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 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 gorgeous.”
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.”
“You’ve heard correctly,” Rose admitted, unsurprised. Why should this stranger be the only soul at court who didn’t know?
“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’m looking 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 whore? I was born to be a whore, so I hold that I’ve done quite well for myself. 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 at Louise. “Does the Duchess of Portsmouth have a black eye?”
Nell nodded. “An unfortunate accident, she calls it. But I overheard two ladies saying she’d done it deliberately, to make her pale skin darker like the Duchess Mazarin.”
To judge from her braying laughter, the Duchess Mazarin thought that a fine jest.
“Lady Rose.”
Rose turned to see the Duke of Bridgewater. “Your grace! I was wondering if you’d attend tonight.”
“You look as though you’ve been having a fine time without me.”
His tone implied he was less than thrilled to find her socializing with two of Charles’s mistresses. And now that she thought on it, Rose was a bit scandalized herself. But the truth was she felt more comfortable with these women than she did with most of the people here at court.
Gabriel was the exception, though. Other than proving a tad more amorous than she’d prefer, he’d been the perfect gentleman. “I’m glad you came,” she told him, meaning it.
He drew her a safe distance away. “Where are your earrings?”
She knew she should have worn them. “I adore them, your grace, but they didn’t match my gown.”
“Well, then, these should match whatever you choose to wear.” He fished a tiny silk pouch from his pocket. “A token of my esteem, my lady.”
Rose drew open the drawstring and poured a pair of diamond drops into her hand. The stones winked in the torchlight. “Your grace! They are beautiful!”
She should have known he would come up with something to outshine all those other men.
“I’m pleased that you like them,” he said, moving close to fasten them on her ears. “Would you care to dance?”
FORTY-EIGHT
“ROSSLYN.” KIT looked up from the sketch he was making of Rose and quickly flipped it over. “What brings you here tonight?”
The earl
