Rose felt her eyes widening. “Oh,” was all she could think of to say, before quickly changing the subject. “Will there be gaming tonight?”
“Of course. And tomorrow night, there will be a masked ball.”
“Gemini! Whatever shall I wear?”
“Not everyone wears a costume. Just a mask will do, although I suspect you’ll find some of the garb amusing.”
Rose’s mind turned to the gowns she and Mum had brought and what she could possibly create from them. Maybe if she concealed her identity well enough, she’d have an evening free from being questioned about I Sonetti. She watched absently as a beautiful woman walked in and made her curtsy before the king.
Or rather, her bow.
Rose blinked. “Whoever is that?” she asked, staring. Though the tall woman was dressed in silks and satins, the sumptuous turquoise apparel wasn’t a lady’s. “It’s a Cavalier’s suit she wears! She must think the masked ball is today instead of tomorrow.”
“I think not.” Nell chuckled. “I gather you have yet to meet Hortense Mancini, the Duchess Mazarin?”
“That’s the duchess?” Rose had never seen a woman dressed like a man, but the effect was stunning. A jeweled sword dangled from her belt, and a dark little Moorish boy dressed to match trotted beside her, completing the bizarre picture.
“Are you not jealous of her?” Rose asked candidly, knowing the Duchess Mazarin was yet another of the king’s mistresses.
Nell gave a good-natured shrug. “She has Charles’s attention for the moment, but when all is said and done, he will always come searching for my bed. For I love him, and I don’t believe the lovely Hortense has it in her to love anyone. She has a brilliant mind, but beneath it she’s colder than the Thames in January.”
Rose slanted a glance to Louise de Kéroualle, who was watching Hortense and glowering. “It seems the Duchess of Portsmouth doesn’t share your lack of concern.”
“She has something to fret about,” Nell said with a saucy grin. Taking Rose by the arm, she started toward the Duchess Mazarin. “Louise is a passing fancy for Charles as well, and the coming of Hortense may well mean the end of her reign. Even a king can spread himself only so thin,” she added with a laugh.
“Why does King Charles like either of them?” Rose wondered aloud.
“He’s a man,” Nell told her with another shrug. “His head is turned by a pretty face. Louise is a beauty, and as for Hortense, you must agree she’s extraordinary.”
Drawing closer to the duchess’s rare loveliness, Rose could only nod. Waist-length raven hair framed Hortense’s perfect face. Her flawless Mediterranean skin set off large violet eyes that seemed to change color as she moved.
Nell lowered her voice. “Charles fancied himself in love with her years ago, while she was but fifteen and he still in exile on the Continent. He proposed to her twice. But she thought his prospects poor, and more importantly, so did her guardian, the Cardinal Mazarin. If either had foreseen that Charles would someday regain his crown, today she’d be a queen. Instead, she’s forced to live off her keepers.”
They drew up before the duchess just as she sent her little Moorish boy off to fetch refreshment. As the child trotted away obediently, Nell swept Hortense a theatrical curtsy. “Your grace, may I present Lady Rose Ashcroft, the Earl of Trentingham’s daughter. Lady Rose, this is Hortense, the Duchess Mazarin.”
“Lady Rose. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” The duchess’s accent was melodious, an intriguing mixture of her native Italian and the many years she’d spent in France. “I’ve been told,” she added, raising one arched black brow, “that you’re in possession of a rare copy of I Sonetti.”
“I’m afraid your intelligence is out of date.” Rose pursed her lips. Why should this stranger be the only soul at court—besides, fate willing, Chrystabel Trentingham—who hadn’t heard? “I translated some of the book, but I no longer possess it.”
“Then you speak Italian?”
“Among other languages.” After saying that without thinking, Rose glanced quickly around and was relieved to see that Gabriel still hadn’t appeared.
“An intellectual!” Hortense exclaimed with such enthusiasm Rose half expected her to clap her hands. “You must come to my salon, then.”
“Your salon?”
“A weekly gathering of great minds in my apartments at St. James’s Palace. We discuss all manner of subjects. Philosophy, religion, history, music, art, ancient and modern literature…”
It sounded like something Violet would love, but Rose didn’t share her sister’s passion for scholarly debate. Not to mention she suspected the Duke of Bridgewater would find it a bore. Still, it wouldn’t do to snub a duchess. “Perhaps someday I’ll join you,” she said.
“I look forward to it,” Hortense said as her little Moor returned with a cup of steaming coffee. “Why, thank you, Mustapha.” She patted him on the head, prompting a smile. His teeth looked very large and white in his dark face as he reclaimed his post by her side.
As she sipped, Hortense’s gaze strayed to Louise de Kéroualle. “Look at her,” she said to Nell with a roll of her amazing eyes. “She’s wearing black again.”
Rose looked, too. Louise’s gown was exquisite, but clearly meant to convey grief. “Why black?”
Nell snorted as only Nell could snort. “That hoity-toity French duchess sets up to be of superior quality. If you listen to her, everyone of rank in France is her cousin. The moment some grand lord or lady over there dies, she orders a new mourning gown.”
“Who died?” Rose asked.
“Doubtless some minor prince.” Nell set one of her small hands upon a curvy hip. “I wonder, I do, if Louise is of such high station, why is she such a trollop? I was born to a trollop, so I hold that I’ve done as one might expect. But she was reared to be a lady—don’t you think she should blush in shame?”
Hortense laughed at that, and her laughter was no feminine tinkle. It did her outfit rather proud.
Rose glanced again
