Twilight of a Queen

  The scavengers had already stripped away Abigail’s jewels, the silverplate, the tapestries, and much of the furniture. She and Abigail were fortunate to still have beds to rest upon, although the bed hangings were long gone.

  Most of the servants had decamped as well, only one of the footmen, Gerard, remained and the kitchen maid, Violette.

  Jane’s footsteps made a lonely echo on the marble tiled floors as she went to her cousin’s bedchamber. Abigail set up a plaintive wail as soon as Jane slipped into the room.

  “Oh, Jane, where have you been? It has taken you forever and my head feels fit to burst.”

  Abigail sat up in bed, her face as pinched and peevish as a querulous child, her dark brown hair in stark contrast to the delicate white lawn of her nightgown.

  Summoning up all her patience, Jane tiptoed over to her cousin. “You will be better presently, Abby But you must lie quiet.”

  She eased Abigail back down onto the pillows, placing the damp cloth steeped in lavender water over her eyes.

  Her cousin groaned. “Oh, I will never be well. You must send for Dr. Marchand. I need to be bled again.”

  Jane shuddered. After her time spent among the learned women of Faire Isle, she had come to regard the practice of bleeding as barbaric, as Ariane did.

  “That is the last thing you need. Dr. Marchand refuses to wait upon you again until his reckoning is paid. I think you would be much better off if you would allow me to crack the windows open and let in some fresh air.”

  “Fresh air?” Abigail shifted the compress to her brow so that she could peer reproachfully at Jane. “Are you trying to kill me? I do not know where you came by such strange notions.”

  “From the Lady of Faire Isle. She knows far more about healing than your Dr. Marchand.”

  “Have—have you truly become a witch yourself then, Jane?”

  “No. If I was, my dear cousin, I might be tempted to transform you into a more agreeable companion, like a kitten.”

  When Abigail gasped and shrank from her, Jane patted her hand. “I am only teasing you, Abby”

  “You never used to make such shocking jests.” Abigail drew her hand away. “Someone on that island has been a most wicked influence on you.”

  Yes, someone had, Jane reflected. An image rose to her mind of Xavier’s devilish smile and eyes that could be so teasing one minute, so warm the next.

  The vision was so strong it brought a bittersweet ache to her heart. She suppressed the remembrance as she tucked the coverlet more snugly about her cousin.

  Abigail pouted up at her. “And what do you mean, I am not agreeable? I am sure I cannot help being cross. I am so dreadfully ill, Jane.”

  “Yes, my dear, but you might be better if you would be sensible and take some nourishment, get out of bed. If you could but exert yourself a little—”

  “Exert myself? You would not suggest such a thing if you knew all that I suffered being wed to such a scoundrel as George Benton. But I could not expect you to understand. You were fortunate enough to have been married off to two respectable, worthy men.”

  “And yet here I am, quite as destitute as you.”

  “But that was your own fault, getting tangled up in treason plots and witchcraft,” Abigail retorted, but the next instant, she winced, groping for Jane’s hand.

  “I am sorry, Jane. I did not mean that. I am being disagreeable. But it is just too much, being abandoned by George, having those awful men take away all my pretty things, my tapestries, my jewels, even my best gowns. I am so miserable, I just want to die.” Tears flowed down Abigail’s cheeks.

  “Oh, hush, my dear.” Groping for her own handkerchief, Jane dried her cousin’s eyes.

  Abigail sniffed. “I am so grateful to have you here with me. You cannot know how much I have missed you.”

  No, she couldn’t, since Abby had scarce written a word to her during the entire time of her exile. But Jane patted her hand and thanked her for the sentiment.

  “Remember the night before your first wedding?” Abigail asked. “How I sneaked out of bed and into your room? How much fun we had, staying up until dawn, gossiping and giggling.”

  That was not exactly the way Jane recollected it. She had been heartsore, grieving over the babe she had so recently lost, frightened about her future prospects as wife to a boy as sullen as Richard Arkwright.

  But Abigail had been a welcome distraction. She had been such a sunny-natured little girl. It was sad to see so little trace of that bright, mischievous imp in the woman lying listlessly in this bed.

  “Strange, isn’t it?” Abigail said. “How different our lives turn out from the way we expect. It is good we have no knowledge of the trials and disappointments that lie ahead or we would never have the courage to face them.”

  Jane nodded in agreement, but she was astounded when Abigail added, “My life would have been so much more content if I would have been permitted to marry your brother.”

  “Ned?”

  Abigail smiled and sighed. “I realize I was a little older than he was, but nothing to signify. He was so handsome and so charming. I am sure I would have been happy as his wife. I was desperately fond of him.”

  Jane had loved her brother, but not enough to forget his faults as Abigail appeared to have done. With his penchant for gaming, combined with his reckless pursuit of alchemy, Ned would have made Abby a far worse husband than George.

  But Jane said nothing, holding Abigail’s hand and allowing her to mourn for her lost love. Perhaps because it was easier for Jane than thinking about her own.

  When Abigail drifted off to sleep, Jane almost regretted it. As wearying as Abigail’s fretfulness and demands for attention could be, at least it kept Jane’s own unhappy thoughts at bay.

  But as silence settled over the room, those thoughts crowded in upon her. She wandered over to one of the chamber’s tall windows. The room felt so close she longed to open the casement, but knew that it would only distress Abigail.

  Jane rested her head against the pane of glass, staring down into the garden below without really seeing it. Instead, she closed her eyes and pictured a ship, with the wind billowing its sails, skimming over the ocean, a dark-haired man striding across the decks. Where was Xavier now? Long gone from these shores, she was certain. The days that had elapsed since his departure from Faire Isle were more than enough time for him to be somewhere out in the vast reaches of the Atlantic, far away from her.

  Except that he wasn’t.

  A hail of pebbles rained against the window, startling her into opening her eyes. A cloaked figure stood below her in the garden, gazing upward. Xavier.

  Jane’s mouth fell open and she blinked, certain that the longings of her heart must have seized control of her mind. She had to be imagining this.

  But Xavier swept her a bow after that insouciant fashion that was uniquely his. He beckoned to her to come down to him.

  Jane sucked in a deep breath. As distraught as she had been over the way she and Xavier had parted, at least she had drawn some comfort from the thought he would be safe, far from Catherine de Medici’s grasp. Was the man completely mad to have risked coming to Paris?

  Stealing a nervous glance at her cousin, Jane assured herself that Abigail was still asleep. She raced from the bedchamber down the stairs and through the kitchens. The household’s remaining maidservant had nodded off, Violette’s cheek pillowed against the table. The poor girl was no doubt as worn down by Abigail’s fretful demands as Jane was.

  Jane slipped past her and out the kitchen door. The garden was little more than a small park, enclosed by a wrought iron fence, a series of trees and bushes shielding the expanse of lawn from the street beyond. The place looked peaceful, a shady arbor tucked beneath the late morning sun. And completely deserted.

  “Xavier?” she whispered, moving uncertainly toward the stone bench in the center of the garden.

  He seemed to spring at her out of nowhere. Jane was so startled, she nearly cried out, but h
is hand clamped down on her mouth.

  His mere touch, the feel of his calloused palm against her lips was almost enough to undo her. His right hand, she noted. His sling was gone, his arm healed.

  How could she have ever imagined him to be an illusion? There was nothing of the dream hero about this man, smelling of sweat, his clothes travel-stained, his jaw beard-roughened. He looked every inch the disreputable pirate he proclaimed himself to be. So solid, so warm, so real, she had to resist the urge to fling her arms about his neck and weep for joy.

  Prying his hand from her mouth, she squirmed away from him. Too overcome to speak, she could only regard him reproachfully.

  “Sorry,” he muttered. “I was only trying to prevent you from crying out.”

  “What are you doing here?” she interrupted, finding her voice at last. “Are you quite insane?”

  “Well, yes, but I am sure you always knew that. That at least is one thing I never concealed from you.”

  “What—how—” Her mind reeled. She scarce knew what to say. It seemed so impossible that he should be here, that they should even be having this conversation.

  “How—how did you know where to find me?” she finally managed to get out.

  “I admit it took me a day or two. But eventually all I had to do was follow the line of disgruntled merchants beating a path to your cousin’s door.” He frowned at her.

  “Blast you, woman! Why couldn’t you have listened to me and stayed on Faire Isle. And yet…” His tone softened. “Damn my selfish eyes, but I am glad to see you again.”

  He attempted to take her hand, but Jane whipped them both behind her back, out of his reach. “Well, I am not glad to see you. I hoped you were long gone, halfway around the world by now.”

  “Have you truly come to hate me that much?”

  “Hate you?” Jane choked. “If you could have any idea of the sleepless nights I have had, the nightmares w-worrying what might happen to you if you were caught. In London, they—they stake pirates to the banks of the Thames, leaving them to the mercy of the tides and—and the crabs.”

  “You need have no fear of that. The crabs would never have me. I am far too tough.”

  “Damn you! This is nothing to jest about.” Tears stung her eyes and she slammed her fists against his chest, all the worry, the heartache, the frustrated longings of the past fortnight boiling over.

  She staggered away from him, groaning. “Oh, what have you done to me? I never used to swear or strike anyone.”

  “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she admitted, but she refused to be drawn in by his smile. She sank down upon the garden bench. “Why are you here?” she demanded again.

  “I needed to see you, make sure you were all right, after the way I was obliged to leave you on Faire Isle, not knowing …” His gaze roved speculatively over her figure.

  “I am not with child, Xavier, if that is what you are still afraid of. My courses came not long after I left the island.”

  “Oh.”

  Jane was surprised to see something akin to disappointment flicker across his face. But the expression was gone so quickly she thought she must have imagined it.

  “Well—that is a huge relief,” he said. “All for the best.”

  “For the best,” Jane agreed hollowly.

  “Even if you are not with child, I still think it was foolhardy for you to make the journey to Paris.”

  “Foolhardy? Me?” Jane all but choked on her indignation. “I am not the one sauntering about Paris, in danger of being arrested at any moment.”

  “Neither am I.” A defensive look came over his face as he said, “I have been to see Queen Catherine and made my peace with her.”

  “You what?” Jane gasped.

  Xavier scowled, misinterpreting her horror. “Don’t look at me like that Jane. I didn’t do it by betraying Meg.”

  “I—I never thought—”

  “Didn’t you?” He arched one brow. “Far from betraying the girl, I believe I have persuaded the queen that Meg would be of little use to her schemes.”

  “But—but how?”

  “By practicing my own brand of magic. Unlike you, my dear, I am a very gifted liar.” Xavier’s lips twitched, his expression a trifle smug as he related his recent audience with Catherine.

  Another woman might have applauded his daring or admired his cunning. But Jane could only stare at him with mounting trepidation, especially when he added, “She wants me to call upon her again and perform another of my trances.”

  He shrugged. “I figure all I have to do is predict a long and glorious future for her if she forgets about the Silver Rose and places all her faith in the riches of La Florida—”

  “You mustn’t,” Jane cried, leaping up and clutching hold of his arm. “Xavier, please, I beg you. You must not go near her again.”

  Xavier rolled his eyes. “I know all of you women from Faire Isle have this fear of the Dark Queen, even my wise sister, Ariane. But whatever Catherine once was, she is now just a sick old woman. I might feel ashamed of taking such advantage of her if she wasn’t such a scheming witch.”

  “That’s just it! She is a witch and—and dangerous. You must not risk your life any further, not even for the sake of pursuing your far horizons.”

  “My far horizons,” he murmured, an odd expression darkening his eyes. “Yes, why else would I hazard my neck? Considering the way Catherine toyed with the lives of my mother and father, all the misery she wrought, I think she owes me a ship, don’t you?”

  Jane shook her head, pleading with him to be sensible, but he did not even appear to be listening to her. He crooked his fingers beneath her chin, examining her face.

  “You look far too pale and exhausted. This cousin of yours is draining the life from you.”

  “I am fine,” Jane said, pushing his hand away.

  “No, you aren’t. This city does not agree with you. You said that all you wanted was to find someplace safe, but believe me when I tell you, Paris is not that place.”

  “Not for you, perhaps,” she retorted.

  “Jane, you have to go back to Faire Isle. If you would but heed what I have to say—”

  “No, why should I when you ignore all of my warnings?” Jane tipped her chin to a defiant angle. “My cousin needs me. I have no intention of leaving Paris.”

  “Neither do I.” Xavier regarded her with a mingling of ruefulness and frustration. “Which brings us to a complete impasse, my dear.”

  Xavier raised her hand lightly to his lips and bid her a rather disgruntled farewell. Jane returned to the house, her mind in complete turmoil.

  Neither of them noticed the shadowy figure watching from just beyond the gate.

  The costly cut of her riding habit concealed beneath a plain cloak, Catherine peered into the garden. This morning, she had risked another swallow of Xavier’s miraculous elixir. Although her heart had raced alarmingly, she had felt strong, so much better. Enough to indulge herself in a pastime she had been obliged to abandon years ago.

  She had oft amused herself by riding out in disguise, to gauge the mood of the populace, garnering information she could not come by immured in her palace.

  When the groom had fetched her horse, she had had difficulty mounting, no longer the lithe young princess who had impressed even the jaded French court with her equestrian skills.

  It had taken two attendants to heft the bulk of her weight into the sidesaddle, and her joints had groaned in protest when she had curled her leg into the awkward position ladies were forced to adopt when riding.

  But she had forgotten all of that in her joy in being back in the saddle again. She would have loved to urge the mare into a canter but the crowded streets of Paris would not allow that. Besides, for her own safety, she must draw as little attention to herself as possible.

  So she had contented herself with plodding along between the two grooms who accompanied her, her striking features obscured beneath a dark veil.


  She had ridden past the inn where she knew Xavier was staying. She had formed no clear intention of spying upon the man, but when she had observed Xavier setting out upon some errand, the opportunity had been too good to lose.

  When he had clambered over the fence into this garden, curiosity and suspicion had overwhelmed her. Her guards had been startled by her command to halt. When she had insisted upon dismounting, they cast an uneasy look around and she knew they would have dissuaded her if they had dared.

  Commanding them to await her in a nearby alley, she had drawn near the secluded garden and peered cautiously between the bars of the fence.

  Now she almost regretted the decision. When she had set out riding from the Hôtel de la Reine, she had felt giddy, almost young again.

  But as she had watched the two lovers through the webbing of her veil, her gloved fingers gripped the iron rails of the fence. Lovers. Despite the tension between the pair, Catherine had no doubt that was what they were. This Jane person could not disguise her looks of longing, nor could Xavier suppress a certain tenderness in his voice. Although Catherine could not imagine what attraction this prim, pale Englishwoman could possess for him.

  Against her will, the years crept over Catherine again. Remembrance flooded back in a cruel rush of those long ago days when she would lie upon the floor of her bedchamber. Her eye pressed to the hole she had bored, she peered into the apartment below watching her husband make love to his mistress, the elegant Diane.

  Mon Dieu, Henry, Catherine had longed to cry out in her agony. Diane de Poitiers was nearly old enough to be his mother. How could Henry prefer this woman to his young adoring wife? Watching them together had proved a most exquisite torment to Catherine and yet she had been unable to help herself.

  She had lowered herself by such behavior, just as she was doing now, spying upon Xavier. And this time not for a king, the husband she had so blindly adored, but for a trickster, a miserable scum of a corsair.

  She sucked in a sharp breath between her teeth, wondering why Xavier’s treachery should pain her so. She had never fully trusted the man. But she was dismayed to realize that she had wanted to. It would have been a comfort for once to have one ally she could reply upon.