“He sees me, my dear. And he is happy. And that is what divides us.”

“The only thing that unites us is division.”

“At least when your husband is gone, I’ll know where to find you.”

“If you come to my rooms I will not answer.”

“I would not think to seek you there. Just as I would not seek the King at the chambers of Her Majesty.”

Henriette, though shorter than Chevalier, lifted her chin definitely in an attempt to look down at him. “You imply much but say little.”

Chevalier stepped close, his voice like that of a snake. “I know how much you enjoy swimming. I might find you at the pool house, for example. I hear that is popular for young lovers of nature.” He reached out to fondle her curls and she slapped him away.

“You are warned, sir!”

Chevalier smiled a dark smile. “Constantly, my dear.”

The Queen stood at her window in her mourning gown, clutching her handkerchief and weeping. She had wept so long it amazed her there were still tears. But they were there, and they were plentiful. Her ladies sat nearby, silently sewing, embroidering, and reading.

The door swung open and the King entered, followed by Bontemps. Marie-Therese looked over with blood-shot eyes and managed a curtsey.

“How is my Queen?”

“Much better, thank you.” Her throat was sore, her words raspy.

“Change your clothes. The season for mourning is passed. It is time to resume your official duties.”

“Yes, Sire.”

Louis stepped to the window and looked out across the gardens to the road. “We are to receive a guest at court. You are to host them personally. Shower your attentions on them with your customary warmth and grace.”

Marie-Therese blinked. “Who is this person, so I might prepare myself? Are they Spanish, perhaps?” Louis gave her a sharp look. “You have my word,” she muttered.

“I will depend on it.”

Before she could say more or plead for a fragment of his time and tenderness, he was gone.

Montcourt wiped snot and rain from his face, gathered his resolve, and pounded on the door of the great and ominous Chateau Cassel. Rain had made night of day, and everything from grasses to trees appeared as gray as cold ash in a fire pit. He knocked again, desperately, harder, as the rain pounded him. At last the door was opened.

He begged to be let in.

An hour later, Montcourt was seated on a low stool before a crackling fire, dressed in a clean shirt and trousers, the stubble on his face being shaved away by a footman with a sharp razor. In the darkness beyond the reach of the firelight, two brawny thugs named Mike and Tomas stood watching. There was no sound but the fire popping, the scraping razor, and the heavy rains outside.