“You honor me, madam. The gift of Master Holbein’s limning was generous enough.” I run my fingers over the locket around my neck. Anne frowns at me. “Joining your family would be...” I’m trying to think of a better word than loathsome. “A greater honor than I deserve.”
“It would also be quite scandalous,” King Henry scoots his chair back a few inches, so he can see me. His smile is mischievous. He seems to enjoy stirring the pot. “Think of it. A French woman as my sister. Francois would be steeped in agony at the prospect of French blood so close to the throne of England and, yet, it’s not his own.”
“Don’t tease sweet Clémence, my love. We must keep her as our friend even though she cannot be our sister. You still have your limning,” Anne says, staring at my locket. “The portrait is not meant to keep, dear one. It’s meant to give away. How can you do that if there is no one to give it to?”
“One day, I may find someone who is worthy of it. Does the king have your limning in his keeping?”
Before she can answer, King Henry distracts Anne with a conspiratorial stage whisper. “If we are to make her happy, and keep her at court, then she must have a husband.”
“Oh... Ohhh. I thank your majesty, but it’s not necessary.” The king gapes at me like I’ve just thrown a rare diamond back in his face. Think fast. Think fast. Think fast. “Forgive me, sir. I have no thoughts for my own advancement, only desires to serve your majesties.”
“Nice save,” Nico says. “And, if I’m not mistaken, that was strike one on finding this damn portrait.”
Slightly mollified that my profession of loyal servitude is the reason for the refusal, his face softens. He leans toward the other end of the table and whispers something to a steward who scuttles off to do whatever it is the king has commanded. He leans back in his seat and returns to me. “You would be the first in history to ignore your own elevation, mademoiselle.” he says. “Still, you should not deny yourself the pleasures of our court whilst here.”
“I find pleasure in my lady’s company, sire,” I say. “And in the company of other ladies who attend her.”
“By Saint George,” the king says, laughter crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Do you have the perfect answer for everything I say?”
His gaze flits over my body, lingering on my décolletage a few seconds longer than necessary. His lips part just a smidge before capturing his lower lip between his teeth. When he raises his attention to my face, there’s a flash of lust.
Oh.
His greed dissolves as quickly as it sprang up—good thing, too, because Anne is sitting less than a foot away from him—but for a moment, it was there.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” I smile back. “I do.”
Across the room, a phantom violin begins to play a lively tune. The source of the music, hidden from view by the throngs of attendees, moves through the crowd, growing louder the closer it gets. In front of the dais, the crowd parts like Moses himself is commanding them. Through the gap, the musician appears.
Tall, lean, and scruffily bearded, he beams at Lady Anne, who squeals and claps in the time with the country dance rhythm.
“That’s Mark Smeaton,” Nico says. “Musician and Hang on, I’ll pull up his file.”
Lady Anne jumps to her feet, grabs me by the wrist, and pulls me onto the long, narrow dance floor space in the middle of the hall. Elegant courtiers dance around me in a rainbow swirl of damask, silk taffeta, and velvet. “You will enjoy yourself. I command it,” she says, pushing me into a set of strong arms and, suddenly, I’m being whirled around the floor.
I look up into the face of my partner, and it’s Anne’s brother, George.
Merde. No easy way to get out of this without causing offense.
These English dance patterns are confusing. Boleyn turns left when he’s supposed to turn right. He pulls me forward when it looks like he should circle around me. He causes me to stumble more than once.
Fagin joins the dance and maneuvers next to me. “What are you doing?” she asks with a tight smile. If she clenches her teeth any harder, she might snap a molar in two.
“What does it look like? I’m dancing.”
“Smartass.” She circles to the right with her partner, and on the next pass in my direction, she leans in again. “We don’t have time for this.”
“Can’t do much without more intel,” I say. It would be trouble to rummage through the royal apartments with zero idea of where the limning might be kept.
Mark changes tunes and tempos, and Lady Anne leads the revelers through the choreography filled with complicated kicks and skips and leaps. I kick George in the shins twice and he smiles through gritted teeth.
“You call that dancing?” Nico says with a snicker. “Looks like you’re wrestling him for the best two out of three.”
“Fuck off,” I say under my breath.
“Is that an invitation, mademoiselle?” George says with his trademark sliminess. He pulls me into him, and gives my right boob a vigorous squeeze.
“Sir, you are too bold,” I say, prying his fingers from my chest.
“But, you said—”
“I’m French. I say a lot of things.”
“When this is all over,” Nico says, his voice is rich and seductive in my ear. “We’ll take a trip to 1943, and I’ll teach you to Lindy Hop. I won a dance marathon at an officer’s club once. If anyone can teach you to dance, it’s me.”
“My dancing isn’t that bad.”
“Yes, my love. It is.”
A tall, elegant man with tousled, sandy-colored hair moves between us, forcing George to step back or be stepped on. “Mademoiselle Clémence,
