"A delicious and dark adventure set within the magnificent sweep of the seventeenth-century courts of Charles II of England and Louis XIV of France. Koen’s excellent research and fully drawn characters bring to life the lavish wealth and glamour, the scheming, and the deeply human emotions of a fascinating era." -- Jean M. Auel, New York Times bestselling author of The Shelters of Stone

"I loved Dark Angels, I absolutely gobbled it up! Reading it is like stepping into a time machine that sweeps you back to all the drama and intrigue of the English Restoration. The characters are so vivid, the period detail incredible and the plot is completely riveting; a powerful blend of history, romance, adventure and mystery."  —Susan Carroll, author of The Courtesan 
 
"Grand and sweeping in the tradition of Forever Amber, the author immerses the reader in history, romance, suspense and the deep, dark secrets of the human heart. Dark Angels is an engrossing novel of royal and racy Restoration England. A triumph!" -- Karen Harper, USA Today bestselling author of The Last Boleyn

Facing white cliffs in a strait of ocean separating two kingdoms, a fleet of ships lay at anchor. It was the fleet of the kingdom of England, sent to escort precious cargo: a princess of England and France, the most famous princess in Christendom, in fact. A yacht with a rakish bow slashed through the water toward the best and greatest of these anchored ships; the king on board liked fast yachts, fast horses, fast women. The princess was his sister, and he and those with him could not wait to see her.

"Monmouth's on the yacht!" said a young woman leaning over the side of the princess's ship. She had stepped atop a huge coil of rope for this view, and a sailor, eyeing her satins and the single strand of fat pearls at her neck, had warned her to be careful, but she'd sent him off with a withering comment to mind his own business. She wasn't one to suffer fools—or even those who weren't fools—telling her what to do. The sight of King Charles's yacht racing toward them was thrilling. She could see the crowd waiting on shore. The queen and her father and her best friend were among them. She was so glad to see England again, she wasn't certain she'd be able to keep herself from kneeling on the beach and kissing the sand of it when she landed.

"And who else is there?" asked the friend with her, like her a maid of honor to the princess, and like her, excited to be witnesses to this, King Charles and his sister meeting again after so many years—ten if it was a day. Flags were flying from all the topmasts, whipping smartly in the breeze. The day was bright and clear. Everyone was dressed in their finest, felt high-spirited, mettlesome as horses, stirred and thrilled by this reunion.

"Climb up here and see for yourself!" Alice said.

"Don't tease, Alice, and don't fall—" Her friend, Louise Renée, grabbed Alice's gown, for by now Alice was leaning over the edge at a dangerous angle, the feet in her dainty satin shoes on tiptoe.

"The Duke of York is with His Majesty and Prince Rupert—oh, they're close enough to hear me—Rupert! Prince Rupert! Monmouth!" Shrieking the names, Alice waved a gauzy scarf back and forth with wild abandon and was rewarded with a hearty wave from the king's cousin, a smile from the king's son, and a startled glance and then a grin from King Charles himself. Loud cheers had come up from hundreds of throats, the throats of the sailors manning the ships, the throats of the crowd on shore. They, too, were waving and clapping, cheering the king. Gulls, who'd idly settled among the rigging, rose like winged blessings into the sky.

"He hasn't changed a whit," Alice said.

"Who?"

"The king. I wonder who he'll be flirting with by midnight—"

"Mademoiselle Verney, get down from there at once! Mademoiselle de Keroualle! You will join the other maids immediately! The king is boarding—"

It was the keeper of the maids, Madame Dragon, Alice called her.

Alice and Renée ran across the deck to join the elite circle of young women around the princess, all in satin gowns, in dainty shoes with stiff gauze bows, their hair coaxed by servants into curling orderly disorder, fat strands of pearls around their slender necks, drops at their delectable ears. As young women, unmarried, their very youth was beautiful. As part of the household of the foremost princess in France, they were everything that was fashionable. There wasn't a woman on shore who wouldn't be biting her lip with vexation and determining to buy new gowns once theirs were seen. They couldn't wait.

Princesse Henriette—her formal title at the French court was Madame—glanced toward Alice and Renée as they slipped in among the other women, a slight arch in her brow, both questioning and condemning.

"Pretty behavior," sneered a lithe young man to Alice, one of a group of restless and handsome noblemen, but then the orchestra that had been sent to accompany the princess struck up a lively tune, and all about them another cheer began from sailors in the rigging, from those standing in order on the deck as the sardonic face of the king of England, Charles, the second of that name, appeared just above the brass of the ship's railing. In another moment he had leaped to the deck.

"Minette." He held out his arms, his face made handsome by joy, and his sister ran to him, and he hugged her close and then swung her around, her skirt swelling out like a bell. Men had followed him over the side, appearing one after the other, dressed almost as sumptuously as any woman, laces, blue ribbons, diamond pins, long, curling hair, false, a wig but magnificent nonetheless. The princess was immediately surrounded by them. Her other brother, the Duke of York, hugged and kissed her, and their cousin Prince Rupert elbowed York out of the way unceremoniously and said, "Little beauty. I thought we'd never pry you from the Frenchies' grasp." Unfortunately, he spoke in French and loudly, so everyone near heard him.

The Duke of Monmouth, King Charles's son, insisted on his hug, and the princess danced from one male relative to another, kissing their faces and wiping at tears running down her face.

"She's ruining her rouge." It was the same young man who spoke before, with the same sneering, spiteful tone.

"We're in England now, d'Effiat. You'd best watch your tongue," Alice told him.

"Oh, I am afraid," he mocked her, and the others with him laughed maliciously, even Beuvron, who was her friend.

Alice turned her back on them. The day was too happy to spoil with quarreling. There had been enough of that in France. This was adventure, huge adventure, and she was home at long last, about to see her best friend in the world, and the queen she so loved, and her father, and there was nothing d'Effiat or Beuvron or any of them could say to ruin a single moment.

Her eyes met Prince Rupert's, and he winked, then made her a bow.

Copyright © 2006 by Karleen Koen.