Fabien stepped in, smiling coolly. It took the barest of moments for Beatrice to gather her composure even as her mind raced. “Monsieur Marchal, I…I was so worried about you.”

“So was I,” said Fabien, closing the door behind him.

Beatrice stood to face Fabien. His arms were by his side and there was a shape that looked like a pistol beneath his buttoned coat. One eye was cool and clear, the other reddened like that of a devil. “You ran out while I was pouring water for you. I’ve been looking for you for two days.”

“I didn’t know where I was or what I was doing. As luck would have it, someone found me and took me to a doctor. I thought I’d been poisoned. But you were right. It was something I ate.”

“I’m gratified to hear that.” Beatrice felt her courage wavering, and it seemed that Fabien was well aware of her discomfort and pleased with it.

“After my recovery I had to go to Paris on behalf of His Majesty, and now I’m back and have come for my boots.”

“Of course.” Beatrice slipped behind the screen that divided the room, gathered Fabien’s boots, and snatched up a knife from the table. She tucked it into her belt behind her back and came back around the screen.

“I had them cleaned,” she said.

Fabien reached for the boots and for the briefest second she saw raw passion in his good eye, passion that could mean either sex or death.

“I’m glad you’re recovered,” she said.

“I bid you good day.” Fabien bowed and left Beatrice in her room, her legs trembling, her arms shaking.

The bathwater was warm and Philippe nearly at peace when the King entered his brother’s private chamber and ordered the chambermaid, who was washing Philippe’s shoulders, to put down the cloth and leave the room.

Philippe did not turn around but stared at Louis’ shadow on the wall. “She may not come back,” he said.

“She will, I know it. I trust her.”

“How simpler things would be for her if she waved farewell to life in a madhouse where two brothers were always at each other’s throats. Do you have any idea what sort of place you are creating?”

“I know you’re going to tell me.”

“Your palace of dreams is a haven for plotting, treachery, infidelity, and depravity. Did I miss anything?”

Louis stepped around the tub to face his brother. “It is on that subject that I came to see you. You’re angry that I sent your wife to England. She now has a purpose in life. You do not. I’m here to give you one.”

“Truly? What have you in mind?”

“Etiquette.”

Philippe scoffed. “Etiquette?”