As expected, our Miracle Madeira is the toast of the party. Everyone is wrangling for a cup. The Vicomtess d’Auvergne guards the wine supply like a prison planet death row guard; she has already threatened courtiers she has deemed unworthy of sampling the wares with severe maiming several times.
The unworthy designation seems to be reserved for anyone below the rank of duke or duchess. This goes over like a boulder in an avalanche when Lady Anne’s father, the Earl of Wiltshire—not immediately recognized by the Vicomtess—is turned away like a commoner as he reaches for a goblet. Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk, guffaws at the snub; he despises Thomas Boleyn.
“Heads up,” I say as Lady Anne excuses herself from the head table, followed by her ladies, including Mary. “Looks like the real show is about to begin.”
With a grand flourish, King Henry announces a special treat for the French king and, with a nod to the English musicians assembled on the far side of the banquet hall, music begins to play.
Seven masked female dancers, all clothed in crimson and gold, glide into the hall and begin to dance. The ladies choose male partners from the audience. Though masked, I can tell Lady Anne from the rest because she’s the one who leads King Francois to the dance floor.
The French king is bewitched by the enchantress, but I can’t tell if he is ignorant that it’s Anne behind the mask or if he’s just playing along. Their dance is seductive enough to elicit gasps from the pious courtiers in the crowd. In one move, Francois pulls Anne into his arms and, twirling, lifts her into the air. He buries his nose into her midsection before setting her down again.
Fagin, drink in hand, appears next to me. “The minute Mary Boleyn gets off the dance floor,” she says, “put yourself in her path.” She grips my forearm. I don’t think she realizes how tightly she’s holding me until I wince and glance down at my arm. She blinks, then releases me with a loud exhale. Her eyes look tired. Almost as an afterthought, she strokes my cheek. “We’re all counting on you.”
King Henry moves toward the dance floor. He steps behind Anne and, with a grand flourish, snatches her mask away, revealing her identity. Francois seems thoroughly surprised and throws his head back, roaring with a hearty laugh. He brings her gloved hand to his lips, then with a wave invites everyone to dance. As the floor fills with people, Mary Boleyn slips quietly away from the crowd, headed toward the windows at the other end of the hall. I grab two wine glasses filled with Miracle Madeira and follow.
Before I reach her, she’s intercepted by three men who surround her like foxes circling a prize hen. They’re as exquisitely dressed and bejeweled as the Botticelli girls, which means they’re high-ranking and important. They’re also supremely drunk and more than a little rowdy.
At first, Mary seems happy for the attention, enjoying their flirtatious overtures like a cat playing with a toy. They’re polite enough at first, but they move to sandwich her between them and begin pawing at her.
The first man, clothed in a fur-trimmed cloak, smells of onions and beer. The second, a short and crusty fellow in a plumed hat nearly as tall as he is, presses himself against Mary. He must smell equally as bad because no matter which direction Mary turns, she looks barely able to control her gag reflex. A third man, a sinister-looking rogue with a wide, thick scar running the length of his right cheek has his nose buried in her hair.
Their hands are everywhere, seemingly intent on fondling as much of her as possible in the shortest amount of time, and nobody else in the room seems to notice. It triggers a sick flash of a long-buried memories, off being similarly ambushed by two of Captain Bartholomew’s crew. Bartholomew had intervened before the assault progressed too far, but only because it would cost him money if he had to replace me.
Mary’s eyes flash in helpless shock, confirmation she’s not a willing participant in this affair. I discard the wine glasses on the nearest table, then press myself between her and the man in fur, slipping a hand beneath his cloak to stroke him. “Sir,” I say, purring in my most alluring tone, “wouldn’t you rather have me?”
He shudders in response. “Mademoiselle, you look ravishing tonight,” he says. If he were any closer to me, he’d be inside my gown. “Perhaps you can join us as we entertain Mademoiselle Boleyn.”
Sometimes I revel in the raw power that a single touch can have over a target. With every smile, every gesture and tilt of the head, or brush of my hand, I can usually get anyone to crave more of me. If I play my cards right, I control the room and can steal whatever I like with little interference.
My goal now isn’t to seduce or tease. I want to send this asshole a message and make Mary Boleyn obliged to me. Two birds. One stone.
The gentle, tantalizing squeeze tightens into a vise grip on one testicle trapped in my right palm. The man groans, face contorted in agony. He trembles, and I release him as he drops to his knees. He remains on the floor, panting and cradling his balls like they’re as fragile as glass.
Scar Face glowers at me and takes a menacing step forward. I stop him with a demure smile and a not so subtle threat. “It would be unwise to draw the English king’s ire for abusing his future sister-in-law in such a disgusting manner. One scream from me and the full weight of the English court falls on you.”
The man in the plumed hat gasps. Recognition dawning,
