The Duchess, Her Maid, the Groom & Their Lover. Victoria Janssen
to ride, but she could still venture out onto the palace’s high white walls and glimpse her horses from afar. Two weeks after Mistress Annette’s visit, she strolled there, her two eunuch guards trailing behind. Kaspar and Arno knew when she was not in the mood for conversation; this cool spring evening, they did not even speak quietly with each other.
The breeze from outside was sharper up on the walls, and she smelled a hint of rain mingled with the grass and manure of the paddocks below. She slipped into an embrasure, concealing herself from anyone’s view—anyone except her eunuchs, of course—and gazed toward the stable that held her mare, Guirlande, and all the others she’d spent so long cosseting, training and schooling.
The stableboy was riding Lilas, his body seemingly immobile atop her sleek back as she danced patterns into the loose dirt of the riding ring. Only his thick brown hair ruffled in the wind. Four years ago, the duke had forbidden her to ride, and since that day she had not been to the stables, nor near her horses, nor had she spoken to their keeper. But she had years ago watched the boy be trained to ride. She had ridden out with him, and she knew his posture and seat, even from this distance. Her Lilas was in good hands.
She wondered what he looked like now that he was closer to his man’s growth. She remembered big hands, lush eyelashes and an engaging, open smile. He would be almost twenty now, and might have changed a great deal. It occurred to her that he was half her age. If she had borne a child in the first years of her marriage to Michel, the stableboy was the right age to be her son.
Sylvie had reminded her that the stableboy’s eyes were blue. Like the duke’s.
Normally, she would watch until she had caught at least a glimpse of each of her horses, and perhaps drawn in her sketchbook, but this evening she turned away and strode toward her own wing of the palace. The wall’s stone felt cold beneath her thin slippers. Kaspar and Arno fell in behind her, their movements betrayed by the faintest chiming of their weapons; they followed her down the turret staircase, across a square of immaculate garden that replaced the old bare defensive area, and through enormous mahogany doors carved with the ducal arms, each door swung wide by a footman in the duke’s livery.
Camille led her eunuchs past the locked door of her audience room and through a hidden doorway. The narrow secondary corridor leading to her suite of rooms was thickly carpeted in blue and gold, an agreeable softness to her cold feet. Camille did not allow herself to slow and appreciate the softly patterned gold wallpaper, the candles muted behind colored glass or the paintings of horses that adorned the walls. Sylvie would have dismissed the rest of the staff by now, and they would have less than an hour of privacy.
Kaspar and Arno followed her through the outer rooms and into her bedchamber where Sylvie waited, perched on the edge of a spindly, decorative chair that Camille had never liked. “All is as you wished, madame,” Sylvie said, meaning that the suite was deserted but for the four of them.
For this meeting, they all should sit, Camille thought, for she asked more of her servants than duty. She looked to Kaspar and indicated the empty chairs. Kaspar grinned. “Perhaps not, Your Grace. I fear it would shatter beneath my weight.” He was taller than most and twice as broad. Leather straps crisscrossed his bare, hairless torso, supporting a knife sheath that nestled between his shoulder blades. The knife’s flat grip, she knew, had been etched and inlaid with silver filigree in her own crest. A short sword was strapped to each thigh atop his blue breeches, but those hilts were unadorned, wrapped in strips of dark blue suede.
Arno, the younger of the two eunuchs, said, “I would prefer to sit on the floor, Your Grace.”
“Very well,” Camille said. She took a chair. Even seated on the floor, the eunuchs were not so far below her and Sylvie. Once all were settled comfortably, she captured them with her eyes, giving each a smile. It was not only for herself and her own safety that she did this, but for theirs; it was only right that she pay them this respect. Then she said, “Of the men whom Sylvie has investigated, three were superior choices in terms of health, appearance and proximity to the palace.”
“Madame,” Sylvie said, “we could entice Lord Pierken from his estate. He has an interest in you.” Kaspar sent her a quelling glance, and she made a rude gesture at him.
“I fear not,” Camille said. “Remember, it’s planting season.” Also, Lord Pierken would not be content to simply impregnate her and depart. He would want something in return, more than she could give. She continued, “Of the three, Lord Gustave resembles Michel the most, physically. His temperament is not suitable, however. He is quick to take offense and convinced of his own importance. I dare not trust him to keep this secret. And he might require a longer-term liaison and a gift of political power in exchange for his seed, which I will not give.”
Sylvie asked, “And Lord Jon-Petite?”
“I fear he is too old,” Camille said reluctantly. “He has a son nearly thirty years old, and he has no other. He is my ally in the palace, it’s true, and it would be easier to arrange meetings with him, but if he cannot serve the purpose the effort will be wasted.” She had once considered him a friend, and though she rarely saw him anymore, she hated the thought of destroying their friendly relationship with her demand that he put himself in deadly danger to service her like a stallion. Also, she was not sure that Lord Jon-Petite’s scruples would allow him to betray her husband.
Sylvie said, “That leaves only the stableboy!”
Camille glanced to Kaspar, then Arno. Their expressions remained impassive. She said calmly, “You yourself brought him to my attention as a potential candidate. He is young and healthy, he has the necessary hair and eye color and his mother came from Michel’s homeland, so there is a superficial likeness of facial and body type. Best of all, he is loyal to me, yet will not feel entitled to interfere with my role as duchess. He is good with my horses. He is the best choice for this.”
“But—madame—he is a boy! Nineteen years old!”
“All the more likely he’s virile, then,” Camille said. “You will bring him to me as soon as possible. His name is Henri.” She swallowed the lump forming in her throat. Who was she to demand such a thing of him, when he’d given her nothing but loyalty? But if she did not do this, Michel would kill her, and she did not want to die.
“He will not understand the serious nature of this duty—”
“Sylvie, you will bring him to me.”
If Sylvie truly thought the boy would not serve the purpose, she would never have included him in her list. She stiffly bowed her head. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t pleased. She would obey. Later, she would see that Camille had made the wisest possible choice. She need not fear having to exchange political favors with a stableboy. And if he cared for her as he did for her horses, she did not think he could betray her.
“Kaspar and Arno,” Camille said, “this plan may fail. If it appears my imprisonment or execution is imminent, we must flee the palace. I rely on you both, and on you, Sylvie, to secure sufficient monies and supplies for a journey of some weeks. You three will accompany me. It is crucial that this activity be completely concealed from any in the palace or in the town.”
“It shall be done,” Kaspar said. “Where will we go?”
“We shall travel to the coastal protectorate, and there beg aid of Lord Maxime. He will keep us safe. He will not have forgotten that he and I grew up together, here in the palace.”
“Lord Maxime?” Arno blurted out. “Your Grace, he would like nothing better than to make the protectorate a duchy again! What better way than to harm you?”
Camille eyed him coldly. “Harming me would change nothing. It is my husband who will not free the protectorate,” she said. “He claims it is because my father conquered it and killed Maxime’s father, and it is his duty to care for the land and its people. But the duke wants only the protectorate’s income. Maxime will help me. Then we shall return here, and I will take what is mine.”
True, Maxime would want favors from her. He would not help her out of pure charity; for the sake of his