Page 10 of The Truth About Myths
Maxwell collected his earnings, his gaze straying to the mantelpiece clock.
"I know my charms are feeble compared to the lovely Julia, but can't you keep your eyes on the table for a change?"
Maxwell bristled. "To watch your ugly face? Shut up and play."
Henrique would miss flustering the stoic Englishman. Finding another uptight friend who put up with his provocations would be a hardship.
Pedro Daun collected the dice. "I thought Dom Luis would be here tonight."
"He sent me a note. He will arrive later. Couldn't leave the palace before dinner." The man led a country and still had trouble leading his own household. He'd better come, though. Henrique needed the king's signature to conclude the sale of his estate.
Dio looked both ways and lowered his voice. "Rumors have it he does not visit the queen's bedchamber."
"Who told you so?" Pedro speared Dio with a stare.
Since Pedro became the king's chief adviser, his power in court had grown exponentially. Still, Henrique had high standards for after-dinner chat. "Why, I beg of you, did Luis' activity between the royal sheets creep into our conversation?"
Pedro gave each one of them an accessing gaze. All eyes were on him, except for Charles, who kept mumbling to his glass.
"The ministers are restless. Until Luis produces a male heir, the monarchy is vulnerable. His hold on the throne is secure while his popularity is high, but the populace is fickle."
"Another blight on the Braganzas," Dio said, lowering his voice and brushing his goatee. "The family is cursed."
Maxwell snorted. "What in Hades are you speaking about?"
Dio pulled in a long breath. "It all started with Dom João IV in the seventeenth century. He kicked a Franciscan who asked him for alms. The monk cursed the king, saying no male firstborn of the Braganza house would ever live to inherit the throne. Since then, all the firstborns of the dynasty died before they could rule. Dom João VI and his wife tried to revert the curse to no avail... They never found the monk's grave."
A moment of silence descended. Against his will, Henrique's thoughts climbed the royal family tree for the past two centuries, and in fact, he could not remember a single firstborn who had lived long enough to assume the throne. Dom Luis himself had been a second son, his older brother, raised to be king, had died when he was nineteen, forcing Luis into a commitment he neither wanted nor had been prepared for. Henrique couldn't fathom what had shocked Luis the most, the death of his brother or the need to give up his devil-may-care life in the navy.
"Curse or no curse, Luis better produce an heir soon. Otherwise, his reign is at risk," Pedro said, genuine concern weighing his voice.
Henrique wouldn't want to be in Luis's skin or other body parts, for that matter. Being discussed by his friends as if he were a stud? "I'm sure he will apply himself to it in due time. Now, did we come here to speak about the royal cock or play dice?"
Dio chuckled, and Maxwell wrinkled his nose at the crude joke. The seriousness dissipated, and the air of camaraderie returned.
"Seven." Pedro flung the ivory cubes. The lucky bastard hit a four and a three. "When do you plan to leave?"
"Next week. First, I need to conclude Braganza Castle's sale."
Maxwell shook his head, looking aggrieved. "You will dispose of the Princess Tower?"
"The Italian count will turn the property into a luxury hotel. He will even hire a writer to embellish the tower's myth."
At the wordprincess, Charles startled from his tête-à-tête with the untouched brandy glass.
Henrique turned to him, as Charles didn't know his estate's story. "According to legend, my ancestor used the tower to lock his wife in so she would not pester him over his mistresses. The gruesome tale will scare tourists, so the buyer will make it more romantic." Why didn’t the medieval Penafiels keep their wives well-pleasured instead of in chains? Sad brutes, one and all. More intent on warring than lovemaking. Perhaps their wives were green-eyed vixens. The stray thought brought images of naked limbs, iron fetters, and much better uses for her sweet tongue. Cursing under his breath, Henrique swallowed the port.
Charles frowned and returned to the perusal of his glass. His shock of russet hair caught the light from the lamps as if his head had caught fire.
"Knowing these Italians, he will write an opera about it," Maxwell said, disgust seeping into his voice.
"Unlike you, I like a romantic story." What was the harm in giving the tower a happy ending?
Maxwell lifted his brows. "Just like that, you will sell the property and tamper with an age-old legend. Have you no love for our country?"
There. It took them two hours to breach the subject.
"Our country? First, you are British. Second, I am as patriotic as everybody else—I keep a flag stored in the attic. In the improbable event of war between Portugal and another nation, I will know who to cheer for. Third, I can't help it if I lack my friend’s marital bliss. If I had Julia for a wife..."
