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she awoke. No doubt she’d be pleased to be out of that convent. For good.
    Yet he forced himself to stop short of imagining the various ways she might demonstrate her appreciation.
    Simon entered the dining hall with her divine singing echoing in his mind.
    “Ah, Simon, there you are!” Robert d’Arles—Marquis de Névelon, Comte de Sorbon—rose from the table with the assistance of a cane.
    The sight was jarring.
    A splinter of wood that had fragmented during a cannon attack had pierced Robert’s leg, fracturing it. It seemed inconceivable that his life at sea was over. A life Robert so greatly adored. At fifty-five, his strong physique sculpted by his physical lifestyle was evident even in the finery of his silk, olive-green doublet and breeches. Simon had always seen Robert as invincible. A high-ranking naval officer. An Aristo whose conquests on the sea and in the boudoir were legendary.
    “I wasn’t certain you’d join me this morning. I heard you brought two women back with you. What’s the matter, my boy? Are you finding one at a time is not enough these days?” Simon could readily see the physical misery Robert’s leg was causing him reflecting in his gray eyes, despite his smile.
    Robert was a proud man. Simon purposely schooled his features to show indifference to his condition and forced a smile in return. “I’ll have to double my efforts if I’m to hope for a chance of matching your multitude of comely ladies by the time I reach your age,” he teased, hoping his answer was enough to put an end to the topic. A discussion about who the women were and how they came to be here was the last thing Simon wanted at the moment.
    Robert chuckled as they sat down at the table. “You’ve done exceedingly well in your own right—not just with the ladies but at sea as well. You do me proud.”
    It was a great compliment coming from the greatest man Simon had ever known. He was about to respond when the servants entered with the morning meal. Robert continued the moment they were alone again, not allowing him a reply.
    “I understand that your ships have been highly successful. As usual.” His tone was once again full of pride. “Fouquet must have been quite pleased to see the sum.”
    Simon swallowed—the food having just turned bitter in his mouth. Simply hearing Fouquet’s name soured his insides and rioted with his conscience.
    “Why shouldn’t he be pleased? I’m certain Nicolas Fouquet could use the money to construct an addition to his enormous new château. Isn’t Vaux-le-Vicomte grander than Fontainebleau—the king’s finest palace?” He couldn’t hold back the venom in his tone.
    Robert stopped eating. “Careful, now. To suggest—even remotely—that the Superintendent of Finance is misappropriating funds from the treasury is a dangerous accusation to make. Do not make powerful foes, Simon. Let the king deal with Fouquet. You must stay focused on your goal. It’s only a matter of time before you receive the recognition you deserve from our king. Then Louis will at last ennoble you and allow you to become an officer in his navy—just as we have always wanted.”
    Robert’s words stabbed straight into the core of Simon’s being. Though he had no choice, Simon hated telling the man to whom he owed his every success, who had championed Simon at every turn, sharing in his dream of betterment—that it was all dead.
    The dream was done.
    Everything they’d hoped for would never come to pass.
    “Robert, it is time to stop dreaming and accept reality; our king is weak. And completely uninterested in his own kingdom,” he said in restrained, even tones, wrestling to keep his ire in check. “He’s left the realm vulnerable to the corruption that now infests it—namely Fouquet and the First Minister Cardinal Mazarin, who both battle for his power. Louis is not going to change. Nor is he going to recognize anything I do. Or have ever done.”
    Robert shoved his plate aside.