The King's Courtesan Read online

  Praise for works by

  JUDITH JAMES

  “Fueled by sizzling sensuality and sharp wit, James’

  refreshingly different historical deftly re-creates the glittering, colorful court of Charles I while also delivering an unforgettable love story.”

  — Booklist, starred review, on Libertine’s Kiss

  “James’ unusual love story is one of emotional impact….

  Readers wil find this poignant love story enthral ing and unforgettable.”

  — RT Book Reviews on Libertine’s Kiss

  “Judith James fearlessly bursts through the ceiling of the historical romance genre and soars to astounding heights.

  Her writing is intriguing, daring, exquisitely dark, and emotional y riveting.”

  — USA TODAY bestsel ing author Julianne MacLean

  “Sarah and Gabriel’s heart-wrenching struggle to keep their love alive…wil real y keep readers entranced throughout

  this epic read.”

  — Publishers Weekly on Broken Wing Also available from

  Judith James

  and HQN Books

  Libertine’s Kiss

  The King’s Courtesan

  JUDITH J AMES

  Acknowledgments

  My thanks go to my editor, Ann Leslie Tuttle, for bringing calm during the storm (literal y) and for bending over backward to give me the time so I could do what needed to be done. I would have been lost without her.

  Thanks also to Bob, for helping me navigate the peaks and val eys, and for thinking to take and send a special picture.

  That was so thoughtful and sweet.

  And to my wonderful friends Anne, Bev, Cheryl and Nick, thanks for your patience and support when I disappear into my cave to write for months on end.

  Last but not least, to al those wonderful readers. Your support and good wishes make it al worthwhile.

  This book is for my mom, who faces life’s chal enges with courage, grace and humor no matter

  how tough it gets, and stil takes the time to go on helicopter rides. And for my dad, who lives life to the ful est, enjoying every moment of the ride.

  When I grow up, I want to be just like them.

  The King’s Courtesan

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  EPILOGUE

  AFTERWORD

  PROLOGUE

  London, 1651

  THE DAY H OPE M ATHEWS’S life changed forever dawned crisp and clear. She awoke, clutching her kitten, lying on a cot in a corner garret of a steep-gabled four-story building. Her home, a substantial structure comprised of three linked houses, al of them leaning drunkenly over the street below, was at the center of a zigzag web of side streets and al eys, some barely wide enough for two pedestrians to pass. It was late autumn. The metal ic bite of winter was in the air and frost patterned the rooftops, making the city beyond her windows shimmer like some alabaster-and-diamond fairy land. She imagined she was a princess, trapped high in a tower, waiting for a handsome rescuer to charge the battlements and take her away.

  The bel s started ringing wel before dawn, invading the gloomy quiet general y reserved for bakers starting their day and link boys ending theirs. The sleepy city was stirring, and there was already a bustle in the streets below.

  stirring, and there was already a bustle in the streets below.

  The Lord Protector and his army had been sighted. Fresh from victories in Ireland and Scotland, the young Charles Stuart driven from England’s shores, they were returning home. Despite the Protector’s edicts against gambling, roistering and drink, soldiers did as they had always done.

  As the good people of London, deprived of any spectacle since the beheading of their former king, set out early to secure a place along the route to watch the coming parade, every shopkeeper, wine maker, tavern worker and whore were making preparations for what promised to be a very lucrative day.

  Drury Lane, on the eastern edge of Covent Garden, was one of the most colorful areas in London even in these drab times. Brightly painted sign boards hung from every house and business. Her own home was marked by a proud fighting cock, strutting past a golden-haired siren with wide blue eyes and crimson lips. Her mother boasted to one and al that the Merry Strumpet was listed in The Wandering Whore, and as its proprietor, she was noted therein as one of London’s best known bawds. It was one of the establishments counting on profits this day, and Hope knew she needed to escape immediately or be trapped running errands, raking cinders and cleaning floors, missing the spectacle entirely.

  She slipped down the stairs and ducked through an al ey, joining a laughing band of urchins who greeted her as one of their own. The sun had risen, the throng was thickening and they weaved in and out of jostling crowds, nimbly dodging carts and angry merchants as they stuffed their pockets with filched fruit and biscuits. She lost her companions as she approached the city center, their loose-knit brotherhood disbanding as each sought a perch from which to watch the show.

  The steady drumming in the distance was getting louder by the minute and she jumped up and down, trying to see past the people in front of her. Spying a low-hung balcony, she forced her way through a river of people and pul ed herself up, kicking and squirming, wrapping her arms around a beam. Ignoring the protests of its already cramped inhabitants, she positioned herself so she had a bird’s-eye view of the street below.

  First came a vast army of grim-faced pikemen in their shining breastplates, pot helmets and buff leather coats, marching in rigid formation, their weapons bristling as the air rang with the tramping of booted feet. Then came Cromwel himself at the head of the Ironsides, his famous company of horse, but there was none of the pageantry and color, the smiles and waves and dashing displays of a royalist parade. They passed by, row upon row, a faceless army with nothing to distinguish one from another, and the cheers that greeted them were dutiful rather than spontaneous. It was clearly a display of might and power.

  Veiled threat and stark reminder more than celebration, but any kind of public gathering was scarce in the city these days and any spectacle was preferable to none at al .

  She was beginning to wonder if the adventure had been worth the bother when a prancing black horse caught her attention. It frothed and fretted, tossing its head and stepping sideways, breaking an otherwise perfect formation, yet its rider did not seem inclined to curb it.

  Unlike his fel ows, who looked straight ahead, he seemed to scan the crowd with interest. Tal and broad-shouldered, he managed the beast with ease. He wore no uniform and looked more like a cavalier than a Puritan. He must be an officer, and a wel born one at that. Her heart thudded with girlish excitement. From a
distance he appeared to be young and handsome, and much like the gal ant rescuer she imagined in her daydreams. It was hard to get a good look at him, though, with his wide-brimmed hat pul ed low, obscuring his features.

  Interest piqued, she leaned out further, trying to get a better look, when a sudden scuffle behind her knocked her off balance and sent her tumbling to the street below. She lurched to her feet a moment before a shod hoof would have crushed her fingers, only to back into the hindquarters of a startled horse. When it shied away from her, its rider cursing, she slipped and almost fel again. Surrounded on al sides she dodged and darted, wooden shoes slipping on the muddy cobbles, trying to remain upright as she was buffeted from beast to beast. As her panic grew someone snarled and cuffed her and one man kicked her between the shoulders, growling for her to get out of the way. People were trampled to death in London every day and if she fel again—

  A strong hand gripped the back of her dress and swung her up and into the air as easily as if she were a smal child.

  Her rescuer deposited her in his lap, holding her tight with one arm, apparently heedless of his fine clothes and her muddy form.

  “Apologies, my lady, for the rough handling and the loss of your shoes, but you seemed in imminent danger of being trampled.”

  It was him! The man she’d watched but moments before.

  The man from her daydreams. He was real. He had come to her rescue. She had never been at a loss for words before, but now, when she desperately wanted to say something witty, charming, memorable, she was tongue-tied. “I…I…I…”

  “There now, lass. Take a deep breath and don’t worry.

  You’ve had a scare and need some time to gather your wits.”

  She almost moaned in frustration. He thought her a witless fool!

  “You’re shivering. Sit close now, and share my warmth.” She was cold and she had nearly died. She sank against him, her arms wrapped tight around his waist, enjoying the feeling of comfort and safety, the strength she felt in his arms and chest, and the sound of another heart beating, just inches from her own. As he tucked his cloak around her she heard cheering from the crowd. She’d had no idea anyone was aware of her plight or cared if they were. Now she beamed and waved to them and they roared their approval.

  Her companion chuckled. “I think we have brought some entertainment to an otherwise dul morning. I’m afraid you’l have to ride it out with me the rest of the way. There’s no place to put you down safely until we reach the palace gates. Wil that suit?”

  She nodded, shy for the first time in her life.

  “Excel ent! You’re safe now, lass. And you’ve the best seat in the house. Relax and enjoy the view.” She felt like a princess in his arms, and as unlikely as it might seem, she decided he was her prince. Why else had he passed her way this day? Why had she noticed him right away? How was it she had fal en just as he was passing and what made him save her when no one else had even tried? It didn’t matter if she found nothing to say this moment, for fate had brought him to her and he was destined to be hers.

  Even so, she stil wasn’t sure what he looked like. His hat was pul ed low, keeping his face in shadow. She could tel he was young. She could tel he was handsome from his strong chin, firm mouth and white smile, but she couldn’t see his eyes.

  When they reached the courtyard outside the palace gates, he used his horse as a bulwark against the crowd, making a little island in a corner by the wal . He dismounted first, then lifted her from the saddle as if she were light as air. He grinned and wiped a speck of dirt from her nose. Her face blazed with embarrassment, but his smile was kind and amused. “You’re hard to see, lass, under al of this.” He rubbed a dab of mud from her cheek with one finger. “But if you’re half as lovely as those eyes, you must be a vision.” He took her hand and bowed, as though she were a great lady, then slipped half a crown in her palm. “To replace your shoes, my lady.”

  “Thank you, my lord. For saving my life.” They were the only words she could find. Her heart was pounding so loud it was a wonder he didn’t hear it.

  “No lord I, lass. Just a humble soldier who stumbled upon a pixie on the way home. To catch one must mean luck of some kind. Stay safe, girl, and wish me wel .” She watched as he rode away. She didn’t know his eyes, she didn’t know his name, but she knew he was hers and she’d see him again. She caught one last glimpse of him as he passed through the castle gates. As if sensing her gaze upon him, he looked back at her and waved.

  She started home with frozen toes, a smile she was sure would never go away, and the feeling she was walking on air. When she wasn’t humming to herself she broke into laughter or sudden bursts of song. Halfway there, she met two of her mother’s ladies accompanied by a burly doorman. They hurried over, breathless. They had been searching for her al morning. Her mother needed her at once.

  The brothel was always humming with energy and noise. It rang with the sound of song and laughter, though the singing was drunken and off-key and the laughter often shril . It smel ed of braised beef, brandy and ale, stale perfume and stale sex. Silks and petticoats rustled up and down the stairs and in and out of the secret exit for those guests who preferred anonymity, and wel -dressed gentlemen and partly dressed ladies wandered its hal s.

  Several of those who lived there were her friends. Her mother’s ladies often told her stories as they taught her how to mix perfume from oils and flowers, and how to paint her face and fix her hair. She wasn’t terribly interested in those lessons, but many of them were country girls and she loved their tales of princes and princesses, magical folk who granted wishes and careless girls who got lost in the wild.

  And now I have a story all my own.

  They had told her other things, too, over the years. Things about men, though her mother had been careful to keep her away from the customers. How to soothe them, how to excite them and how to give them pleasure. How to use a beeswax cap or silk-covered sponge to prevent an unwanted baby, and a sheath to protect against a man who appeared diseased. Between their frank talk and what she’d witnessed through open doors, around corners and in supposedly quiet corridors she’d seen enough of naked husbands and great lords, cal ow young men and randy soldiers, to feel she didn’t need or want to learn any more.

  That’s not love. Love was what she wanted. And she’d found her true love today.

  Not that her mother would approve. From early on, her mother tried to instil in her the importance of wise commerce. It was how she herself rose from the ranks of drabs prowling London’s streets, working in al eys with their backs against a wal , to become a prosperous woman of affairs. But I don’t have to be like her. I don’t and I won’t.

  She was hurried up to her room with a great deal of fussing and clucking, only to find her mother waiting with a warm smile and a cup of hot chocolate. She eyed her warily and clutched her kitten defensively. Her mother was not one for kind gestures or maternal concern.

  “Wel , here you are, lovey. And just in time. Today’s a very special day for you indeed.”

  Hope blinked, confused. “What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

  “You’ve grown up within these wal s, girl. You understand.

  Today you take up your duties as a woman. You’ve had a roof over your head al these years and plenty to eat, too.

  That’s more than many a poor lamb in London can say. But you are a woman now. Your courses started last month.

  Your great est possession besides beauty is your maidenhead. A jewel that is. A thing of great value.

  Something a woman can give only once, despite what certain lying sluts might do or say. But it needs proper management. Just like arranging a good marriage. Don’t look so shocked, child!” She reached out a gnarled hand to pat her shoulder in an awkward and unconvincing display of motherly concern.

  “You’re a whore, my dear. Born into it right and proper, though I was married to your father for al that. You’d best get used to the idea because you can never be aught els
e.

  You’ve no breeding, no property, and there’s no chance any decent man wil have you. A girl like you won’t ever be married and who would want it? Your own father was a useless bastard. But for al that you’re a rare beauty, with his raven hair and very fine eyes indeed. And you’ve charm and a quick wit. Such gifts are wasted on a wife. She’s no need of them to catch a man, provided she has money, and she’s nay al owed to make use of them once she’s married.

  Property she is. Broodmare and slave.”

  Hope was too shocked to speak. It was the longest conversation she’d ever had with this stranger who’d once been her mother, and it was not the awkward declaration of love she’d both dreaded and longed for. She blinked back tears, feeling like the world’s biggest fool. She didn’t keep me safe to protect me, but to add to my value. She wanted to feel contempt and hatred but she couldn’t move past a soul-kil ing pain. I should have known. I should have known.

  Her mother stroked her hair as she spoke, taking no notice of how it made her flinch. Is this how she recruits new girls?

  Stroking and cooing like a beady-eyed pigeon? Is this all I am to her?

  “Now look here, at the pretty dress his lordship has sent you!”

  The dress, with its white satin underskirt and sleeves shot through with silver braid, looked like a wedding dress but for the indecently low-cut bodice. She knew what it meant.

  There would be no prince for her. No choice. No happy ending.

  “Which lord?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

  “Let’s leave that as a surprise for now. It wil add authenticity to the undertaking.” Taking her silence for acceptance, her mother rubbed her hands together and nodded briskly. “Good girl! The anticipation is building, child. We’re to have an auction tonight and you are the prize. There’s naught to fear. You’ve seen enough of what happens here to know that, and only my best gentlemen wil take part. Remember what al the other girls have told you and use it wel . You’l fetch a fine price, my dear. Half to you and half to the house. You’l be off to a grand start in life. No daughter of mine wil be a common whore. You’l be a rich man’s mistress. You’re a lovely girl. Sharp and lively, too.