Royal 02 - Royal Passion

by Jennifer Blake

  Her chest ached. There was a red haze before her eyes. Each footstep on the marble stairs grated in her ears with the abrasiveness of a grindstone. On they came. She could feel the honed concentration of the man at her side, the poised and balanced intent.

  De Landes had moved closer and was within a few feet of where she stood. His attention was not on her, however, but on the door. He stared at the opening with a feral grin baring his teeth as the footsteps sounded, louder, closer, then slowing from the long climb as the king reached the top.

  They stopped, became a stride as Louis Philippe crossed the landing, moving toward the wide double doors. De Landes threw a hurried glance behind him, then stared in triumph at the prince. Mara, still watching him, saw that the dark man had looked first toward the waiter, who was now only a few feet away. Within seconds the king would appear. Silence held the room as every eye was turned on the door.

  Driven by an uncontrollable impulse, Mara put out her hand to touch the prince's arm. She spoke in an anguished whisper, forcing the words past the constriction in her throat, “Take care, Roderic, oh, take care—"

  There was a brief flicker of movement in the doorway. The chest of the majordomo in charge of announcing guests swelled as he drew breath. “His Majesty, Louis Philippe, king of the French!"

  The king, a practiced and genial smile creasing his lined face, his barrel-chested form held with conscious and regal erectness, stepped into the room. Silks and taffetas rustled as the gathering swayed, bending like blown wheat as they paid their respects.

  In that instant the white-clad waiter drew a pistol and sprang forward. Roderic, moving like the uncoiling of a cracked whip, was upon him in an instant, flinging up the waiter's arm. The report exploded in the room with a rolling concussion that made the chandelier clash with the tinkling of crystal lusters and brought plaster down from the ceiling.

  The crowd surged away from the center of conflict with yells and screams. Cries of “Assassin! Assassin! They've killed the king!” arose in the sudden babble. The cordon of Roderic's garde du corps tightened, moving in upon the king, sweeping him back out the door and into the safety of his attendants’ arms. As a passage was cleared from the room, men and women poured toward the doorway, surrounding the small struggling group where Roderic and Michael held the waiter.

  Suddenly, there was a whispering rush followed by a soft thud, a deadly sound in the din. The waiter stiffened, then slumped with the haft of a knife protruding from his chest. Panic ran through the guests who were nearest. Screaming, babbling, shouting, cursing, they pushed and shoved, trampling each other as they tried to find a way out.

  Mara stood still with the shock of comprehension. She saw de Landes backing away from the knot of men around the waiter, saw him turn and run with blank terror on his face.

  A strong, hard hand caught her arm. She saw the white uniform and every muscle tensed.

  "Don't be afraid,” Michael said, his thin, earnest face flushed and his voice breathless as he fought to keep her from being jostled by the crowd. “It's only me. I'm to get you out of here, Roderic's orders."

  "No,” she cried, “I can't go with you!"

  "There's nothing you can do to help. No matter how it looks, I assure you that Roderic has it under control. Come on."

  She was half pushed, half dragged through the struggling crowd as Michael, with the ruthless use of elbows and fists, made a path for them both. It seemed useless to protest further. Even if she could make Michael understand, he would still not disobey the orders of his cousin, the prince. There was no one in that maddened gathering to whom she could appeal, no one who would help her. It seemed best to do as she was directed until this upheaval was over. She could think of what she must do later.

  They left the room by a side door that led to a back stair. Apparently, the choice of exit was no accident, for at the foot of the narrow staircase they found Luca with Juliana in tow, along with Trude and Estes, who were holding their wraps, which had been left downstairs. Others also knew of this back way out, however, for they could hear them on the stairs behind them.

  No words were wasted in greeting or exclaiming. They raced along the dark corridor leading from the stairs and burst out of a door that gave on to a side court. They crossed it. Ahead of them was a small garden with gravel paths and a gate that, in turn, gave on to the front court where their carriage, conveniently turned toward the street, waited. Behind the carriage were the mounts of the cadre. In an instant, Mara and Juliana were handed into the vehicle and the cadre mounted. Michael shouted an order, and they plunged away from the bright lights and confusion of the Beausire townhouse.

  The carriage rocked and swayed, rattling over the cobblestones with a force that made Mara's teeth clatter together. She clung to the velvet hanging strap, staring into the darkness, her body shaking not only with the violence of the ride, but also with reaction.

  Assassination. The thought had crossed her mind, but she had not really believed it. De Landes had known that the attempt was going to be made; that much was clear. What was not clear was whether he had wanted the prince to be there to prevent it or to be the scapegoat. It seemed the latter, and yet the man prided himself on the twists and turns of his planning. Considering his position in the ministry under Louis Philippe, it made no sense for him to try to depose the king. Had he thought to benefit in some way then, from being on the scene when the plot to kill the king was brought to nothing? Had he seen to it that Roderic and his cadre, famous for the prevention of such crimes, were there to do the dirty work while he stepped in to take the credit?

  But who would become king if Louis Philippe was killed? The young comte de Paris, grandson of the king, whose father Ferdinand, the duc d'Orléans, had been killed in a carriage accident five years ago, was next in line. Doubtless a regency would be declared if he took the throne, perhaps one controlled by his mother, Helen of Mecklenburg-Schwerin. But other ambitious men might come close to the throne in such a case, men such as de Landes who knew how to think ahead. Could that be it?

  Did it matter? The king had not been assassinated. Roderic and his men had intervened to prevent it. The waiter who had made the attempt was almost surely dead, and lost with him was the name of the man or the cause for which he had risked so much.

  There had been a moment, when the waiter had been knifed, that she had looked instinctively for the newest member of the cadre, Luca the gypsy. He had been near, though if he had thrown that lethal blade—and, if so, on whose order?—she could not tell and preferred not to guess.

  In these things she had no part. The questions that did concern her, and most deeply, were whether de Landes would consider that she had failed, and, if he did, what he meant to do about her grandmother. Another was whether Roderic realized that it was she who had in all deliberation enticed him into the fiasco tonight. She wondered, too, if there was a reason why he had sent Michael to rescue her and return her to Ruthenia House other than concern for her safety. And if there was, what did he intend to do with her? It did nothing toward allaying her fears to discover, as they passed a gaslight street lamp, that Juliana was watching her with compassion.

  Mara moistened her dry lips. “Where is Roderic? Why has he remained behind?"

  "There will be an official inquiry,” the other girl said, her voice calm. “Those directly involved will be expected to give their version of what occurred. Doubtless King Louis Philippe will wish a verbatim report in person also, especially in view of my brother's position here."

  "His position?"

  "As the official representative of our country."

  "I see. Do—do you think that we will be called upon for questioning?"

  "It seems unlikely. This is one of the few occasions when it is just as well to be female. In any case,” Roderic's sister added in considered tones, “I believe we can depend on Roderic to shield us."

  Was the choice of words a deliberate double entendre? Mara could not be certain, and she dared not ask.
>
  Back at Ruthenia House, they settled down to wait, for what it was not quite certain. By unspoken agreement they took up positions in the public salon since it was felt that this was an occasion of a certain formality. Fires were hastily kindled, and trays of wine and of various savories and cakes were brought. There was much heated discussion of what had really happened and when. They spoke also of why, though not of the reason that they had been there to stop it. It was, Mara thought, an exercise in mass diplomacy.

  Roderic's cadre was not, either collectively or singly, stupid. They knew their prince had not meant to attend the ball, knew that he had changed his plans for her sake. They had received certain orders concerning the arrival of the king, orders that they knew had been kept from her. It was plain then that they suspected her of involvement in the night's affair. They withheld judgment, pending Roderic's return. There was a general feeling that it was possible the prince had reasons that none could know or guess. Their attitude toward her, however, lacked its usual warmth. At the same time, they treated her with the brusque solicitude usually reserved for those on the eve of their execution.

  It was daybreak when Roderic returned at last. His temper was short, his mood perilous, and his words flaying. He had, he said, been suffering the blatherings and slow wits of officials for the past five hours and had nothing more to say on the subject of the assassination attempt. The king was tucked up in his bed sleeping the sleep of the well-served. The waiter had died without speaking. The man who had killed him had not been identified; he had taken himself off posthaste, vanishing in the crowd. It would be as well, the prince of Ruthenia suggested, if his entourage could find in one of those three examples conduct they could emulate. Except for Mara.

  Within moments the salon had been cleared and she was left alone with the prince. She sat with her silk skirts spread around her, her ermine cape still about her shoulders, and her hands clasped in her lap. Pride kept her back straight and her gaze steady as she watched Roderic, but inside her was fluttering panic and the leaden depression of guilt.

  He stood staring into the fire with one booted foot resting on the massively ornate brass andiron, allowing the endless moments to stretch. At last he turned and placed his hands behind his back. His bearing, regal and military, conferred upon him a towering authority. His fluid yet controlled movements gave an impression of leashed power. In the softness of his tone as he spoke was incalculable menace. “Who are you?"

  "Don't!” His voice cut across hers with the slashing force of a sword blade before he went on."Don't make the mistake of thinking that a new lie will serve."

  "No, I won't,” she said quietly. “My name is Marie Angeline Delacroix."

  "Mara."

  She stared at him without surprise. It had come to her that his information-gathering system was too well organized for him not to have known who de Landes was, or at least to have discovered his identity after seeing him with her at the Hugo salon. It must have been easy for him to learn who she was. “Why? Why did you let me go on?"

  "You seemed to lack the qualities of a true conspirator. Besides, I was curious.” The words were curt, tinged with self-derision.

  "Were you, indeed? About what?"

  "To see how far you would go."

  The color drained from her face. He watched it go and felt inexplicably that he had struck an unarmed opponent. His anger was unappeased, but he could at least be fair. He made an abrupt gesture of negation, allowing his gaze to fall. “It was an experience of novelty and enthralling charm. To discover the purpose behind it, it had to continue."

  "It must have been an expensive curiosity,” she said, lifting a hand to the pearls at her throat.

  "Nothing out of the ordinary."

  It was amazing, the pain a few words could bring. She swallowed, then went on, “Well, at least it's over now. Whatever you may think, I'm glad that the king is safe."

  "That is, of course, an immense relief. Perhaps the next assassination you attempt will be equally unproductive, for the sake of your tender conscience."

  "There will not be another."

  "Prove it so that we may all sing merrily and shout our great thanksgivings."

  She raised her gray gaze to meet the flaring mockery in his eyes. “What do you want of me? Shall I say I'm sorry? Very well. I will always regret my part in what happened last night. Now will you let me go?"

  "Go? There is nothing under God's blue bowl of heaven that will make me do that."

  "But you must!” She had to get away, had to contact de Landes to find out what he meant to do with Grandmère Helene.

  He moved to loom over her. For all its quietness, his voice was inflexible as he came finally to what he wanted to know. “Must I? Screw up your courage, Mara, my own Chère. Scrape your brain pan and rake over the embers of your heart. Make me listen, tell me something I will believe. Give me a reason why I should."

  She bit the inside of her lip. “I could tell you, but you would not understand."

  "My imagination has a level or two you have not yet explored. I recommend you try."

  The bronze planes of his face were angular and hard with determination, but behind the blue glitter of his eyes lay a fathomless stillness. Her answer was important to him. He would not press her further, but he would have an answer, no matter how long the wait. For this moment censure and condemnation were suspended, but in return he required no less than the absolute truth. What he wanted of her, she knew with paralyzing certainty, was total capitulation.

  It was not a desire she could afford to disregard, even if it seemed wise to do so.

  She drew a deep breath. Her tones strained, she said, “It's my grandmother."

  "Your grandmother."

  The words were blank. Mara knew a moment of gratification that she had been able to surprise him, but it was shortlived. Haltingly, the story came out, of Dennis Mulholland and his death, of the journey to Paris, of de Landes and Grandmère Helene's addiction to gambling, and of the consequences, Once she began to speak, she could not seem to stop. With tears rising slowly in her eyes, she told him of her fears for the elderly woman and her horror of what de Landes might do to her in revenge for the failure of the evening before.

  "You must let me go,” she said, her voice near breaking as she put out her hand. “I have to see de Landes to persuade him to let me see Grandmère, to know how she fares. She is old and frail and—and used to having her way. She won't be able to bear being held against her will for long. I've done what he asked of me, and it may be that he will release her or at least let me find some other way of paying the debt."

  He turned sharply, moving away from her. “What of your debt to me?"

  "What debt?” She looked at his broad back in bewilderment.

  "The price of betrayal."

  She rose and moved swiftly to stand in front of him. “You don't understand! My grandmother—"

  "I understand. And for the sake of a blood tie I am to allow you to prostitute yourself to a traitor? Oh, no, Mara. No."

  "I wouldn't!"

  "Wouldn't you? If it was required? Your loyalty is an endearing trait, but not one I care to encourage, not at that expense."

  She looked away from him, then down at her hands."What else can I do?"

  "You can leave it to me."

  The words rang with the promise of concentrated action. She jerked her head up, her eyes wide. “You? What do you mean?"

  "I will find your grandmother and return her to you."

  It did not occur to her to doubt that he could, or would, do exactly what he said. “Why? Why should you do that?"

  "Let us say,” he answered, his expression noncommittal, “that my nature is altogether vindictive. I dislike being made to play the fool. If I remove your grandmother, supposing there is a grandmother, I take the advantage now held by de Landes. She becomes my hostage."

  "Yours? But for what purpose?"

  He smiled, a brief movement of the lips that left his eyes cool. �
�Oh, for your conduct in and out of my bed. What else?"

  Swinging away from her, he moved to the door, where he sent a footman running to fetch the cadre.

  It was the gypsies who found Grandmère Helene. Infiltrating every village, stable, and chicken run; seeing, hearing everything while they bought and sold horses, juggled, tumbled, and sold love potions and told fortunes at fairs. They knew every time a foal was dropped, a hen went to nest, or a maiden fell from grace. They certainly knew when a stranger entered their district. The request went out in the calo language, traveling as fast as men could ride in relays, for information about an elderly woman of a certain description being held at some gentleman's seat. Back came the answer so quickly that it might have been carried on the wind. There was such a one at a chateau in the Loire Valley not far from the forests of Chambord. She was well and happy, all amiability in fact, though perhaps a little mad.

  By the time the news arrived, the rescue expedition had been organized and was ready to mount. They left Paris in the dark hours before dawn, a group of men on horseback riding at the pace of the fast traveling carriage that swayed along among them. The carriage was low-slung and lean, painted gray-black. Inside it Juliana lay back on the cushions, trying to sleep, while Mara sat upright staring out into the darkness. The prince's sister had come because she could not bear to miss the excitement, Mara from a need to see her grandmother—and because Roderic insisted. She thought he did not trust her to remain at Ruthenia House if left alone, though he had said that her presence was to reassure her grandmother when she was confronted by her would-be rescuers.