“Madame de Clermont,” said the shadowed man, his arm rising like a dark, accusatory wing, “you tried to poison the King, without our say-so and without success. No, we will first seek to force him from power. Our ally William of Orange grows stronger by the day. He will give us the money and men we need to strengthen our position, to buy friends and influence. Go now. When the time is ripe, each of you will be given a list of people at court susceptible to persuasion.”

“Where is Chevalier?” asked Beatrice.

“He was caught and is in prison, charged with treason.”

Cassel grimaced. “What is to stop him from talking?”

“Fear.”

The nobles exchanged glances then turned back toward the door. As they filed out, stepping over several snakes making their way back in, Montcourt crouched against the wall and waited. As the unseen man moved off into a side room, Montcourt sneaked along the splintering floorboards and held low beside the door, listening in.

“I don’t trust that woman,” said the unseen man to another in the room.

“Concentrate on your own duties,” said the other.

Montcourt peered cautiously around the door. There was faint daylight filtering through the broken walls. He saw the face of the one who’d addressed the nobles and he stifled a gasp. It was Mike, the thug with whom Montcourt had robbed and killed under Cassel’s direction. Montcourt could not see the face of the other man who was seated at a table with his back to the door.

“At what time does the convoy leave?” Mike asked.

“Shortly after dawn. She’ll be accompanied by six armed guards on horseback and two bodyguards inside the carriage. They’ll be joined by a second convoy at Marly.”

Mike chuckled darkly. “I’ll kill her in the forest, then. I know the perfect spot.”

“I’ve told William of Orange that once she’s dead, we must strike swiftly. We’ll need men and weapons.”

“You trust him?”

The man put his left hand on the table and his little finger began tapping an arrhythmic staccato. Then he said, “Yes. Our enemies may differ, but our means are the same.”

Montcourt eased back to the front door and hurried across the field to his horse.

Dressed in her finest silk gown, Henriette was escorted from her apartment to the King’s private chambers by Bontemps. Philippe followed them up the corridor, anxious as to the summons, pressing for answers.

“I’m her husband,” he demanded as they reached the King’s door and a guard opened it. “I have the right to know!”

Bontemps ignored him.

“He’ll be plotting something, of that we can be sure,” said Philippe. “So let me do the talking.”

Bontemps stood back, allowing Henriette to enter first. “The King will talk to Her Highness alone.” Then Bontemps followed Henriette inside and shut the door.