he wear to bed? And if he wanted to kiss her …
Veering between desire and discipline, Minuette came to the corridor where Dominic was quartered.
His door was at the far end of the right-hand side—he had made sure she’d known that in case she needed him for just such an emergency.
She had just started toward it when his door was pulled open from the inside.
Minuette froze as a woman came into the corridor, a woman who almost at once turned and embraced the man behind her.
Though she had never seen him naked, there was no mistaking Dominic for anyone else, not even with his face obscured while he kissed the woman clinging to him.
Dominic resisted sleep for a long time, but he finally fell into fitful dreams. Faces drifted before him, melting into one another: William to Renaud to the Spanish ambassador; Elizabeth to Anne Boleyn to his own mother.
And finally, as a reward, Minuette herself.
In his dream she was dressed for sleep, the loose gown bewitchingly light and suggestive of her shape beneath.
Her hair hung over her shoulders and down her back and felt warm and heavy when he buried his hands in it.
She let him pull her to him, and he could feel the outlines of her body pressed against his and the warmth of her breath on his mouth, and then she was kissing him …
He wasn’t dreaming. Long, loose hair hung around his face, a woman next to him in bed, her mouth teasing at his. “Minuette?” he said, disbelieving.
He was right to disbelieve. The woman pulled back, her face illuminated by the moonlight that came through his window. He knew every plane and angle of Minuette’s face and this one was rounder, plumper, and yet familiar. But groggy with sleep and injury-addled, it took him a heartbeat to place her.
Aimée. Who was his mistress for a brief time during the winter of 1553 and had been miffed when she was dismissed. I should beware Aimée, Diane de Poitiers had warned him two weeks ago. She … may wish to redress matters.
So it appeared. Aimée’s smile was hungry with intimacy.
Her chemise had slipped off one shoulder, leaving it bare and much more appealing to him than it should be.
“All this time wasted, monsieur, but tonight I will have what I want,” she whispered.
“Is it not what you want also? I can feel that it is.”
He swallowed, trying to pull together his scattered wits. Did he want her? Undoubtedly. His body had wishes of its own and was presently making them rather strongly known.
But he had never let his body rule him where Minuette was concerned, and he would not start with someone else. He escaped the bed with as much dignity as he could muster naked, and said, “I regret that you have presumed too far.”
She hesitated between coyness and anger. Then, with a shrug, she scrambled off the bed as well. “If you do not want me, then put me out,” she challenged.
She meant it literally. He had to pick up the bed robe she’d discarded and put it around her shoulders.
She would not help him at all, only letting her body press back against him as he turned her around.
She did not resist, but she did not fight him, either, for which he gave devout thanks.
All she’d have to do was scream and a diplomatic incident of catastrophic proportions would erupt.
Only when he’d pushed her out the door and begun to close it did Aimée move.
She whirled round and kissed him, so fiercely and thoroughly that desire shot through his hungry body.
He would stop her, he told himself, he would not let her back in, but for just this moment it was such pleasure to not think about anything or anyone but himself, and his hands knew where all her curves were and she was skilled and familiar and it had been so long …
She drew back delicately and murmured, “Au revoir, Dominic.”
He shut the door and shoved a chair in front of it. It wouldn’t keep anyone out, but it would at least give him warning. This was the second time in one night that he’d been caught unawares—he didn’t want it happening again.
Elizabeth received Walsingham privately in the afternoon of their final day at Fontainebleau. He bowed with that air of casual respect that she was beginning to suspect she liked. Once he had been seated at her invitation, she asked, “You have news?”
“Lord Exeter left court alone last night, quite late. He went to a tavern that is known to cater to the Emperor’s men. He met with someone in a private room upstairs. I cannot swear to the identity of the person he was meeting, but the public rooms were filled with Spanish soldiers.”
“The ambassador?” she guessed.
He inclined his head. “Most likely.”
“Interesting.” She didn’t know Walsingham yet, so she would not speak openly of William’s plans for the Spanish. Not that he wasn’t intelligent enough to guess.
“Your Highness, there was an interesting development afterward.”
She looked at him expectantly. “Yes?”
“When Exeter left the tavern, he was followed by a Spanish soldier and attacked. One blow only, and Exeter sent his attacker running quite neatly. And then another man appeared. This second man took Exeter off with him, all the way back to court.”
“Another Spanish soldier?”
“No. It was Renaud LeClerc.”
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes, pondering. That was strange indeed. LeClerc was Dominic’s friend, as far as two nationalities could be friends. How had he known about Dominic’s meeting with the Spanish ambassador? More crucially, what would he tell the French king about it?
“Your Highness,” Walsingham said, “there are rumours about the young lady in attendance upon you. Mistress Wyatt is whispered to be a favorite of your brother. A favorite in all its shades of meanings. Is there a reason for the French to wonder about the marriage contract?”
“Do you think I would tell you if there were?”
He gave a private, approving smile. “I think that your brother could benefit from your subtlety. Unfounded or not, rumours that England is looking to the Emperor could stir trouble. Until your brother is safely married elsewhere, the French king will always be uneasy about his intentions toward Mary of Scotland. It would be a disaster for the Continent to have England and Scotland united, even in a forced union.”
“Mary Stuart is safely in the French king’s hands.”
“But Mary Stuart’s kingdom is on England’s doorstep. War can be put to many uses, Your Highness.”
Don’t worry about Mary Stuart, Elizabeth nearly told him. My brother’s hopes are quite elsewhere. “And what has Mary of Scotland to do with rumours about Mistress Wyatt?”
“Rumours don’t require one neat path of logic. They are able to twist every incident into a weapon. If this young woman is truly favoured by the king, then she can be used against him. I would keep a watchful eye on her, if I were you.”
“Thank you for your advice,” she said drily.
“There is one more thing, Your Highness. You know that I am acquainted with John Dee; indeed, we have been correspondents for some time. He has written to me from England because he is … concerned about the current tenor of the Duke of Northumberland’s household.”
Elizabeth had asked him to impress her; clearly Walsingham had taken that to mean going beyond his immediate surroundings in searching out intelligence. And it went right to the heart of the things she needed—but didn’t necessarily wish—to know. “What is the current tenor of the duke’s household?”
“Self-contained, even more so than usual. The Dudleys have always been an insular family, but Northumberland has not even attempted to return to court since the king arrested Guildford three months ago. For a man of his ambition, that is in itself unusual.”
“Perhaps he is merely showing an unexpected degree of common sense in allowing my brother’s anger to cool.”
Walsingham inclined his head in acknowledgment, but not agreement. “Dr. Dee writes that the household has played host this summer to a number of radical Protestant gentlemen. Gentlemen who have the ability to raise armed men if need be.”
“Are you telling me that the Duke of Northumberland is preparing to raise an army against the king?” This confirmed all her worst fears.
Why would Northumberland resort to soldiers if his only crime, as he claimed, was being too lenient with his son, Guildford?
This level of preparation and paranoia argued for his involvement in having brought down Norfolk.
Walsingham watched her neutrally, which goaded her into asking, “Do you have an opinion of this intelligence? Do I take the written statement of a single man as proof of Northumberland’s intentions? I will not be one of those women who trembles at every shadow of a possibility!”
“There is less danger in fearing too much than too little.”
Elizabeth studied Walsingham. Already she felt comfortable with him, to a degree she rarely did with most men.
His dark eyes seemed a window to his fervent desire to serve England and, more specifically, herself.
Waiting now for her to speak, Walsingham sat in perfect composure, his body still but giving the impression that he was ready to spring to action any moment—whatever action might be necessary.