Courtesan by Diane Haeger Page A

He understood her attentions toward the King, but her open flirtations with a minor military officer was offensive. The Admiral glared at the Captain hoping to convey his anger, but Nançay looked in the other direction.
    Jacques de Saint-André, the young man who stood beside Chabot, was tall and slim, with an angular jaw, pronounced cheekbones, and smoky sensitive eyes. His cropped blond hair seemed naturally to brush itself in a direction away from his face on which he had only recently grown a neat pointed beard. Costumed in a white satin doublet, puffed sleeves, gold brocade trunk hose and a plumed toque to match, he leaned casually against the casement of a long window. As Chabot fumed, Saint-André surveyed the ensemble of courtiers who slowly gathered in the various rooms of Mademoiselle d’Heilly’s apartments.
    “This is quite an ensemble,” he quipped, and took a sip of burgundy from a silver chalice. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this mysterious event?”
    Still unable to break his gaze from Anne, Philippe replied from the side of his mouth. “To incredibly good fortune, my boy. And if all goes as planned this evening, the pleasure will definitely be mine.”
    “Where is His Majesty, the King this evening?”
    “Gone to Chambord with Grand Master Montmorency, to receive the English ambassador.”
    “What a shame,” Saint-André said smugly, “that he will not be here for the. . .festivities.”
    He took another sip of wine and glanced around the room. That would be the extent of his inquiry. He intended to mind his own business, knowing that it was decidedly safer that way. But one thing was remarkable and highly suspect for a group of Anne d’Heilly’s usually eclectic friends. All of her guests were suspiciously young. So far, all except for Admiral Chabot.
    As Diane neared the wing which housed the apartments of Anne d’Heilly, she could hear noise and laughter much as she had her first night at Court. But this time, unlike the last, she was not late. Her invitation had been clear. Eight o’clock, and it was just that now. Her stomach tightened.
Perhaps I should have feigned illness,
she reconsidered.
    “Madame Diane! How good of you to come,” Anne d’Heilly called out and swept across the room toward her. “We were not certain you were coming. It was getting so late.”
    Though her instinct was to refute the lie, Diane bit her tongue. She would do her best not to give Anne the argument she obviously desired.
    “Please, make yourself comfortable. Try to mingle and meet some of the others. I do not believe you know anyone here; a difficult task, but not insurmountable,” she said before disappearing into a collection of her elegant guests.
    Diane took a goblet of hot spiced wine from one of the stewards and drank it quickly. At the very moment that she lowered the empty cup from her lips, Jacques de Montgommery drew near her from behind a group of ladies.
    “How wonderful to see you again,” he said with a bow, and then taking her hand in his own, kissed it politely.
    “You look much improved since we last met,” she replied with a crooked smile.
    “And you look magnificent as ever,” he returned, and tipped his plumed toque to her.
    “What a rogue you are, Captain. Always so quick to flatter.”
    “Not so much a rogue as I would like, I am afraid, since my manner results in nothing more than your avoidance of me.”
    “Not at all, Monsieur,” she laughed nervously, and tried her best to sound sincere. “I have just been feeling a little under the weather myself these last few days.” It was easier to lie than to tell him that, in truth, she had been reluctant to make herself visible since the incident on the staircase with the King’s mistress.
    “Well, now that you are well again, you must agree to go riding with me once we have arrived at Fontainebleau. Mind you, I shall not take ‘no’ for an answer this time, and I do promise to be ever the gentleman.” He smiled