Royal 02 - Royal Passion (20 page)

Mara, choking on suppressed laughter, tried to fend the dog off while Dumas the elder, the crown prince, and Estes all converged upon her.

It was then that Roderic spoke from the doorway, his tones flinty with contempt. “A charming revel, if somewhat vulgar. May anyone join?"

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It was a day of visitors, of much coming and going. Juliana, sweeping into the salon behind her brother, was all smiling graciousness toward Arvin, the crown prince of Prussia. Her apparent pleasure in seeing him so dazed his senses, coming as it did on the heels of Roderic's less than cordial greeting, that before he knew it she had carried him off for a drive to see Paris in the snow. The Dumases departed before luncheon, but, pressed by the prince, promised to return for dinner that evening. No sooner had the door closed upon them than it opened to admit a member of the Académie, a politician with virulent republican sentiments, and a scandalous old Vicomtesse who was legitimist to the heart and fierce with it. The trio stayed to luncheon and very nearly came to blows over the
daube glace.
During the afternoon, several ladies and gentlemen from Louis Philippe's court dropped by, complaining of boredom. Life was duller than usual at this season due to the illness of Madame Adelaide, the sister of the king; Ruthenia House was the only place they could be certain of finding entertainment and witty conversation without the aroma of the nostrums prescribed by doctors. Along with the comtesse, the politician, and the academician, who seemed entrenched for the duration, they settled down to tables of cards.

They were joined during the afternoon by Théophile Gau-tier
of La Presse,
the journalist who was also a poet. He read them a portion of his latest poem, a fragment concerning his travels to a country whose name Mara did not quite catch. It sounded good, however, and was applauded by all. He complained that everyone was traveling and writing about it, or else had plans to do so. Before long there would be books and poems only about foreign places and none about France. Exception was taken to this statement by an older man who strolled into the room. He had been traveling for years over France, he said, looking at its ancient buildings and writing about them.

"Learned articles,” Gautier scoffed, “but your most famous short story is about a Spanish lady of the evening named Carmen!"

Roderic, lounging before the fire with a glass of brandy at his elbow, cocked a brow at the pair. “Those learned articles have meant the preservation of many of the architectural glories of France. Appointing Mérimée Inspector of Monuments was one of the most important decisions of the July Monarchy."

Prosper Mérimée bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment, but one of the court members protested."You make it sound as if you expect to hear nothing more from Louis Philippe. The man isn't dead yet."

"Very true,” Roderic said, picking up his brandy glass and staring into the swirling liquor. “My apologies."

Mara looked up sharply from where she was taking a hand in a game of old-fashioned
brisque.
Through her mind ran the instructions from de Landes: She was to make certain that Roderic was near the king. Where Roderic was, the cadre would be also. Could it have something to do with the fact that his men were known as the Death Corps? Could there be some plan to assassinate the king? But if there was, and if Roderic was involved, why should it be necessary for her to see that he was in the correct place? And why would a man active in the ministry under Louis Philippe, dependent on the favor of the king, be playing a part? It made no sense. And yet there was some reason. There must be, or else she would not be there in Ruthenia House.

Roderic was the consummate host, seeing to the pleasure of his guests, engaging them in conversation that crackled and sparked like a pyrotechnic display. He had a knack for making people feel welcome, but there was little ease in his presence. There was instead a sense of vivid life, of sharp-edged enjoyment so intense that no one appeared to want to leave for fear they would miss some excitement.

And yet that intensity was fueled, Mara recognized as the day wore on, by his black temper. If she had not noted the signs herself, the soft-stepping attitude of the cadre would have alerted her. The quiet lash of his voice in argument, the brilliance of his logic that annihilated opponents, the gentle tone he used and the solemnity of his features as he encouraged those who had made foolish remarks to enlarge upon them were signals that could not be ignored. So alas was his outrageous gallantry toward the ladies as he smiled upon them with a ferocity that made one hang upon his arm with her breast pressed against him and her eyes bright, while another developed a habit of giggling every time he looked her way.

Juliana, returned from her drive with the Prussian, watched her brother for a moment, then sent Mara a quick glance. “If he isn't careful, he is going to find himself with a sword cane in his back. That, or else under the table from mixing brandy with wine. He never drinks to excess unless he is hurt or enraged. I wonder what can have occurred to put him in such a passion? One would almost swear he had been thwarted in love."

"Hardly that,” Mara said, her tone tart.

"No? How interesting."

How much did Juliana know of what had taken place the night before? Her face with its well-defined features gave nothing away. Mara did not think that Sarus or Michael would have spoken of what they had seen, but there was no way of knowing what servants might have been about or who else might have looked out of their rooms. Nor was there any way of guessing what those who had seen might have made of the sight of the prince returning her to her bedchamber. It was an act that could mean anything.

But had Roderic been angry then? Perhaps a little, she had to concede, but not in the same way he was now. Slowly, she said, “It must have been something else."

"Such as?"

"I have no idea."

She had not spoken to Roderic, nor he to her, all that long day. Facing him had not been as bad as she had expected due to the melee with the dogs. Her chagrin at being found surrounded by men and with the younger Dumas's face buried in her lap, plus her anger at Roderic's deliberate misreading of the situation, had carried her over the first moments. His own complete lack of consciousness with her, as if the events of the night before had never taken place, had also helped.

And yet remaining in the same room with him all that long day had been nearly unendurable. She thought that he realized it and cared not at all for her sensibilities. It almost seemed that he stayed on, watching her instead of closeting himself with his affairs as he usually did, as a punishment. She was being fanciful, of course. Her discomfort was real enough, but his reaction to it was surely a figment of her own imagination.

Night fell and dinnertime came at last. Twenty-eight sat down to the table, including the Dumases, father and son. The food was rich in variety and beautifully prepared, the wine bountiful. Mara, pushing a piece of veal about her plate, reminded herself to compliment the cook on her ingenuity in providing so well for a number that had gradually increased as the evening advanced. The voices of the diners were loud, their spirits convivial. Both affected her like the scrape of fingernails on a windowpane. She could feel a headache forming behind her forehead, a sign of the strain of the day. More than anything else, she longed to be alone in the quiet of her room. As soon as it was possible, she was going to slip away.

They were leaving the dining room when Sarus came to touch Roderic on the shoulder. The prince leaned his head to listen to a whispered message, then with a graceful excuse left them, promising to join them in the salon later.

The party became more subdued almost at once, though it was still lively. Almost everyone knew everyone else. People congregated in groups here and there throughout the room, but particularly around Juliana, who sat on the settee in the center of the salon. The Prussian, who had returned for dinner, hovered over her, while the elder Dumas paid her extravagant praise and did his best to convince her that she should give up being a princess to become an actress.

One of the few people who stood apart, alone, in the room was Luca. He leaned against a window embrasure with his shoulders braced against the frame, his dark gaze following every gesture and change of expression on the face of Roderic's sister. There was gypsy blood in Juliana, if Roderic was to be believed, and perhaps it responded to the silent admiration. At any rate the princess was aware of it, for now and then she would look toward Luca and her mouth would curve in a secretive smile.

Mara had thought of herself as being apart also until she was joined where she stood before one of the two fireplaces by the younger Dumas. He placed a hand on the high marble mantel, leaning against it as he brushed back his tailcoat to put the other hand in his pocket. “They are saying, Mademoiselle Incognito, that you have become the mistress of Prince Roderic. Are they correct?"

"What an impertinent question!” she answered, trying for a light tone.

"You don't deny it, so it must be true. I would like to warn you that the life of a courtesan,
la vie galante,
is not as easy or exciting as it may appear."

His manner was serious and no doubt he was sincere; still, she was in no mood for lectures. “You have spoken plainly, so you will not be surprised if I tell you that such advice sounds a little odd coming from one who has, or so gossip has it, shared his father's mistresses for years."

He shrugged. “I was once in the habit of wearing out my father's mistresses and breaking in his new shoes. No longer."

"Indeed,” she said politely, and looked around for some means of extricating herself.

"I have no right to speak to you, I know, but you remind me strongly of someone I once knew. She was called Marie Duplessis, but her real name was simply Alphonsine Plessis."

"Was?"

"She died not long ago of a lung ailment. She was twenty-three."

"She was ... dear to you?"

A shadow of pain crossed his face. “If you mean to ask if she was my mistress, no. We were lovers, but I could not afford to keep her. She drifted away, became the favorite of others, the toast of Paris. But the life of camellias and diamonds and furs doesn't last. As they get older, the women grow grasping and afraid, or else disease claims them. You don't belong any more than Alphonsine did. You should go back where you came from, be a farmer's wife, a nun, a spinster—anything except this."

Mara looked up at him, her gaze dark. “I would,” she said, “if I could. Now if you will excuse me?"

She walked away and did not stop until she was out of the room. Still, the things the younger Dumas had said echoed in her mind. She had not needed to hear them to realize the risk she ran; she had known it from the beginning. Outside in the main gallery, she placed her back to the wall beside the door and closed her eyes. What would become of her when her association with the prince became known? Even if she and her grandmother told what had happened, who would believe them? It seemed so unlikely.

She had few illusions. Soon she would be notorious as the mistress of the prince. Once word reached New Orleans, there would be knowing looks and laughter behind fans. They would think that she had made that fatal misstep against which all young women were warned. Inevitably, there would be those who would say that they had expected it all along after the way her father had indulged her and the flighty way she had behaved.

What else would there be for her except to stay on in Paris, to become what everyone thought her already? She had never dreamed when she left Louisiana that she was destined to become a courtesan, a participant in
la vie galante,
the life of pleasing men.

There seemed to be no way out. Through no fault of her own, she had been drawn into this morass of lies and subterfuge. Now she was trapped.

She pushed away from the wall and started toward her rooms. The stair gallery above the entranceway with its double line of windows was cold. She hugged her arms around herself and hurried along. Where the stair gallery met the north-south corridor of rooms that formed the St. Andréw's cross, she turned left, crossing the three rooms that were seldom used, those leading to the private salon and long gallery favored by the cadre on most days. There were no fires here, and they were also chill and damp. She turned left again to reach the antechamber that contained the servants’ back stairs and gave access to her own suite overlooking the west court.

The door to the antechamber was just closing as she neared it. She thought nothing of it, expecting only a house servant on some errand. Pressing down the handle, pushing it open in one smooth movement in her haste, she stepped inside.

Roderic whirled, dropping into a crouch as with a sliding snick he drew a dagger from his belt. She stopped with a smothered cry. He cursed, fluently and long. Behind him a man walked out of the shadows.

"Introduce me, my dear prince. A lady who can face you with a knife in your hand without screaming the house down must be as discreet as she is lovely."

It was Charles Louis Napolean, Prince Louis Napolean if he were given his proper title, the nephew of Napolean I and therefore the Bonaparte pretender to the throne of France. This was the man with whom Roderic had been closeted since dinner.

She gave him her hand, curtsying as he bowed above it. He did not release her fingers, but stood holding them in a gentle grasp as he stared at her. She looked at him just as frankly as she tried to decide what business he could have with Roderic. He was not a prepossessing-looking man, being of no more than medium height with narrow shoulders and thin brown hair with a slight wave in it. His mustache and small beard were neatly trimmed, and he wore a dark brown frock coat and tan waistcoat with charcoal trousers. His best feature was his eyes. Dark and liquid, hooded as if to conceal his thoughts, they held a steady determination.

"Enchanted ... Chère, is it not?"