Royal 02 - Royal Passion (36 page)

"It seems unlikely."

"Perhaps you don't know your son as well as you think."

"I know he is a silver-tongued devil drunk with the delusion that he stands at the center of God's universe and has use of the four corners of the pellucid sky for his handkerchief."

"He is,” she remarked demurely, “a great deal like his father."

"He is power mad and graceless with it, dense of mind for those things he has no wish to understand, but as cunning as a Gascony peasant at plotting degrees of treason and confusion to his enemies. He is agreeable to any piddling or dangerous mischief and resists common sense as if it were a disease."

There was heat in the tirade, though no virulence. Mara smiled at the man beside her. “And you would not have it any other way."

"He would not thank you for comparing us or for defending him."

"Then it's a good thing it isn't required."

There was in the look the king gave her a peculiar kind of approval. She had the fleeting impression, brief but definite, that she had passed some kind of trial. It gave her an unpleasant sensation, reminding her of those first days with his son when she had been forced to watch her every word, every gesture. The king had been more subtle, or perhaps she had just had less reason to be on her guard. Either way, she was grateful that she had not known.

The coachman appeared to have been given his instructions in advance. Instead of turning toward home, a short drive, he swung his horses in the direction of the center of town. They had threaded their way through the back streets, inhaling the smells of Paris compounded of roasting coffee and wine dregs; the aromas of tobacco from the shops and of ancient stone, ancient furniture, and ancient sewer drains.

Now they were turning into the Champs-Elysées. The boulevardiers, gentlemen who made a habit of promenading up and down the long, straight thoroughfare for the purpose of ogling ladies in passing carriages, raised their silk hats to her. A number of the glossy vehicles, known as victorias since they had found favor with England's queen, glided past with their tops down so that the ladies sheltering from the sun's rays under fringed parasols, whether comtesses or courtesans, could be seen while enjoying the mild weather. Under the bare limbs of the trees that lined the avenue were gypsy fortune-tellers, an organ grinder with his monkey, a man with a trained dog, and a trio of musicians with an upturned hat placed hopefully in front of them.

So long as she was alone with King Rolfe and temporarily in his good graces, however, it seemed as good an opportunity as she was likely to have to ask a question that troubled her.

Taking a deep breath, she said, “Can you tell me, sir, why Roderic is in Paris?"

"Easily. He is the bulwark of my information system, its strongest and most dependable link."

"Yours?"

"It began that way, and continues, though for some years he has delved into the affairs of Europe for his own reasons."

"If that's so, then—then you were not estranged before he came here?"

"Estranged, no, but that does not imply agreement between us."

She considered that for a long moment. “May I ask for what purpose you are gathering information in France?"

He gave her an appraising glance as if debating the wisdom of answering. His mind was made up quickly. “The stability of any country in Europe is affected by instability in any other. It's as well to know where the underpinnings are weakest."

"You would not—intervene—to increase, or to prevent, that instability?"

He lifted a brow, saying softly, “Would I not?"

"You must have known then what Roderic was doing while he was here, you must have other sources of information, otherwise you would not have known about me and so would not be here now. That being so, why are you so incensed with him?"

Rather than answering her question, he said, “It is kind of you to be concerned under the circumstances."

"It ... isn't kindness.” She looked away into the street.

"What felicity. And brains as well. I have, perhaps, been a fool, but I did mean well."

"What?"

His expression abstracted, the king did not answer.

The days turned gray once more, and cold rain fell. Week after week, the chill dankness continued. The long gallery echoed with the snick and clang of sword blades as the cadre worked off their fidgets. Queen Angeline, in the best tradition of royal ladies, started a tapestry, a scene of hunters on horseback with a gypsy camp in the background and around the edges a thousand tree leaves depicting a vast forest. She sat stitching for long hours in the private salon in the royal apartments. Sometimes Mara helped, taking a part of the large canvas on her own lap. Juliana often plied a needle also, but seldom for long. She was too restless to sit still for any length of time.

It was on a particularly gray morning that Mara, moving from her own rooms toward the royal apartments, stopped to listen to the sound of a bout with swords coming from the long gallery. There was something different about it, something wrong, too slow and uncertain, in the beat of the blades. Michael and Estes, she knew, had been sent on some commission by Roderic, while the twins had discovered a new object for their affections. They were, with single-minded charm that seemed unlikely to fail, pursuing her maid Lila. Several members of the cadre were, she knew, out on errands. Swinging around, she moved to look into the matter.

Inside the double doors of the gallery entrance she paused. Before her was a sight she had never expected to see. Alone in the long room were Trude and Juliana. The female member of the cadre and the princess faced each other with buttoned épées.

Trude wore her trousers and a shirt. Juliana had put on a loose smock over what appeared to be an old habit skirt tucked up in front in order to give herself more freedom of movement. Roderic's sister looked up as Mara entered.

"Do come and join us, for pity's sake. Trude is determined to teach someone to fence, and my arm muscles are numb!"

"It is good to be able to defend oneself,” the other girl said as she stepped back, disengaging. The scratch on her face had healed, fading without a scar. She still wore her trousers and took Roderic's orders with the others, but her braided hairstyle was softer, with deep waves at the temples.

"Yes, I know, particularly if one is a princess in these trying times.” Juliana put the point of her épée on the floor and leaned the hilt on her hip as she wiped her perspiring face with the tail of her skirt.

"Any woman should be able to protect her person."

"My person is tired,” Juliana complained. “I think it would be easier to surrender."

"But cowardly. Besides, surrendering to the mob can be dangerous."

"All right, I won't surrender, but I demand reinforcements. Mara, please!"

"I have another épée,” Trude said with the brightening of her austere expression that was as close as she ever came to enthusiasm. “We shall be female musketeers."

And so began the lessons. They took place on the mornings when the long gallery was empty since neither Juliana nor Mara felt any inclination to listen to the strictures and advice, or suffer the overzealous demonstrations, of the men.

The lessons included not only instruction in swordplay, but also in hand-to-hand fighting, in the handling of a knife, both in close combat and throwing it, and also proficiency with a pistol. For practice with the last weapon, they drove out to the edge of town, telling anyone who asked, most mendaciously, that they were going to visit a silk warehouse.

Sometimes Angeline came to watch and offer encouragements, but always firmly disclaimed any desire to try the weapons for herself. Mara and Juliana had cause to wonder if they were wise; their muscles were so cramped and sore at first that they were hard put to find excuses for their involuntary expressions of pain. With the passage of time, their strength grew and they became quite adept at the various skills. Their confidence increased with the strength and suppleness of their bodies, and, though they did not make the mistake of thinking that they could hold their own in every situation, they had the satisfaction of knowing that they could defend themselves.

It was on a night perhaps a week after the lessons had begun that Mara came wide awake. She lay listening, trying to identify what had roused her. At last she caught the murmur of voices coming from the antechamber where the back stairs descended. Easing out of bed, she picked up her épée, which lay on a chaise longue, and crept toward the open door of her dressing room. On the far side of that small cabinet of a room was the door into the antechamber. Crossing to it, she placed her hand on the handle.

She jerked it back at once. Directly on the other side of the door, the voice of King Rolfe could be heard. Its tones rang mellifluous and freighted with heavy irony through the heavy panel. Almost before he finished speaking, Roderic's voice began, the timbre of his words the same, though it carried an undercurrent of rage.

She could not tell what they were saying. It was frustrating beyond endurance not to know what was happening. It appeared that Rolfe was barring his son's entrance to her apartment, but why and with what means she could not tell. Before she could make up her mind to open the door and find out, the king issued what sounded like an ultimatum. Roderic answered, then their voices began to fade away.

Had Roderic been on his way to visit her bedchamber?

She leaned her forehead against the door, a little weak at the thought. More disturbing still, however, was the next question that occurred. How many other times had he tried and been turned away?

She would not have admitted him in any case. Or would she? Desire was a strange thing, a destroyer of resolve and moral sense. She had learned far too much of her own responses of late to say with certainty what she would and would not do.

She felt sheltered, safe. The protective mantle of a king was a privileged thing. At the same time, she was instinctively wary.

Why? Why was he interfering? Was it as Roderic said? Was his father guarding her against his attentions because he thought Roderic unworthy? Or was it at some request of Angeline's, made out of motherly concern and a sense of responsibility for the daughter of her former suitor? It was more likely because her position was so equivocal; as a goddaughter she could not be thrown from the house, but as an adventuress who had embroiled their son in a political and social fiasco, she must be prevented from entangling him further in her net.

She was sure of only one thing. It was not mere propriety. Rolfe had disposed of that motive when he had refused their marriage.

Nothing she could think of satisfied her. She had the feeling that there was something more she could not see. It might be something simple, but she doubted it; both Roderic and his father were too fond of the devious for that to be so.

Like a rat in the wainscoting, she worried at the question for the rest of the night, but came no closer to the answer.

The affairs of others in the house proceeded with less complication. On the following evening as Mara made ready to dress for dinner, she decided on a hot bath to ease some of the soreness from her muscles. She rang for Lila and began to take down her hair.

The girl was slow in coming. When she finally arrived, she lingered outside the dressing room. The sound of her quiet giggles and comments could be heard, along with the rumble of bass voices. It took Mara only a moment to identify Jared and Jacques.

The dressing-room door gave inward and Lila whisked inside, turning back to speak through the cracked opening. “No, no. Not now, I have work to do. Later, I promise!"

The maid pushed at a protesting twin with one hand before slamming the door shut upon them both. She turned, then, seeing Mara standing in the bedchamber doorway, dropped a quick curtsy. “Forgive me, mademoiselle. They are so persistent, those two."

Mara smiled at the girl's flushed excitement. “Which do you like best?"

"I cannot say. They are two beautiful men."

"It would be hard to choose, I will agree."

"But yes, very hard, and so I will have both."

"Both?"

"A double pleasure, yes?"

"I suppose so,” Mara said doubtfully.

"You think it unfair? Perhaps it would be, if it were a question of marriage, but I know, me, that it is not. Some day they will each marry a lady very different from that chosen by the other. For now they amuse themselves, first here, first there. I also."

"You must be careful not to get hurt."

"It is kind of you to be concerned, and I will try,” Lila answered, the look in her dark eyes roguish, but also wise beyond her years. “But it is necessary, sometimes, to pay in pain for our pleasures."

It was too true to be denied. Mara turned away, a drawn look about her features.

Lila came forward to touch her arm. “Why so sad, mademoiselle? If it is because the prince no longer sends for you, then take heart. He does not because he cannot."

Mara swung sharply around. “What are you saying?"

"The old one, Sarus, he gives the order that no servant is to bring such a summons to you on pain of dismissal. The instructions, he says, come from the king."

"A ... very thorough man, King Rolfe."

"Just so, mademoiselle. I do not think, me, that the prince would embarrass you by sending anyone other than his trusted valet, but the order was given as I have said."

Anger at the interference and relief that she was spared the final rejection warred inside Mara, along with a peculiar and most reluctant gratitude. Whatever the reasons for the ban on intimacy between Roderic and herself, it seemed that the results would be to prevent her from slipping into the role of perpetual mistress to which she had begun to fear her own desires might lead her.

And yet, in the empty nights that followed, when she lay alone in her bed with the fire dying and the cold creeping into the bedchamber, she was not sure that she should be grateful.

Toward the middle of February, the weather turned warm once more, becoming almost balmy. Over breakfast a few days after the change, Grandmère Helene mentioned that Mara had not seen Versailles. Immediately, Roderic and the cadre, grasping at any excuse for activity, mounted an excursion to the famous estate outside of Paris. Once the most grand, and most copied, royal residence in the civilized world, the magnificent buildings had been stripped of their furnishings and vandalized during the revolution. Early in his reign, Louis Philippe had begun restoration of the place and its gardens, creating a museum there dedicated “To all the Glories of France.” Many of the priceless antiquities and works of art had been returned. A vast amount of work had been done, and the place was now well worth seeing.