Eat the Poor

XIX

Two hours later, the King was in his Council meeting and I was strolling down the east hall of the royal castle.

The rooms had been allotted to the French guests - the Duc de Montpensier and his family, as well as over a dozen of his friends, servants, and courtesans to optimize his stay in London.

Tucked into my vest was a small piece of parchment, on which Philip had expressed his excitement to see Lady Montpensier.

It seemed quite simple in concept, but nothing the royals did was simple.

At the sound of light, feminine laughter I stopped to peer inside an open door. Two maids squeezed through the doorway, one entering and one leaving, murmuring an apology as they bumped together. The girl on her way out paused when she saw me and dipped into a curtsey.

I was taken aback. Then I remembered I was freshly washed and dressed in the Lord Chamberlain's clothes.

All that was missing was a wig on my head.

Inside the room, the Duke's daughter sat at her vanity. The sides of the mirror were angled towards her so she could see every inch of her face as the maids powdered and rouged it.

Beside her, the Marquis de Montpensier rifled through a pile of corsets on the sofa and crinkled his brow in disapproval. "Ugly... ugly... hideous..."

My eyes swept back to Henriette.

She was breathtakingly beautiful, with long golden ringlets and full lashes that framed her bright eyes. She had an effortless grace about her, a soft, warm beauty like the goddess Aphrodite.

The Marquis pranced over to the door. The powder and fake moles on his face did little to hide his bruised and swollen lip. I stiffened as an image of him lying limp in the hay flashed through my mind.

"Ladies only," he said snarkily, gripping the door to swing it closed. He stopped suddenly as our eyes met. "Mon Dieu. It's you."

The girl turned her head, causing her pearl earrings to sway gently. "Who is at the door, brother?"

His lips curved into a sneer. "It's the fucking horse boy."

Henriette clutched the back of her chair. "The stable master?"

"No, the-" The Marquis waved a hand in my direction. "Him."

"Oh." Her face fell.

"Sorry to disappoint, m'Lady." I took a cautious step into the room. "Might I offer you something to lift your mood?" With an inviting smile, I pulled the parchment from my vest. "A letter from His Majesty himself."

"A letter?" Her brows knitted together. "Francisca, go and fetch it, please."

One of the maids left the vanity and walked across the room to me. She had almond skin that shone with some kind of oily product and eyes like a doe. She let out a giggle as I handed over the parchment.

I smiled crookedly in return, unsure if she liked me or was mocking me for something.

The Marquis' blue eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why would a stable boy be delivering letters?" he murmured. "Is that not the job of a page?"

Even with his bruised face, I couldn't deny how gorgeous the boy was. He wasn't big and strong like Geoff or soft and angelic like Philip. He had sharp cheekbones, small lips in a perpetual pout, and an aquiline nose. But something about him - those eyes perhaps - drew me in.

I thought about what Philip had told me. He is a deviant, they say.

"I'm very versatile," I said casually. "Sometimes I'm a page, sometimes I'm a stable hand, sometimes I go to luncheons and try to spill wine on annoying Frenchmen." I licked my lips. "I could even, you know, be a valet if someone wanted."