Imogen: Cast By A King: Romance Reigns, #3

By Sandra Kyle

In seventeenth century France, Imogen, a theater performer from a hard-working family, desires an escape from her impoverished existence. Befriending thieves in the Court of Miracles results in using her acting talent to swindle and con, and Imogen becomes a pawn entangled in a plot to dethrone King Louis XIV. She forms an attachment with another pawn, a mysterious man, integral to the plan's success.

When a multitude of conspiracies and actions land her in the court theater, can she survive rising to the life of greatness and wealth she has desired forever and still follow her heart?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sandra Kyle
• Release date: Feb 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9798201379933

Sandra Kyle

Sandra Kyle is a first generation American, born to Italian parents who came to the United States in search of a better life. Along with their dreams, they brought vivid tales: some wonderful, some far-fetched, and some downright terrifying. Sitting and listening to those stories around the kitchen table is where her love for storytelling began.  A historical and contemporary romance author, Sandra is also a film fan and proud introvert. She currently resides on the East Coast with her husband.  To contact or find out more about Sandra Kyle, visit: sandrakyle.com

Book preview

Chapter 1

Cathedral of Notre Dame

Paris, France

May, 1660

The stink of the Seine wafted along a gentle breeze into Imogen’s nostrils. The stab of filth in the air shifted her faraway gaze into a sharp, focused search for the pungent source of the odor. Her head tilted a fraction to the left toward the river.

A rotting corpse of some poor animal? Or a person?

The traffic in front of the church paid her little mind. Hardly anyone would have noticed the crack in her ruse. There was plenty of competition vying for attention and pity in the bright spring sun. Directly across from her, Little Paul held his head low and leaned the weight of his right side atop a mangled crutch. A new prop? Angelic blue eyes begged from the grime smeared on his face. He tracked each mournful soul making their way in and out of the church doors. Back and forth his gaze searched, desperate to make eye contact. He needed only one every so often to feel guilty enough and drop a coin into his cup.

That’s all any of us need.

Imogen realigned her stare into the crowd at nothing. Her gray powdered wig cap itched in the heat. Sweat trickled down the back of her neck into the folds of her dowdy dress. She wanted to reach around, press the cloth against her skin, and halt the flow of perspiration tickling along her spine. Her lithe nineteen-year-old body could contort her arm with ease to accomplish the task. She reminded herself, however, that the elderly woman she presented to the world right now would not be as agile.

The risk of borrowing a costume or wig from the theater would have been greater had Imogen’s roles on the stage been beautiful, wealthy countesses or beguiling sirens. But no one ever seemed to notice a missing crooked cane, silver-haired, unkempt wig, or patched-up cotton dress befitting a grumpy old woman.

Wallace Varley, an Englishman, had been the one to first suggest Imogen try her hand at begging. She did not have the nerve to pickpocket, much to his chagrin. From the little Imogen teased out of their limited conversations between his rutting, Wallace had fled England due to some thievery and unsavory behavior. His owl-shaped eyes widened when he suggested the scam one night. It had been right after he had taken her against the wall near the urinal trough in the theater’s dank basement.

You’d be perfection. He panted, pulling breeches up over his stick-thin thighs. The room was pitch-black, save for a candle glow in the far corner. His pale skin glowed like the gossamer they used on stage for ghostly apparitions. An old crone would make a decent take. His lanky frame towered over her, his back rounded from poor posture and apathy. She wished at times he would at least act like a decent man. A malady would be even better. Could ya pretend to be blind as well?

She shrugged and adjusted her skirt. I could try.

We could be done with Paris in no time. My pickpocketin’ skills and your actin’ will be our way out.

She didn’t have much interest in spending the rest of her life with Wallace. He had sniffed around her for some time in the theater. He’d whistle at her as he pulled the strings to open the curtain before she hobbled onto stage. A wink and a sneer from a man with a beak nose, ten years her senior, had been the best suitor Imogen could acquire. Everyone reminded her of that, yet she did not despair over the conclusion of her family members and the handful of acquaintances at the theater. It was their and society’s version of the truth. Especially when her sister Marissa’s beauty eclipsed that of everyone else in the troupe when she played her harp on stage.

The dull thud of a coin into her bowl pulled her out of the recollection that filled her envious heart. Blind gazes always had a way of disconnecting her mind from her body. They would send her into the territory of memories. She wished there had been more pleasant ones to recall. But the Malone family busied itself with survival first. Joseph, the patriarch, had lost his way and fallen into gambling and depression years back. Mother Mary kept the family working like a well-oiled machine. Every little bit the children earned, from the theater or the farm or other odd jobs, all went back to the brood.

Every little bit that Ma knows of, anyway.

Imogen shook like a baby bird the first time she limped her way onto the expanse of the plaza in front of the Notre Dame Cathedral. Wallace had given her a kiss for luck in a dark alleyway and patted her ass, encouraging her out into the sunlight.

She tapped her cane along the ground, knocking against stone. Timid steps journeying to the other side took an eternity. A jostling of her frame by pedestrians, with no heed for others, turned her about twice. She flowed along at the mercy of the human current. A young man eventually came to her aid. He gently took her gloved hand and led her to a bench. Thank you. May God bless you. She’d rasped out the gratitude. There had been no coin that day. But she knew she had succeeded in making one person believe.

Making one believe is a success. I can have many more successes.

From then on, she would toddle out every day before a theater performance for hours, sitting on a bench. Waiting. Hoping. A small smile lining her lips with every coin placed in her bowl.

The cathedral bells rang as five o’clock approached. She stood up, slow and with purpose, imagining every joint cracking with pain at the overuse from years of work. Her cane knocked about on her approach through one of the church doors. Little Paul’s gaze hovered on her frame. More than likely, she might get a critique of her act the next time their paths crossed in the Court of Miracles.

Once past the threshold, she felt along the wall. Her fingers traced over the offerings box. A tinge of guilt forced one of her hard-earned coins to plop inside and join the other donations. She clicked the edges of each pew and wound her way around the monstrous marble columns. Her shoulder leaned against the cool, smooth material. It allowed for a short reprieve from the heat outdoors.

Imogen palmed the coins in her bowl. Her hand disappeared under the neckline of her dress and nestled the money into the hidden pocket sewn inside. All the while, her distant stare rested on one confessional room meters in front of her. It matched others lining the wall, constructed of ornately carved mahogany. Countless days of prayer within these walls had taught her much. She knew the father listening to confessions inside had a weakness when it came to sacramental wine. His thirst for the blood of Christ would have him exiting shortly to refill his cup.

As if willed by her thoughts, the father scuffled out of the confessional. The flash of a gold goblet clutched in his palm caught her eye. She shimmied into the tiny confines of the room while the absentminded elder priest closed the door behind him.

After months of perfecting the costume change, it now only required moments for Imogen to transform. She pulled off the wig, tugged the gloves from her hands, and then tucked them into the faux hair skullcap along with her alms bowl. She whipped the shawl from her shoulders and wrapped the accessories into the tattered material. A knot secured the bag around the handle of her cane. She wandered out of the confessional and attempted to veil her face in confusion.

A quick dip of her grandmother’s kerchief in the holy water font allowed the dark makeup lines that aged her face to be wiped away. It did not reveal a dewy youthful glow. Her visage had sharp edges and lines, like her mother. Her father used to joke that Imogen sprang from her mother’s loins with years of wisdom etched into her tiny face. We should have called you Marissa. Just like your ma, you are. Little Mary. His words echoed in her head while her steps did the same out of the church.

Once in the middle of the square, Imogen turned and took in the church as she always did after one of her sessions. She gazed upward at the twin square towers on the western façade of the church. A slight shiver ran through her as she looked at a stone gargoyle perched on the edge of one of the towers. Lengthy fangs sprouted from the terrifying grin of one sculpture. The monstrous figures had struck fear in her since she was a child, stemming from her older brothers’ stories. Joseph and Shane had whispered once that the winged gargoyles came to life at night and flew into homes to feed on little girls.

Come now, there are plenty of real monsters to be truly afraid of.

*

Imogen snuck in through the stage door of the Marais Theatre a brisk half-hour walk later. She weaved in between a shuttered window prop and stack of sandbags. A bubble of activity would soon turn into a raging boil as the hour neared for the curtain to rise. A sharp pang in her stomach followed the realization that the play – and her small role in it – would run only another week.

Annette, an aging soprano who, in her prime, had been a star in the court theater of Louis XIII, performed an aria for her own enjoyment, and the annoyance of those around her, as she swept the filth from the house area. Imogen had listened to some of her tales on occasions when they cleaned up after a performance. Annette had even coaxed Imogen to try her hand at singing when they were the only two left in the theater most nights. You’ve got a talent for expressing the notes. Shame you won’t ever get the chance to use it. Annette shook her head in defeat often when looking at Imogen.

Chevy floated by on Imogen’s right. The male sprite possessed the sting of a scorpion when he aimed his attention at her. Today, he seemed occupied with more important matters. My hay bale brows or the rip in my dress may go unnoticed by his daggers masquerading as eyes.

Imogen followed the perfumed scent wafting behind Chevy’s wake. She assumed his destination was the same as they both snaked around various obstacles and persons down the dressing room hall. She exhaled a heavy sigh when he hightailed it off right by the stage.

The silence of the dressing room greeted her as she opened the door. A cursory glance confirmed she was alone. Imogen hurried to unpack the costume bag. All the items found their proper homes on the cluttered shelves and crammed clothes racks. She hung the cane on a hook near a dulled rapier. Her spindly frame sank into a shabby, stained ottoman amid the disguises.

She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. Her mind did not realize how much she cherished quiet until she was given moments to relish the foreign experience. The Malone farm had hardly a second of peace with people and animals occupying every inch. She envied her father at times, locking himself away in a bedroom of solitude — even if it was due to an unspoken sadness that filled his eyes.

She had made the mistake of confessing stolen moments of meditation in the theater to her mother one night while they both cleaned up the dinner table. If it’s seclusion you’re after, Shane can take you to the abbey first thing in the morning on his ride into the city. I won’t abide idle hands under my roof. God may appreciate such dedication, but our hunger won’t. The words from her mother’s sharp tongue repeated in her brain.

She contemplated sleeping in the piles of costumes behind the changing screen again. It’s not like anyone will miss me at home. What’s another whipping from Ma, anyway?

All the Malone girls and the youngest boy, Ronan, were relegated to one bedroom with three beds in the farmhouse. The two eldest brothers, Joseph and Shane, shared the loft on the third floor along with their wives and children, a flimsy curtain the only means of privacy in the middle of the room. Imogen’s lullabies would emanate from overhead as either squeaky floorboards or wails of new life resulting from fornication.

During most of her nineteen years, she shared a bed with her older sister, Marissa.  The only warmth displayed between them had been the body heat required on the coldest of nights. A year had passed since Marissa had been whisked away by King Louis XIV. Marissa was now a lady-in-waiting in court and shared the king’s bed on occasion.

I wonder if she can call him by his given name. Imogen stared at the spot by the dressing room door where the royal figure of the King of France had stood last year. The troupe, summarily surprised by his entrance into the room after one of their shows, bent and curtsied as a clumsy entity. Imogen’s eyes had tilted upward to inspect his lean and compact form.

He wore a royal blue jacket with lush gold brocade. She noted the intricate detail of his satin heels. Her thoughts raged. He climbs on our backs toward more and more wealth in those beautiful shoes. Most of the players probably had similar opinions. None would dare attempt any display of traitorous behavior toward the king surrounded by a handful of musketeers. The whim of this king might find a disgruntled commoner in prison, or worse.

The king’s blue eyes focused with immediate interest upon Marissa’s red hair and bright green eyes, ignoring everyone else in the room. Your harp playing was marvelous. The compliment dripped from his lips. What is your name?

In the end, the king is merely a man tempted by the sins of the flesh... no matter how often Cardinal Mazarin tries to convince all of France that Louis Quatorze is the Gift of God.

There ya are. Wallace’s deep voice awakened her from the memory. He pinched her biceps. How did ya fare? Greasy hair stuck to the sides of his gaunt face.

Not too bad. She produced a coin and flung it at him. That will satisfy his want for now. She was not in the mood to lift her skirt. His stench will linger. A phantom waft of the king’s perfume met her nose briefly. Unlike Wallace, the king bathes more than twice a year. Inner ire rose at Marissa’s current situation compared to her own. Imogen dampened the emotion, scolding herself for contemplating service as a whore to the spoiled king.

Wallace flipped the coin Imogen gifted him back and forth between his fingers. I’ve a job in the morning. Early. Wanna come?

Imogen’s eyes narrowed. What job?

He bent down and whispered, Nothin’ I can discuss ‘round paper-thin walls and loose lips.

Imogen shrugged. Don’t need me then.

Wallace raised his bushy brows. Might make enough coin to get out of Paris right there and then. Thought ya might want to join me.

Her chest lightened for a second. How?

Wallace shook his head. Gotta learn to stop askin’ so many questions. The tips of his fingers tapped her forehead. Your da should not have taught ya to read. A woman’s safer stayin’ ignorant.

You just hate that I know something you don’t. How am I supposed to learn my lines if I can’t read them?

Wallace dismissed the question with a wave. How about it then?

What time tomorrow? Imogen pulled a fresh mint leaf from one of her many hidden pockets and popped it into her mouth. She chewed on the fragrant plant swiped from Ma’s garden that morning.

I’ll be here before sunrise with a horse cart. Or you could stay at my place.

An image of the one-room shack Wallace shared with four other men along the outskirts of the Court of Miracles popped into her head. It had stunk of urine and rotting meat the one evening she ventured there. Imogen stifled a cringe. I’ll stay here.

Shall I stay with you then? One eyebrow cocked upward this time.

She shook her head. More chance of us getting caught if you do. I’ll tell my brother I’m getting paid to clean up the theater again when he comes by to get me after the show.

Fine. Just be ready. He fondled her chin and then skittered out the room.

When the door clicked shut behind Wallace, Imogen sprang from her seat and dove behind the screen. She pushed the clothes pile away from the corner and placed her hand atop a loose floorboard. Her lids closed. God, have mercy on me, she whispered in prayer and pushed her palm against one end of the board. The other end tipped up and revealed her coin purse. She smiled and retrieved the treasure, emptying the rest of her day’s earnings into the secret satchel. She clutched it to her chest. Thank you, God. I can’t take you with me in the morning. Wallace’s filthy hands will paw every inch of me and find you in no time. I’ll have to find a way to come back.

A door opened, and voices filled the dressing room. Imogen scurried around on the floor. She dropped her money under the board and then raked the clothes over the hiding spot. Out of breath, she looked up in time to see Chevy staring down at her from around the screen corner. What are you looking for?

My costume. Imogen hopped up onto her feet and adjusted her dress.

Any old rag will do. His eyes narrowed. Whatever you and Wallace do in here, make sure it isn’t on anything I’ll be wearing. Or I’ll have a talk with Armande. The tip of one finger smoothed his pencil-thin brows. Come, old hag, get yourself ready for the show. He cackled. A giggle from his companion, more than likely Natalie, joined in on the joke at Imogen’s expense.

Perhaps all of this will be little more than a memory by tomorrow.

Chapter 2

Light mist filled the morning air. It clung to Imogen’s sallow cheeks. A chill wind circled around her body. She clutched the shawl about her shoulders.

The horse cart bumbled along the dirt road in the dull light of an early gray morning. A fog clung to the green grass. The sun peeked out from a sliver of sky between the clouds. Imogen relished the warmth for only a moment before it was stolen.

Wallace hunched in the seat alongside her. His lethargic hold of the horse reins matched his slump.

Where are we going? Imogen asked again for the fifth time since they’d begun the ride out of Paris. She rarely had the opportunity or need to venture west of the city.

Learn this: ask only enough to get by. His beady eyes peered at her from under the worn cap atop his head.

Her lips dropped into the comfort of her perpetual frown. Is that how you’ve done so well for yourself?

A coarse laugh emerged from his throat. I do enjoy the bite from your words, Ginny. Why not offer it to more people? Why should I be the only one?

She shrugged. The action allowed the cold to sneak under her shawl and shock her skin. She shivered. It takes me awhile to warm up to people.

He laughed again.

Despite the frigid temperatures, Imogen’s heavy lids gave in to the sleep that had eluded her the night before. Thoughts of escape from her current existence had stimulated her mind to the point of insomnia.

Imogen woke up in time to spot a sign marking their entry into Saint-Germain-en-Laye. The name of the commune elicited thoughts of Marissa. She had not spoken to, nor had direct correspondence from, her sister since her disappearance into King Louis’s court. Marissa had sent letters to one or two troupe members, including Chevy. He took it upon himself to orate Marissa’s lines, spinning in the middle of the dressing room for all to hear. Imogen had felt Chevy’s eyes land on her own figure when he detailed how wonderful Marissa’s life was in the royal palace known as the Château de Saint-Germain.

As the cart wound around a lane, the massive fortress walls of the palace loomed ahead. The king’s other residence, Tuileries Palace — in the center of Paris — possessed a more delicate, intricate, and artful construction in comparison.

Imogen’s heart sped. What business do you have here?

Nothin’ done by way of the front door. Wallace wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He pulled the cap down even lower and tipped his head. His already thin build folded in on itself like a piece of parchment. He shrank more into the seat.

Imogen heeded the cue and draped the wool shawl over her bun. She pinched the fabric closed about her neck.

They followed the road around the palace. A protective moat partially lined the structure’s perimeter. Drawbridges over the water led to immense gates. Musketeers flanked each station to grant or deny entry. The two horses driving their cart clip-clopped on at a steady pace.

Eventually, they passed the château and stopped in front of a tavern within the heart of the town. Most of the inhabitants still slept. Wallace disembarked and knotted the reins around a post, saying nothing to Imogen. He leaned upon a nearby wood column. His long arms folded over the midsection of his jacket. The only visible part of his face under the cap was a chin, with a tip as pointy as a sword’s blade.

A drunkard knocked on the tavern door. A surly yell from inside announced the tavern would not open for another hour. The rejected man hiccupped, mumbled, then aimlessly wandered into the middle of the road.

Wallace waited, frozen like a statue. Imogen chewed the inside of her lip. She tilted her head this way and that, checking the sides of the carriage and ahead for signs of movement. Some time passed. A figure sprinted from an alley adjacent to the tavern. Wallace barely moved when the man, short and stocky, grasped the wooden rails next to him and began to speak. The stranger’s voice rose and fell, gasping from exertion throughout his exposition.

Wallace’s chin bobbed in response. He held out his hand. The man rummaged in his pocket to pull out two rolled parchments. He hesitated then spoke again. Wallace nodded in Imogen’s direction. The man’s head whipped over to inspect her. His eyes narrowed.

Imogen read the growing impatience in Wallace’s stance. He looked up to meet Imogen’s stare and crooked a finger, beckoning her. She hopped off the cart and skipped to his side. Wallace walked to the tavern door. Confused, Imogen followed. She studied the new man who kept pace. Tight brown curls covered the top of his head. He had a chiseled jaw and well-defined nose. The familiar smell of horse manure released from his clothes hinted at his occupation.

Wallace rapped on the door. The same yell announced the tavern would open in an hour. Instead of retreating, Wallace knocked again. Imogen noted the rhythmic pattern his knuckles hit the wood with this time. The person behind the door acquiesced, and it opened.

An old man, about Imogen’s height, peeked his head through the doorway. Gray hair hung in wispy patches from an almost bald head freckled with liver spots. White eyebrows, bushy and full like well-fed