The King's Courtesan. Judith James

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      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 II while also delivering an unforgettable love story.”

      —Booklist, starred review, on Libertine’s Kiss

      “James’ unusual love story is one of emotional impact…. Readers will find this poignant love story enthralling 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 emotionally riveting.”

      —USA TODAY bestselling author Julianne MacLean

      “Sarah and Gabriel’s heart-wrenching struggle to keep their love alive…will really keep readers entranced throughout this epic read.”

      —Publishers Weekly on Broken Wing

      The King’s Courtesan

      Judith James

      

www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Acknowledgments

      My thanks go to my editor, Ann Leslie Tuttle, for bringing calm during the storm (literally) 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 valleys, 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 all those wonderful readers. Your support and good wishes make it all worthwhile.

      This book is for my mom, who faces life’s challenges

       with courage, grace and humor no matter

       how tough it gets, and still takes the time to go on

       helicopter rides. And for my dad, who lives life

       to the fullest, 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 HOPE MATHEWS’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, all of them leaning drunkenly over the street below, was at the center of a zigzag web of side streets and alleys, some barely wide enough for two pedestrians to pass. It was late autumn. The metallic 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 bells started ringing well before dawn, invading the gloomy quiet generally 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. 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 all 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 alley, 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 pulled 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 Cromwell 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