Royal 02 - Royal Passion

by Jennifer Blake

  "Well. And Angeline?"

  "Anxious about what transpires here in Paris. I am her emissary and unofficial minister of justice. It seemed there might be a need for such a dispensation."

  In its way it was a question concerning the situation, or at least the part the elderly woman and her granddaughter had in it. The answer of Grandmère Helene was oblique.

  "If you have been informed of what has been happening, then you will be aware that the young lady at the center of the controversy is my granddaughter. May I present her to you, sir?"

  Rolfe turned and stepped toward Mara with a faint smile curving his mouth and stringent assessment in his eyes. Those eyes were no longer as vividly blue as his son's, and his hair was more silver than gold. His face was weatherbeaten, etched with lines of experience and character, and yet there was in it an implacable strength and insurmountable will that, added to his years, made him seem for the moment even more formidable than his son, if such a thing were possible.

  He took her hand as she curtsied once more, raising her with a brief pressure. “Mara. A name from the Greek with yet a lilt of Erin, and allied with it the peat-smoke-colored eyes that see the future in dreams. With your beauty of face, it makes a powerful distraction. I don't wonder that Ruthenian diplomacy in France has lost its delicacy."

  "Diplomacy,” Roderic said, his tone hard, “is not the issue here."

  His father turned a look as set and annihilating as a basilisk upon him. “So I apprehend. The question that rises at once to the reasonable and unclouded mind is: Why not?"

  "Petticoat affairs are not, ordinarily, matters of state interest. This one became so only recently, but, barring unwarranted interference, will soon cease to be of interest to anyone other than the lady and myself."

  "Would you arm a cannon to kill a gnat? It seems a like extravagance of weaponry to use as valuable a bauble as a crown to mark the end of a mere petticoat affair."

  The vicious irony of his father's voice had no visible effect upon Roderic. “It would mark not an end, but a beginning."

  "Based solidly on reluctance and hatred overcome by force majeure? It is, of course, a light and frolicsome prospect for the future."

  "Would you choose a queen for me, one steeped in duty and stifled hope, all sighs and supine accommodation? There is less prospect of frolic there, I assure you."

  Rolfe clasped his hands behind his back, querying at once, “Would you bend to the dictates of bourgeois respectability over a piece of petty gossip? If so, tell me now. It will be as well if the negotiations for the surrender of Ruthenia commence on the instant."

  "If the alternative is to surrender, penitent and ash-covered, to uniformed and prejudiced ultimatums, then it may be a kingdom well lost."

  In their voices was such suppressed violence that Demon whimpered and slunk under the settee. They were so evenly matched, so nearly the same in appearance and strength of will, that their words rang with the force of a battle of Titans. It seemed as if not one of the others in the room dared move or speak for fear of inviting the verbal blows upon themselves. Mara listened to the enmity in their words with horror and guilt beating in her mind.

  King Rolfe stared at his son, his brows drawn together over his eyes. “Ham-handed and minus even the rudiments of guile or manners. If you handled the lady as maladroitly, no wonder she complains."

  "This is not a courtly minuet with lace handkerchiefs and flourishes. It is expedient that I marry this woman."

  "Expedient for whom?” Rolfe inquired softly.

  "For Ruthenia, for France and our relations with this country. For you. For her. For me."

  "No such proud immolation is wanted or required. You did not learn such clumsy statecraft at my court."

  "No, now,” Roderic said in an acid pretense of surprise. “And have all the cunning alliances that have kept our country free of revolution these many years been no more than fortunate coincidences then? Clumsy or cunning, I learned the shifts I use at your knee and no other, my father."

  "The lessons, then, are not over. This is no affair for the marriage bed. Harmony in all spheres, the public and the private, requires something more than the exercise of your will.” It was deadly wisdom, and meant to be, from father to son.

  "I will have Mara."

  "Defy your sire, if it pleases you, but defy your king at your own risk. There is a birthright at stake: Yours. Would you place it in jeopardy for this woman?"

  "Don't!” Mara cried, the word wrung from her. “Please, don't. There is no question of marriage."

  King Rolfe turned on her, his tone lashing. “Why? Have you no taste for crowns?"

  "Very little! And none for the brawling that seems to go with them."

  Roderic stepped to her side, facing Rolfe. “Leave Mara out of this quarrel. She is not a fit target."

  "Thank you,” Mara said, rounding on him with anger in the tilt of her chin, “but I need no champion. I am quitting the lists. I am not, nor will I be, a point of contention between you and your father."

  "A worthy resolve but useless,” the king of Ruthenia said, his tone suddenly, disconcertingly, pensive as his gaze rested upon the two of them.

  "Bravo,” Juliana said from where she stood, transfixed, in the doorway. “Dare I suppose this display of tempers is caused by the tale spreading through Paris? You might have waited for me since I am concerned in this supposedly incestuous relationship."

  "That you are not,” her brother told her with a commendable economy of words.

  "But you will admit it appears so at first glance? Never have I had such strange looks as were directed at me today. And there are people gathering in the street outside the house. One of them flung filth at my carriage."

  "If you were not in Paris,” her father said without sympathy, “there would be no occasion for concern, temper, or the contamination of filth. Dare I ask what you have done with the crown prince of Prussia?"

  "Arvin? Why, nothing! His manly pursuit has won the day, and we wait only for the bans to be read. Will you wish me happy?"

  "Children,” Rolfe said softly, “are curses visited upon us by ill-natured gods as punishment for dwelling in their Arcady."

  "You aren't pleased?” Juliana asked, all innocence. “Let me understand. You decree that I wed and Roderic remain single? Or is it, perhaps, that your object is the opposite?"

  "Tell me the worst. Tell me Arvin sits in the attic drooling and playing with toy soldiers. Or has he, perhaps, escaped you by jumping in the Seine?"

  "How clever of you, Father. But he did not jump, he was overturned. A boat race, you see. I regret to grieve you, but I believe he went back to Prussia with a cold in the head and curses on his lips. Roderic arranged it."

  "Delicate diplomacy,” Roderic murmured.

  Mara, watching Rolfe, thought she saw bright pride rise with a hint of amusement in the king's eyes before it was ruthlessly suppressed.

  "It is a great relief to me to know that he can be useful if he so desires,” he said, his voice faintly acerbic as he glanced at his son. “I will, of course, require to hear what occurred in detail later."

  Roderic bowed. “Of course."

  Juliana lifted a brow. “That's all very well, but what of this scandal breaking around us? It promises to be ... ugly."

  Rolfe gave her a look of satirical surprise. “I am here, as is Madame Helene Delacroix. If propriety cannot be served by having as chaperons the lady's grandmother and godfather, then the world may talk as it will."

  "Are you my godfather, sir?” Mara asked in surprise.

  "As my queen is your godmother."

  "I never knew."

  "It has been until now, regrettably, an honorary position, a circumstance that can be remedied. Angeline, when she joins us, as I'm sure she will, will also wish to become better acquainted.” He smiled with such warm and flashing charm that Mara blinked. Swinging away from her to his daughter, he went on, “But in the midst of these crises, would it be too much to ask
for a glass of wine? I have had a tiring journey."

  "The fatigues of age,” Juliana said in spurious sympathy. “I had better go and see if there is a servant in the house whose nerves have not been wholly shattered from their eavesdropping."

  "Direct them to serve it in my quarters, if you please. Roderic, if you will join me there while I remove the dust of travel, we have other matters to discuss. Ladies, I beg you will accept our excuses?"

  The two men departed. The cadre drifted away. Juliana did not return from her conference with the staff. Mara was left alone with her grandmother. She seated herself in a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. A footman came into the room to tend to the fire and went away again. They were left alone.

  When the door had closed behind the servant Grandmère said, “Well, my dear?"

  Mara lifted a troubled gaze to her grandmother. “Yes?"

  "Do you still wish to leave?"

  "It would be best."

  "Possibly, but is it what you want?"

  "I'm so confused,” Mara cried, her voice low. “I don't know whether I'm being protected or merely prevented from becoming a nuisance. Or both. I can't tell whether Roderic indeed wishes to marry me or whether it's duty and responsibility that drives him."

  "Or defiance?"

  "Yes, that, too."

  "You could stay here, and wait and see."

  "I don't want to wait!"

  But even if she discovered that Roderic's desire to make her his wife was real, it would change little. Her appeal for him was based on some fantasy woman he had created in his mind. He thought her a creature of duplicity and caprice, and that image held an errant fascination that fueled his desire. He loved her not at all; he didn't even like her. When he came to know her, when he had solved the mystery of her to his satisfaction, it was all too likely that he would lose interest.

  Grandmère sighed. “The impatience of the young. There are some things that require time."

  Mara hardly heard the words. Looking steadily at her grandmother, she said, “Why is King Rolfe so set against me? He didn't want a Prussian prince for Juliana either, so it isn't necessarily a matter of bloodlines. What will it take to satisfy him?"

  "You might ask him—strictly out of curiosity—if you stayed."

  "Do you think it might be that he suspects, in spite of your being held by de Landes, that I might—might have some political reason for helping the man?"

  Grandmère Helene pursed her lips. “It's possible, I suppose."

  "I would not like to leave with him thinking such a thing of me."

  "No. That would not be good."

  "There is something else. If we quit Ruthenia House now, so soon after the appearance of this terrible story, it may look as if we are running away. Surely it would be better for everyone concerned if that impression were avoided."

  "Yes, indeed!” the elderly woman said, a martial look in her eyes.

  "Then there is my godmother. I have heard so much about her, and I long to see and talk to her. It may seem strange if, having stayed one night here, we leave before she arrives, and I would not hurt her for the world."

  "I would very much like to see her myself."

  "Yes, I'm sure."

  There was yet another reason, though Mara could not bring herself to speak of it to her grandmother. As she had watched Roderic with his father, she had been assailed by a strong need to find out what kind of man he really was, whether there was anything behind the hard façade he wore, if any shadow of real emotion lay beneath the sharp and convoluted processes of his mind. She refused to conjecture what caused this need within her; she only recognized its presence.

  "It is decided then? We stay?” Grandmère asked.

  "Yes, it is decided,” Mara answered. The capitulation, though firmly made, was without joy.

  The ensuing days gradually took on some semblance of normalcy. After a visit by Rolfe to the editor of the newssheet that had printed the scandalous story, a retraction was published. The gathering of rabble outside Ruthenia House melted away, not the least reason being the guard mounted, of their own accord, by the cadre. Whether because of the demands on Roderic's time or the presence of Rolfe, Mara's nights were uninterrupted.

  The king and his son remained estranged, but they managed to function together as hosts for the horde of visitors who descended the instant it was learned that Rolfe was in residence. Grandmère Helene was accorded the role of unofficial hostess and presided over most gatherings from her seat at the foot of the table or her chair beside the fire. Mara was treated as the daughter of the house, patronized by the king and alternately teased and ignored by Roderic. There were a number of speculative glances cast in their direction at first, but so solid was the air of respectability that had been cast around her that interest soon waned. The nightly gatherings in the salon continued, but many of those attending were of an older generation. The conversational tone became correspondingly less racy and exciting and more staidly boring. Attendance, not unnaturally, began to decline.

  There were advantages, Mara discovered, to discarding her pose of amnesia. There was no longer a need to guard every word so that she could speak and act in her own natural manner. She could talk of Louisiana and of the way things were done there without reserve. All the questions she had longed to ask the different members of the cadre could now be expressed.

  Michael's father, Leopold, she discovered, had married one of Angeline's ladies-in-waiting, a dark and merry woman who had given him nine children. They lived in a great, drafty castle perched high above a valley with a winding stream where the indestructible stone halls rang with shrieks and laughter. Michael's one ambition, when his soldiering with Roderic was done, was to find a wife and join his brothers and sisters in that vast keep, to grow wine grapes to rival those of France, and to perpetuate his line.

  The twins, Jared and Jacques, were the sons of another of Rolfe's original cadre, Oswald. Their father had had a twin also, but that brother had died in Louisiana. At the moment they were both courting a seamstress, a desperate flirt who kept them both dangling. Their loyalty was given to Roderic, however, and they were content to follow where he led for as long as he cared to lead them.

  Estes, the Count Ciano, told her so many tales of events he had witnessed and deeds he had done that the two became confused in her mind. He was an indefatigable talker, a gifted raconteur who always wove a thread of mirth through his stories. When not on duty for Roderic, he was writing a book based on his life that would rival anything, so he declared, penned by Monsieur Dumas. Filled with dungeons and deserted castles, with endangered maidens rescued by the dark and passionate rogue of a hero, it had all the elements that would make it certain to pour gold into his pockets. It might be a trifle ribald, but not to excess.

  "It will be banned,” Trude told him, “placed on the pope's list of dangerous literature."

  "Only because I contend that the hero should always be properly rewarded for his rescue efforts? What's wrong with that?"

  "Your hero looks like you."

  "Well?” the Italian inquired, preening as he smoothed his thick mustache.

  Trude tipped her head toward the count, speaking to Mara.

  "He thinks he is the Eros of the nineteenth century."

  He leered at her. “You think I am not?"

  The blond amazon actually grinned at him. “Eros Estes."

  Estes shook his head, his dark gaze mournful as he looked at Mara. “She doesn't understand literature. She thinks it's a joke. I had to fall madly in love with a big, blond amazon who laughs at me in her ignorance."

  Estes got to his feet and wandered away with his head hanging. Trude chuckled. “He is a funny one. This love he has for me is the biggest joke, I think. At least—isn't it?"

  It was the gypsy, Luca, who was the hardest to know. He seemed to fit no pattern. He was of the cadre and dressed in their uniform, but it always looked different on him, more rakish, less militarily correct though it was
difficult to say just how the impression was gained. He performed the maneuvers expected, trained for strength and agility and quickness of reflexes in the various galleries and courts of the house as assiduously as any, and yet there was in his movements a hint of the unpredictable.

  Something else not readily evident was why he had wished to join the cadre. The reason was not loyalty to a man. He respected Roderic and followed his orders without complaint, but there was nothing of devotion in his manner. It was not to belong to a company of his fellows. He mixed with them, laughed with them, drank with them on an equal footing, but he often slipped away by himself. It was not the military trappings, for though he was proud of his uniform and accouterments, he wore them only when occasion demanded. When it did not, he put on his gypsy clothes and was content. Usually he slept in one of the bedchambers occupied by the men of the cadre, but sometimes he still left the house to sleep in the courtyard, in the open.

  Mara sometimes thought that though he had been drawn by many things, it was Juliana who held him. He leaped to be the first to perform a service for the princess and was always ready to act as her escort. Often, when she was not looking, he watched her, and once Mara had seen him pick up a glove the girl had dropped and slip it into his pocket. But he made no excuse to be with her and, when in her company, had little to say. He was an enigma, darkly handsome, a little wild, but steadfast and protective.

  It was Luca who invited the household to the gypsy encampment. The band was growing restless with the inactivity of the restraint Roderic had imposed upon them. They had heard that the boyar was in Paris, and they wished to have their master, and also his son, among them once more. There would be feasting and music and singing, and they would dance the night away. Would they come?

  They smelled the roasting pork and poultry before they reached the caravan, the rich aromas mingling with the tang of woodsmoke and the scents of hay and horses. The caravans stood in a circle, acting as a break against the cold, blustery wind. Inside the ring, cook fires burned bright red with coals, while another fire for warmth and light leaped high with orange tongues of flame licking toward the dark sky. Rugs were piled around the edges, and upon them men and women lounged. Children were rolled in the smaller rugs for warmth, or else raced here and there, playing with the dogs that ran in packs. Music throbbed, an undercurrent to the chatter and laughter and high-pitched yelling of children that rose inside the enclosure.