It was also supremely exciting.
* * *
In person, in casual and intimate discourse, Mazarini found Anne of Austria quite a charming woman. The queen of France was now entering the eighteenth year of her marriage to King Louis XIII—a marriage that had taken place when she and her spouse had been merely fourteen years of age. By all accounts, the marriage was one of name only, and always had been.
Anne of Austria seemed to find Mazarini equally charming. Not surprising, really. In addition to his fluency in her native tongue, Mazarini was charming—as one would expect from a man who, despite being a year younger than the queen, was already a top diplomat in the service of the papacy. He was even—or so he had been told—fairly handsome.
So.
On his way back to his domicile after the levee, Mazarini had time to reflect on the full dimensions of Richelieu’s offer. That the cardinal would wish to discreetly arrange an affair between a new protégé and Anne of Austria made perfect sense, of course—at least, a protégé intended for the highest honors. The marriage between Anne and Louis was childless and likely to remain so. In the absence of an heir, that meant the line of succession passed to the king’s younger brother, the duc d’Orleans, better known simply as “Monsieur Gaston.” And should Gaston ever ascend to the throne . . .
No one had any doubt at all that the first act of the new king would be to send Richelieu to the executioner. Monsieur Gaston was a thoroughly treacherous schemer who had proved willing to ally with anybody to advance his designs upon the throne. Rebellious nobles, foreign enemies, anybody. That he had so far failed—quite miserably—was due to Richelieu’s opposition and the cardinal’s far greater skill in the savage infighting of French politics.
So.
Chapter 2
“Bonsoir, Monsignor.” The servant seemed nervous as he took Mazarini’s coat.
Mazarini’s fatigue-blurred mind was still alert, despite an evening of glitter and repartee that had tired him more than a week’s riding. He nodded acknowledgement of the servant’s greeting. “Is something wrong?”
“Monsignor?” The question was in an almost affronted tone.
Mazarini had not yet learned the names of all the servants at the maison Chavigny—come to that, he had not seen all of them yet—but they were generally a lively lot, less cowed than most. Something was definitely up with this one; his manner went beyond the usual scraping of the servants that so annoyed Harry. “Is Monsieur le Comte at home?”
“Non, Monsignor. He is with Monsieur le Vicomte de Turenne.”
That would be the younger Tour de l’Auvergne, the elder being largely out of Paris these days, while the younger basked in the sudden favor of the king and Richelieu.
“Monsieur Lefferts has passed the evening in your chambers,” the servant finished.
Mazarini was not surprised. Harry was set to depart in the morning, and had decided to take an evening’s rest. He needed it. Rome had had its high spots for Harry, but Paris, to any young man with dash and money and a hint of the exotic was a city that opened its . . . arms.
Mazarini smiled slightly at the thought of what he had all but left behind, middle-aged before his time. “I shall retire, then. Have something brought to me in my chambers. I shall take supper before my bed.”
“Very good, Monsignor.”
Mazarini walked up alone. Now that he thought about it, the house seemed entirely normal. Even with its owner out for the evening, the place was home to dozens of servants. Only in the very small hours was it free from the tick and rustle of people distantly going about life and work. Those sounds—for all that there seemed to be no one around—were still there, muted to their night-time level.
He paused at the door of the apartment that the comte had given to him and Harry for their residence while in the city. “Harry?” he called. The room—the first, a salon—was lit only by the dim glow of red embers. “Harry?” he called again, feeling slightly foolish.
He looked to either side. The corridor was well lit. Lamps, and a chandelier over the stairwell. That was not normal, the risk of fire usually caused all lamps to be doused by this hour. He suddenly realized that standing in the doorway—