Princess (29 page)

By his estimate, he passed over the border from Liguria into the Piedmont at about sunset. Already the mountains had dwindled to rolling, vineyard-clad hills. He would only cut through the southeastern tip of this region once ruled by the Savoy kings, now the territory of Napoleon. Tomorrow he would gain Lombardy and the flat expanses of the rich Po Delta.

When the centuries-old way-station town of Busalla came in sight, he stopped, gazing down at the little handful of buildings scattered in the green vale in the shadow of the mountains.

What a lonely, country place, he thought.

But he dismounted, stiff after the full day’s ride. He led the weary gray down the hill and took lodgings.

After a fruitful day of shopping, Els and Serafina returned, half-buried under packages in the open landau. As their carriage rolled up the long, landscaped drive to the palace, they heard the flare and booming pound of drums. An impressive military demonstration was in progress on the parade ground between the two broad, ramrod-straight avenues leading up to the palace.

Smartly uniformed soldiers marched the intricate geometry of configurations from the manual of arms, parade rifles gleaming in the setting sun as they twirled them and slammed them against first one shoulder, then the other. Serafina spied Anatole standing at the side of the field before the small crowd of onlookers. Chin high, hands clasped behind his back, critically he watched his colonels drilling the troops.

“The newspapers told the truth. He does have an army of giants,” Els said in quiet awe, staring at the tall, powerfully built Russian soldiers.

“He is flexing his might for us,” Serafina murmured in foreboding.

When Anatole spotted her from far across the parade ground, he swept off his bicorne and sent her a bow of acknowledgment. A wave of cold seemed to wash over her but she lifted her hand in greeting, lowering it slowly.

“Drive on,” she commanded.

A few minutes later, Els and she strode into the palace. She had bided her time and been patient all day; she had tried not to think or talk about him too much, but now the need to see and touch and be with Darius was paramount. She went over to the palace steward and inquired after his whereabouts, but Falconi knew nothing.

Serafina turned dazedly to Els. “Where can he be? We must find Alec. He’ll know.”

Els bit her lip. “I don’t want to say this, but . . . perhaps he left, Cricket. If his feelings for you are as deep as he led you to believe, you have to admit it would be hard for him to stand by and watch you marry another man.”

“He wouldn’t leave me—not yet! Not when he knows how much I need him to be there during the wedding. Oh, God, Els.” She gripped Els’s arm as her face drained. “What if Tyurinov has done something terrible to him? They had that awful fight yesterday. You saw all those giant soldiers Anatole has—”

“Calm down.” Els laid a hand on her arm. “We’ll find him. Don’t jump to any conclusions until we know more. It is very like Santiago to disappear without warning.”

She pressed both hands to her stomach. “Oh, God, I shall be sick.”

“Perhaps your father sent him on some mysterious new errand.”

Serafina gasped. “Oh! Els, you’re brilliant! Yes, that must be it!” She gripped her hand and began marching swiftly down the main corridor. “Come on. Papa will know where he is.”

Els hurried to keep up with her. Serafina’s heart pounded with every step. She clutched at the glimmer of hope, unwilling to heed her darkest fears.

“It’s so like Papa to push him too hard. Why doesn’t he give another man the dirty work for a change? His poor shoulder isn’t even healed enough for the stitches to be removed yet!” she rattled on nervously. Perhaps if she could keep herself talking, she could ignore the terrible lump—the knowing— deep in the pit of her stomach.

At last, she flung the door to her father’s office wide, bursting in on him, ready for a fight.

“Papa, where have you sent—” She stopped abruptly.

Everything inside her went cold and deadly.

Alec was standing between the two leather chairs before her father’s desk. He turned at her entrance, his face greenish pale as he twisted his hat in his hands. He looked like he wanted to puke.

Staring out the window, her father didn’t even turn to her.

Els crept up close behind her, nervous at being in the king’s council chambers.

“What’s going on?” Serafina forced out in a choked voice. “Papa, where’s Darius?”

Her father didn’t answer, didn’t turn around, didn’t move from staring out the window.

She took another step into the office. “Papa?” Behind her, Els closed the door quietly. Serafina’s chest began heaving with fright. She swallowed hard. “Alec?” she demanded.

The young lieutenant glanced at the king’s impassive figure uncertainly. He looked at Serafina again. “I’m sorry, Your Highness.”

“Where is he?” she forced out. “Where is Darius?”

At last, the king turned around, his weathered face pale, his jaw taut. “Alec suspects . . . We have pieced it together just moments ago. What I will tell you must not leave this room.”

“Yes, Papa. What is it?” she asked in dread.

“Darius has gone,” he said heavily, “to assassinate Napoleon.”

She stared at him, lifting both hands over her mouth in horror.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,”
Els breathed.

Serafina’s mind flew to his purpose in such a mad scheme.
No Napoleon—no war—no need for Tyurinov.

He could come back to her. Marry her. They could be
together forever.

“Can he succeed?” Serafina choked out.

“Perhaps he can kill him,” her father said, “but he’ll never make it out alive.”

She stared. “But—he’s Darius, Papa. Of course he can. He can do anything.”

“Your Highness,” Alec said gently, shaking his head, “do not hope falsely. If the colonel is captured, it is customary . . . that is, there is a common practice . . .” Alec stopped, closing his eyes briefly, as though he could not bear to say it.

“Tell me!” she cried in dread.

“He will not allow the French to take him alive. He will not allow himself to be used as a pawn. He cannot possibly escape,” her father ground out angrily. “If Darius sees that capture is imminent, he will swallow arsenic.”

After caring for the dapple gray after the long day’s ride, Darius refilled his canteens for tomorrow at the pump and went back to the grubby inn, where the innkeeper offered him dinner.

Returning to his dark, tiny cubicle, he washed his hands, splashed his face and neck, then examined his rifle once more. He glanced over the rest of his equipment, checked the arsenic powder folded into a tiny envelope, then lay down and tried to sleep, fully dressed, his dagger under his pillow.

Sleep was elusive.

It was earlier than he was accustomed to going to bed and he was aware with every inch of his body that he was alone tonight, but he intended to be on his way at first light. The sense of his own death, like a second presence in the room, made him uneasy about closing his eyes. He fought his resistance; it was a struggle to embrace death, as he must. Hope would only distract him now. His mission required a perfectly clear mind, one uncluttered with dreams and futile wishes.

He willed himself to pull together that same, numb resignation he had felt on the way back from Russia, before he had seen Serafina again on the night of the maze. It was slow in coming.

It had been easy then to welcome death, for it had meant only an end to his suffering: His had been the courage of despair. Now he had seen a side of life he had never known existed, a side worth holding on to. It left him battling his own survival instincts, great, powerful forces inside him, tearing him apart, love and hate, death and life.

He strove to blank his mind.

He didn’t want to sleep, but he knew if he got an early enough start, he could make it all the way to Pavia by tomorrow night. The flatter terrain would allow a swifter pace.

Darius folded his arms under his head, idly crossed his heels, and shut his eyes with a faint smile.
I wonder what my
Serafina is doing right now.

She stood there for a long moment, utterly frozen with horror. Then something inside of her snapped.

“No!”

With an anguished cry, she swept everything off her father’s desk in a blind rage, smashing the half-hull model of the royal flagship. She threw the broken pieces at her father when he tried to come near her. She punched him when he tried to comfort her.

“This is your fault! How could you do this? How could you do this?” she screamed at him, at no one, at Darius, at herself. “This is all your fault!”

“That’s enough!” her father roared at her at last, gripping her by the shoulders. “Get control of yourself!”

He stared down wretchedly at her.

“He can’t die. Papa, he can’t, he can’t. You’ve got to save him. Send men to stop him.”

“Oh, Cricket, he’s got too far a lead. He planned it all to a tee.” When tears rushed into his eyes, she crumbled into his arms and wept.

She realized Darius had known all along what he was going to do. Too many of the seemingly innocent things he had said to her at the villa made perfect sense now, though she had not realized at the time that his meaning was dual.

What if I can’t always be there to protect you? You’ve got to
be able to survive without me.

“That bastard, he knew all along.” Sobbing, she clung weakly to her father while he held her in his arms. “He didn’t even give me a chance to stop him! How could he do this to me?” she said over and over.

At some point, her father passed her over to Els.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said gruffly.

Both of them crying, Els led Serafina back to her rooms, for she could barely walk under her own power. Insensate, she didn’t even hear what Els was saying to her. Only one thing pierced the totality of her outrage and her grief.

When she walked into her bedroom, she found Darius’s guitar resting on her bed.

Through its strings was woven the stem of a white daisy and a folded letter.

With shaking hands, she pulled out the folded sheet of fine linen paper and unfolded it, trying to make out the words in his careful, late-taught script through her blinding tears.

My Love,

Accept my gift, for it is freely given. A thousand kisses everywhere. My butterfly, be free. I will be watching over you always.

Yours,
Darius

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The people below looked like ants from where he sat, idly smoking what he supposed might well be his last cheroot. Behind three rows of troops guarding the route Napoleon would take through the city, the spectators lined the streets and thronged the piazza below.

Darius had been ensconced for nearly twenty-four hours on the roof of Milan’s mighty Duomo. It had been nine in the morning when the tiny people began dropping to their knees in a wave that came closer as the pope’s gilded coach drew near.

Peering through his compact folding telescope, Darius had seen the frail white hand emerge from the curtained coach, blessing the people. In the hours that followed, six carriages of cardinals, bishops, and priests came next, while all the church bells in the city began tolling.

He watched and waited with the patience of a cat stalking its prey as the coaches of state arrived next, each pulled by six horses with golden plumes. Everything was gilded, even the harnesses and reins, his telescope showed him. As time dragged, he watched the coaches disgorge velvet-clad ministers, diplomats, local nobility.

He shook his head wryly to see the Bonaparte so-called princesses emerge, two blushing, one preening. That would be Pauline, he supposed, the one who was always making catty remarks about Serafina.

Bitch.

Napoleon’s sisters were followed by their maids of honor and the grenadiers of the guard.

Each group of new arrivals was assisted out of the carriages and escorted slowly through the huge iron doors of the cathedral. Darius knew his window of opportunity to get a clear shot at Napoleon would last only seconds.

He did not check his gun again. Everything was in order.

Yesterday he had discovered the roof of the Duomo as the ideal perch for the assassination. Knowing he would be faced with the problem of getting past the heavy security and into the walled city, Darius had discovered a group of monks from Pavia on the way to the coronation. It was just the solution he needed. He stabled the horse at a local livery and disguised himself as a friar, concealing his weapons under a baggy brown robe, then he joined the group of monks on the road.

Listening to the chatter of the holy men, he was unsurprised to find they were more excited about seeing Pope Pius VII than their new emperor. Once they reached their lodgings in Milan, the group was invited to tour the gigantic Duomo, the largest gothic cathedral in the world, according to the deacon who had so proudly offered them an unauthorized tour. Brother Santiago had tagged along through a city that was bursting with pride and excitement.

While preparations for the coronation were in full swing, workers adorning the altar and the nave with mounds of flowers, the deacon showed the group of monks the baptistry, where Saint Augustine himself had been baptized, then the deacon whispered to the group that, though it really wasn’t allowed, he would show them the roof. He promised fine views of the city. On clear days, he said, one could even see the Maritime Alps.

Darius could see them right now.

The monks had moved on, but Darius had silently slipped away, left alone in the forest of well over a hundred spires, hordes of gargoyles, countless statues on the Duomo’s roof. He had known it was the perfect place for his mission the moment he looked up at the central spire and saw the statue crowning it—the gilded Virgin gazing out serenely over the city.

Now, in the shadow of the Virgin, he shifted himself more securely between the sweeping curlicues of carved marble, squinting against the sun. The breeze was high, the day fine, and unsurprisingly, Napoleon was late.