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The prequel to Sinners' Opera is on the back burner while I finish the sequel, Sinners' Obsession. This is the beginning of the first chapter. Please let me know if you think it is intriguing!Chapter 1 - 1659
Light danced on
gold and silver, ruby, emerald and diamond.
I glanced at my
companion in adventure. Conroy had slid
another inch in his determined collapse beneath the table. I had drunk more than my share of the
French’s wine as well. On a dais, at the
head table, Cardinal Marazin, effective ruler of the country, and Queen Anne
looked down on the pecuniary English.
Beside his mother, the young King Louis' place was vacant.
Our station at
dinner reflected our status at court.
Five years ago, when Cardinal Mazarin dangled full payment of Charles'
French pension before his eyes—with the condition that he leave France within
ten days—the destitute King of England accepted. Mazarin was preparing for an alliance the
French hoped to complete with the usurper Cromwell.
Charles put his
coach horses to a light cart and, with his ragged retinue, departed on
horseback. We became a wandering court
with our wandering prince—grand tour, beggar-style.
Queen Henrietta
Maria had assured us places in the marble walled, glass chandeliered dining
hall with the French royal family and aristocracy. Golden arches swept to the painted
ceiling. After Antwerp, the opulence of
the French court overwhelmed the senses.
The food and wine were excellent, and the scenery a reminder of bygone
days. Perfumed women in the latest Paris
fashions teased the eye, but I was a poor relation at best and had learned my
begrudging fate—until my King was restored to the throne and my properties restored
to me, I had few prospects among women of my own class.
A lute
accompanied the meat course, duck in orange sauce. Footmen in gold and white brocade refilled a
Venetian glass and grief—for all that Cromwell had stolen from me—gnawed at my
heart. While the man filled my friend’s
glass, my gaze wandered to a handsome woman displaying her ivory breasts in a
low cut gown the color of the wine. She
was older than I, perhaps even forty, but passion shown in the dark eyes that
held me prisoner. I would have liked to
slide my hand beneath her petticoats, up her leg, untie her garter and slowly
guide her hose down her legs. Having
been celibate for over a fortnight, I was up for bed sport. The Madame smiled as if I’d voiced my lusty
thoughts. I winked, and she sucked her
lower lip into her mouth. A man paused
with his glass halfway to his mouth to frown at me. She laughed and kissed the tangy sauce from
her middle finger. My cock tingled at
images of her pink tongue licking other appendages. Her husband gestured, reclaiming her
attention, and I returned to my food.
Conroy and I
were doing an admirable job of celebrating our recent success.
I leaned near my
befuddled comrade to make an astute observation, and one of his hazel eyes
drifted open. "Civil war has its
disadvantages, don't you think?"
Conroy frowned,
favored me with a grave nod, and wiped the bread sauce from the corner of his
mouth. “Poverty chief amongst them,
D’Arcy.”
I dipped fine
white bread into sumptuous red gravy.
“Conroy, our reward for saving the King's son is fowl and grape. Savor your dinner. Soon, we return to the spartan existence in
the Spanish Netherlands.”
Conroy
grunted. “Cute little fellow. Looks like his father.”
“Nonsense. Crofts looks like his mother.” I laughed, stabbing the bird with my
knife. “Or do you mean the duck?”
“I don't think
Crofts looks like a duck.” Conroy
frowned, shaking his head.
I bit the lower
lip of a smile, resisted laughing at my friend’s serious expression. The hair at my nape quivered, and I sensed
someone staring at me. A young footman
in his uniform of gold and white brocade stared an open invitation at me. His checks were rosy, his lips sensual. In fact, he was pretty as a girl, but I was
not up for that!
“We did it,
D'Arcy.” Conroy pounded my back,
sloshing the wine in my hand. “And it
was so easy. We simply danced in and
swept Mrs. Walter off her feet. So
easy.”
I glanced at the
Royal table. The young king's chair remained
empty.
“Easy for you,
perhaps.” I cut another slither of
duck. “I narrowly escaped with my tarse
intact.”
“You didn't shag
Mrs. Walters, did you?” Conroy draped an
arm around my neck and pressed his face close to mine. “The King warned you not to dally with her. She has the French pox, you know.”
A recorder
joined the lute, and three dancers took the floor. They bowed, yet the petite one in hose and
embroidered satin doublet was undoubtedly a woman. Elaborate curls framed a delicate oval face,
her blue eyes doe-like.
Lucy Walter had
such eyes.
Two
months ago, Charles II, the rightful ruler of England, dispatched us to France, our mission to steal his
illegitimate son.
