She sent him a swift glance from under her lashes. He was watching her, his gaze resting on the thin line of her lips, and the expression in his dark blue eyes was armored with tender humor.
Trude, observing the byplay, shifted in her seat before averting her eyes with a fierce frown. Estes sighed.
It was dinnertime when Roderic, true to his word, brought the perfume to Mara. She was sitting with Grandmère Helene. He tapped on the door of the salon, then let himself in and turned to usher in a cavalcade of servants. The first of these bore on a pillow of blue velvet a large, frosted-glass flacon with a hand-blown stopper shaped like a gardenia containing over a pint of perfume. The second carried an enormous bouquet of hothouse flowers, yellow jonquils and white narcissus and pink quince, in a crystal vase. The third held a guitar in a polished wooden case. The fourth was burdened with a silver wine stand in which a long-necked bottle of champagne cooled. The remaining servants were weighed down with trays containing covered silver dishes, stands, compotes, and a variety of china, crystal, and silverware.
"You have come to cheer the invalid. How splendid!” Grandmère Helene called through the open bedchamber door.
He moved at once to the bedside to bow over her hand and raise it to his lips. His smile enigmatic, he answered, “Among other things."
Grandmère Helene, her fine old eyes keen, gave him a quick, hard glance. “If you are thinking I may fall asleep early after a glass or two of champagne, I may fool you."
"I hope you may,” he returned.
She gave a short laugh. “Prevaricator."
"How can you think it?"
"You forget, I knew your father. It gives me an advantage."
"Something you have never needed, surely?"
She pulled her hand away, slapping at his, but there was no displeasure in her smile.
The food was wonderfully prepared and beautifully presented, delicate enough to tempt an invalid, but substantial enough to sate the most voracious appetite. The servants laid everything out, checked it for completeness, then went away.
Grandmère opened the perfume and applied it lavishly so that the air in the room was heavy with its scent combined with that of the flowers. While they ate, she had to hear once more the tale of the first small bottle and what had become of it, of the part Mara had played and the last-minute rescue. Mara tried to warn Roderic with a shake of her head, but he seemed to pay no attention. Still, listening to the tale he spun as she helped her grandmother eat her meal, she hardly recognized the sugarcoated events. She gave him a grateful smile above Grandmère Helene's head, but to that, too, he made no response.
He set himself out to please, however, presenting Grandmère with an only slightly embroidered version of the political situation, spicing it with snatches of gossip, wit, and drollery. He also kept her wineglass refilled. When they had finished the last bite of their dessert, a creme custard with almond sauce, and the remains of the feast had been taken away, he picked up his guitar. He played the clear and complicated melodies that had been fashionable in Grandmère's youth and the old, faintly risque love songs of the ancien régime. His supple fingers wandered from Mozart to a Spanish bolero, trailed into a Norman serenade that dated from the time of the Crusades, and ended with the stately and softly fading measures of Haydn's “Farewell."
He lifted his hands from the strings. The sweet vibrations died away. Mara looked at her grandmother. The elderly woman lay with her eyes closed, gently snoring. Together Mara and Roderic rose and eased from the room, drawing the door between the bedchamber and the salon closed behind them.
"You are a devil,” Mara said, her voice low.
"Because I lulled a lady with wine and music, and sent her dreaming?"
"You did it on purpose!"
"What purpose, Mara? To make love to you on that desperately uncomfortable settee? To steal you away to my seraglio, supposing I had a seraglio? To use the ancient wisdom that the way to a girl's heart is through that of her grandmother?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Not I, chère. If I were to woo you, it would not be with perfidy. Nor would it be with heavy perfume or serenades or bunches of indiscriminate flowers.” He reached out to touch her cheek with one knuckle. “It would be rather with something rare and fragile and without blemish."
It took fully as much courage to meet his gaze as it had taken to face the mob. She expected to find derision there, or perhaps irritation; instead, there was translucent patience.
"Then I must thank you for entertaining Grandmère this evening and for—for all the lovely gifts, not the least of them your music. It was kind of you to give us so much of your time, and I'm truly grateful."
"A charming speech, chère, or it would be if your gratitude was what I wanted."
He paused, expectant. Her wariness, the stiff control he sensed inside her, hurt him in some inexplicable way, as did the dark shadows under her eyes and the blue stain of a bruise on her neck. He wished he knew what she was thinking.
The obvious question echoed in her mind: What is it you want then? But she could not force it to her lips. The answer was not one she was sure she wished to hear.
A grim smile touched his mouth. He took her hand and raised it to his lips, then, with a soft good night, left her.
Mara stood where she was for a long moment. With a turn so swift it sent her skirt belling out around her, she moved back toward her grandmother's room. She banked the fire and set the screen in place, then turned down the lamp that burned behind a frosted rose globe on the bedstand. Tucking the covers close around the sleeping woman, she leaned to kiss her forehead, then moved into her own bedchamber that lay on the other side of her grandmother's.
Lila rose from beside the fireplace and came forward. As Mara summoned a smile for her, the girl said, “You are tired, mademoiselle, and no wonder. Let me help you."
She was more than weary; she was stiff and sore, and on her body there were great livid bruises in places where she had no memory of being hit. A hot bath earlier had helped, but suddenly she ached for her bed.
Lila eased her clothing from her, clucking in quiet sympathy over the bruises, and slipped her nightgown over her head. Mara sat down in a slipper chair, and the maid removed her stockings and shoes. As Lila put her things away, Mara, yawning, rose and turned toward her bed.
There was something lying on her pillow. It was a single flower, a pale pink camellia. Each small petal was perfect, gently overlapping, and so delicate that the faintest touch would leave a brown spot of bruising upon it. The pair of leaves that framed it were a dark and glossy green, equally unmarred. The plants from which such flowers came had been imported from Asia not so many years before. Due to their beauty and scarcity, they commanded high prices.
"...rare and fragile and without blemish..."
Mara turned toward the maid. “Where did this come from?"
The maid gave a helpless shrug. “I don't know, mademoiselle. It was here when I came."
Roderic. There could be no other explanation—unless it was one of the cadre? No, it did not seem likely. It must be Roderic.
Was this, then, a sign of his wooing? Could it be that he was paying her court? But for what purpose? He himself had said that his marriage, a political alliance, had been in his father's plans since his birth. He had congratulated himself on escaping it so far, but seem resigned to eventual capitulation. Did he hope to persuade her to a permanent position as his mistress then? Did he really think she would accept it, or that if she did, she could be happy?
Did she think so herself?
It sometimes seemed that she would do anything, be anything, in order to regain the closeness they had shared, to feel his touch, to be lost in the overwhelming power of his presence. But would it be enough? Would she not come to resent her dependence upon him? Could she live with the knowledge that his need for her was based on desire rather than love?
He had asked her to marry him. The reason had been propriety and expedie
ncy, with a leavening of desire. Was it possible that he still contemplated such a union regardless of his father's edict against it? Or even because of it? It would not be a flattering proposition in either case.
And yet the more she saw Roderic and his father together, the less she believed that Roderic was influenced by the king, despite his respect for his father's authority. They might disagree on issues major and minor, might flay each other with words, but each stood tall during and after the fray. And sometimes, as over the protection of the occupants of Ruthenia House, the king deferred, with stiff magnanimity, to his son.
What, then, was she to make of the enmity of Rolfe's remarks concerning his son's character? Had they been made for a purpose, to elicit from her the response the king wanted? Or was the plain fact simply that Rolfe did not trust his son? And if his father could not place his confidence in Roderic, how could she?
How could she?
In spite of what had been said concerning the need for staying indoors, when dinner was announced the next evening, Juliana could not be found, nor could anyone say where she had gone. She was not in her bedchamber or the salon that adjoined it; she was not in the long gallery, the apartments of her parents or brother, or any of the public rooms. No one had seen her since midafternoon when she had been walking in the main gallery with Luca. It was only when the cadre was assembled, making ready to search the streets near the house, that it was noticed that the gypsy was also missing.
They searched anyway, sending Jacques and Jared as far as the Bois de Boulogne and the gypsy encampment, and Michael and Trude with Rolfe to canvass the shops along the rue de Rivoli and the rue de Richelieu before plunging into the rabbit warren of La Marais. They rode up and down until their horses were lathered and half the canine population of Paris barked at their heels, but glimpsed not so much as her bonnet plumes.
Juliana was headstrong and independent, but far from unintelligent. Mara could not believe that she would flout Roderic's instructions, either deliberately or out of thoughtlessness. There had to be an explanation.
"Wasted loyalty,” Roderic said with a rasp in his voice when she put her thoughts into words. “Never was there a female more flighty or ripe for trouble, though how she escaped the surveillance I don't pretend to understand."
"Surveillance?"
"Just a precaution,” he said with a dismissive gesture.
Mara, her mind on more important things, said, “Juliana was frightened yesterday morning. She would not run into danger again, not so soon."
"You don't know her as I do. The danger was forgotten the instant it was over. She will tell us, blithely, merrily, when she deigns to return, that she counts herself as one of the cadre now that she has proven her skill with a rapier. And I, in my lack of foresight, specified only a single companion for those of that status."
She sent him a quick glance, noting the lines of strain about his eyes. He held himself responsible. That he did so stemmed partially from his training, but also from his nature. To comment, to tell him that he could not be held accountable for the indiscretions of the world, would do no good. Juliana was his sister, and though he might grossly condemn her, he cared for her in equal proportions.
Still, Mara could not make herself accept Juliana's fool-hardiness. There had to be some reason for her to slip away, with or without Luca. That the cause might be clandestine she had trouble making herself believe also. In many ways Juliana might be a law unto herself, but Luca's respect for the boyar, and by inference for his daughter, could not be denied. The heated gypsy blood ran in his veins, but, though he might yearn, he was unlikely to overstep the bounds of race and class and position that separated them. Unless, of course, Juliana so commanded. Then, being a servant of the boyar, how could he refuse?
There was someone else missing from the house. It was some time after Roderic and the cadre, joined by Rolfe, had gone out to search once more that Mara noticed the absence. Demon was gone.
It seemed natural to check for the whereabouts of Juliana's Pekingese, Sophie. The little dog had grown increasingly plump and heavy lately, and had taken to lying much of the time in her basket in her mistress's bedchamber or else curled with Demon before the fire in the long gallery. She was in neither of those two places.
Once more the house servants were marshaled and instructed to search for the dogs. They were to leave no room unopened, no cabinet or armoire uninvestigated. They were to quarter the courtyards and take a lamp into every storeroom, tack room, and darkest corners of the stables. They were not to return empty-handed.
In the end, it was ludicrously easy. Juliana and Luca were found sitting on a bench in a corner of the north court. They were wrapped in a horse blanket against the night chill as they rested from their labors as midwives, and the gypsy was pointing out the constellations overhead. In the gardener's storeroom nearby, on a pile of canvas that had once played a part as an awning for an outdoor entertainment, lay Sophie with four husky pups. Demon sat on guard beside her, grinning from ear to ear and giving his tail an occasional proud but ridiculously weary thump.
By the time the search party returned, the new mother and her progeny had been moved to the private salon. Juliana and Luca had removed the odors of mildewed canvas, horse, and canine midwifery from their persons and returned, repentant, to where the others hovered over the small bundles of wavy fur that squirmed beside Sophie in her basket near the fire.
The wide door was flung open. Roderic and Rolfe, shoulders abreast, tramped into the room, with Estes, Michael, Trude, and the twins marching behind. The faces of the prince and his father were etched with exhaustion and hours of worry that had turned in an instant to rage. Those of the cadre were carefully noncommittal.
Luca got to his feet with color surging into his dark and handsome face. Juliana rose to stand beside him, lifting her chin. It was the gypsy who spoke first, however.
"There is no excuse for the disturbance we have caused. We make none."
"A fine tactic; I congratulate you,” Rolfe said with heavy irony. “Still, I trust there is an explanation."
Juliana answered, “We didn't hear anyone calling, not where we were in the house."
"Stygian darkness is a daily phenomenon, but are you certain it did not attract your notice?"
"It was dark anyway in the storeroom, and in the excitement of the birthing we lost track of the time."
"The birthing?"
"Of Sophie's pups."
Her father looked down at the dogs at his feet. Deliberately, he raised his blue gaze to the man at Juliana's side. “Mongrels,” he said softly, “the bastard results of the coupling of a purebred bitch with a male of no breeding whatever."
Mara saw Roderic send his father a swift, frowning look. Beside her, Angeline drew in her breath in an audible gasp. Juliana took a step forward.
"An infusion of healthy mongrel blood is sometimes beneficial to a line of effete purebreds."
"And sometimes fatal,” Rolfe countered.
Luca put his hand on Juliana's arm when she would have spoken again. “Your daughter is beautiful and warm and wise, sir,” he said,"but I well know she is not for me. There is no need for you to tell me. Or for me to stay to hear it."
He stepped away from Juliana and the others, striding toward the door.
"Wait,” Roderic said, his voice carrying. “You are of the cadre. Those who are accepted cannot leave it without permission. That you do not have."
The gypsy turned and, with nimble fingers, opened the frogs of his jacket and stripped it off, tossing it onto a table. “Perhaps they can't, not with honor. But what has honor to do with a mongrel gypsy?"
"Luca!” Juliana called, but he did not answer. Whirling, he opened the door and went from the room.
Angeline got to her feet, and there was queenly grace in her carriage and anger in her eyes as she faced her husband. “That is a loss. It will be felt."
Rolfe turned to her, speaking as if they were alone. “It was needful. He mu
st choose between the moon for his baldaquin or one of dusty damask."
Mara, watching Angeline digest that cryptic explanation, forced herself to remember that few things Rolfe or his son did were obvious.
"You injured his pride,” Angeline said more tentatively, “the most dangerous wound."
"It is his gypsy pride that will have to be subdued."
Roderic spoke in tones heavy with irony. “But did it have to be subdued during the present and more transcendent crisis?"
"Crisis?” Angeline asked quickly, turning to him.
"King Louis Philippe and Guizot, in their collective wisdom, have forbidden attendance at the reformist banquet to be held tomorrow night in the Place de la Concorde. Lamartine is swearing to go and speak even if there is no one there except himself and his shadow. The working-class districts are now up in arms."
"What can we do?"
"We can entertain the reformists on Friday night as planned in order to keep abreast of their intentions. Otherwise, we wait and hope that Louis Philippe can act enough like a king to mend matters."
What Louis-Philippe did, however, was nothing.
The following day was one of constant demonstrations and marching in the streets, of chanting and cheers and the singing of “La Marseillaise.” Roderic and the cadre left the house early and did not return. Rolfe was called to the Tuileries, supposedly to consult with Louis Philippe on a course of action. The women were left alone.
The afternoon was overcast, but still unusually warm, though there was a feeling of change in the air. After luncheon, Grandmère took a nap, and most of the others retired to their apartments. Mara looked in on her grandmother, then sat for a time before the fire, flipping through a copy of the fashion periodical, Le Follet. She was restless, on edge, worried against all reason by the thought of Roderic and the others being out in the streets. She longed to know what was happening to them, where they were and what they were doing, and if they were involved in the shouting and outcries that could sometimes be heard.
Royal 02 - Royal Passion Page 31
