She jumped as a knock came on the door. At her call, a maidservant entered. “Your pardon, mademoiselle. You have a visitor."
"Who is it?"
"He would not say, only that his business concerns a sum of money owed by your grandmother. I put him in the antechamber downstairs as he seemed to be a tradesman. I hope I did right?"
Mara, her face stiff, nodded at the girl. De Landes. It could be no other. He had no power any longer to harm her, and yet it might be as well that he did not enter the main rooms of the house. She had no idea what he might want after all these weeks, but certainly she had no thought of introducing him to the others as if he were an honored acquaintance. She wished she dared to refuse to see him. It would give her great pleasure to send such a message and have him thrown out by the footmen. She could not risk it. No. She would have to hear him out.
She moved along the corridors to the main gallery and descended the staircase. The antechamber to which the maid referred was a small room opening almost beneath the stairs, a chill and barren cubicle where tradesmen and other supplicants, those who could not be classed as guests or intimates, were left to wait. There was no fireplace, no refreshments, no footmen on call here, only a bench, a threadbare rug, and a view through a leaded-glass window of the shrubbery of the west court.
De Landes rose from the bench as she entered, as did a large young man with a vacant smile who was his companion.
"How charming,” he said, touching his pointed beard with one long, slim hand. “You seem to be well established here with the prince."
"That need not concern you. Why you are here?"
"There is still a matter of money owed to me by Madame Delacroix, your grandmother. I hear she has been ill. I did not wish to disturb her, and I'm sure there will be no need. You and I have come to terms before and can again."
"My grandmother's debt has been paid in full. It's unfortunate that the outcome of the attempt on the king's life was not what you wanted, but I did as you asked. More you cannot expect."
"You place a high value on yourself, do you not?” he said, his tone ugly beneath its surface smoothness. “There was nothing said about the paltry service you rendered canceling the debt."
She ignored his slighting reference to what she had done. “That was the impression I received."
"Then it was erroneous."
She swung away from him to stare out the window as an idea struck her. It might be as well to know what he had in mind. Here also was an opportunity to discover precisely what had occurred during the assassination attempt, to learn once and for all what Roderic's part had been in it. Over her shoulder she said, “You have your revolt, or so it appears. What more do you want?"
"This is a minor upheaval only, a mere opportunity to bring about a major revolution."
"I see no way that I can be of use to you for such grandiose plans."
"You may leave that to me."
As he spoke the last words, his voice was nearer, rich with satisfaction. A shafting realization of her isolation there with the two men in that small room struck her. She started to turn. A sickly sweet smell caught in her nostrils. Hard hands wrenched at her arms and shoulders, and a wet cloth was clamped to her face. She drew in her breath to scream and choked, coughing, nearly retching. Dizzily, she felt herself lifted, half dragged and half carried from the room. There was a space of darkness, then she was thrown upon a hard surface with the smell and feel of a leather carriage seat. It jolted into motion, swaying, lurching sickeningly. Gray darkness descended, blotting out the light, the afternoon, everything.
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17
The cold was in her bones, curling in the joints so that they ached. Her feet were numb, and she could not feel her fingers. A violent shudder took her. She made a soft sound of distress deep in her throat. The low moan filtered through her mind like liquid straining through layers of gauze. She opened her eyes.
She closed them again immediately, swallowing on a wave of nausea. Another shudder gripped her.
She was more cautious when the nausea passed, this time barely lifting her lashes. She was lying on her stomach in a bed alcove. The mattress under her was lumpy and covered with a coverlet gray with grime and smelling of sour feathers and unwashed bodies. The bedchamber was in a garret, for the ceiling sloped at an angle. It was small and bare, with only a broken-down chair and a scarred wooden table under a set of high windows. The windows themselves were warped in their frames so that the wind whistled around them. Beyond the glass was the gray of twilight. With the approach of night, the air was growing colder, especially in the dank room where the sun never reached.
She tried to move, to turn over, and gasped as pain flooded through her hands and feet. She was bound, the ropes cutting into her flesh, cutting off the circulation of blood. She gritted her teeth and, by slow degrees, raised herself, turning, easing to her back.
For long moments she lay panting with the effort, holding sickness at bay. As it receded at last, and her breathing eased, memory returned. De Landes. The evil smell of some drug. The carriage.
Where was she? There was no way of telling from the barren room with its gray, water-streaked plaster walls. The only thing to be seen through the dirty windows was a portion of rooftop and a stretch of sky the purple-gray of mourning. She closed her eyes, listening. At first she could not hear a sound, then slowly she became aware of a child crying. A door closed somewhere in the building and the crying stopped. There was a distant murmur that slowly evolved into the shouting of a group of men in the streets below. The voices were fervent, yet without the mad rage of the mob she and Trude and Juliana had faced. Mingled with the voices was the tramp of feet. The sound grew louder, passing under the window, then faded into the distance.
She was still in Paris then. From the looks of the room, it was in one of the poorer districts. The voices in the street might belong to students, in which case it was possible that she was on the Left Bank, near the Latin Quarter. It was only a guess; she could not be certain. Certainly there was no reason she could think of why she should be there.
Nor could she know why she had been taken. Floating through her mind was every whispered tale she had ever heard about young women stolen from their homes or the streets to be forced into houses of ill-repute, sold into a degrading slavery of the senses, shipped to foreign lands. As quickly as they came, she dismissed them. She had been abducted by de Landes, not some person unknown to her. There would be a deeper reason.
Was she to be held as ransom for her grandmother's debt then? Or had that been merely a ruse, some means of approaching her and of distracting her long enough to place her in his power?
Revenge was a possibility. She had, in his view, failed him. Perhaps he suspected that she had in some way alerted Roderic to the danger before the ball so that he was prepared to deal with the attempt on Louis Philippe's life. De Landes had been bitterly disappointed; she had seen it on his face that night as well as this afternoon. There was one other possibility. De Landes had suggested more than once that he found her attractive. Her lip curled at the thought, and she closed her fingers into fists, straining at the rope on her wrists.
Her bonds were of jute. It was stiff and prickly, the knots hard and intricately coiled. She lifted her hands to her mouth, pulling at the knots with her teeth, but it did no good.
Across the surface of her thoughts drifted a story Grandmère had told her of how in New Orleans Angeline had once been taken and held as bait to capture Rolfe. He had walked into the trap for her sake, a knowing sacrifice. Surely such a thing could not happen again?
It was doubtful that she would be such a successful lure; Rolfe had loved Angeline, while Roderic no longer even desired her. De Landes would be disappointed once again.
Whether from the drug she had breathed, her long stillness, or the chill in the room, she was deathly cold. She had lost the shawl she had been wearing and had only the sleeves of her gown to protect her from t
he damp, penetrating coolness. She rolled, trying to catch the edge of the coverlet to pull it over her. Her feet thumped the wall and she gave a cry of pain as the blow radiated through her ankles, which were swollen from their binding.
Footsteps sounded beyond the room. A door opened somewhere out of sight. There was a scuffling noise, then a woman waddled into view. She was nearly as wide as she was tall, with frizzy gray hair springing from under the kerchief on her head and a greasy apron over her protruding stomach. She bore a remarkable resemblance to the loutish youth who had helped de Landes abduct Mara, his mother perhaps. The woman grunted as she saw that Mara was awake, then heaved herself around and started out.
"Wait!” Mara cried. “Don't go."
She might as well not have spoken. The door closed and the woman's heavy footsteps passed out of hearing.
Mara closed her eyes, assailed by sudden despair. She thought of Ruthenia House, of the consternation there would be when it was discovered she was missing. There might not be quite the uproar that had broken out over the disappearance of Princess Juliana; still, they would be worried. There was fondness for her among the servants and the cadre, and Rolfe and Angeline would be upset for Grandmère's sake, if not out of affection. Her grandmother would be aghast, if she was told. Even Roderic would be concerned, would use every means at his command to find her; she knew this once she considered it. She was, or so he regarded it, his responsibility. She enjoyed his protection so long as she was under his roof, domiciled as his guest.
How long would it take before the alarm was given? Only the maid knew that she had spoken to de Landes, and even she did not know his name. There had been no footman, no one to see her taken away unless it was by accident. Hours would pass before she was missed. Even then it was likely that the search would be delayed. There had been too many alarms of late. After the uselessness of the panic concerning Juliana and Luca, it would not be surprising if everyone sat back for a time and waited for her to reappear of her own accord.
She thought of de Landes and his henchmen invading Ruthenia House, carrying her off like some parcel they had come to collect, and slow anger began to gather inside her. Roderic's arrogance was a natural and healthy thing beside the overweening conceit of de Landes. The Frenchman thought he could do as he pleased with people, manipulate them for his own purposes, force them to do his bidding. He felt free to interfere in their lives, to destroy them as a child might destroy a toy it no longer valued. He should be stopped. He must be stopped. She did not have the power to do it, but she could control what she herself did. She need fear him no longer. Grandmère Helene was safe at Ruthenia House and could not be harmed. Whatever de Landes wanted of her, he would get little satisfaction.
So deep was her concentration that she did not hear the returning footsteps. The abrupt opening of the door brought her head around. The sight of de Landes, with the fat woman behind him, did not surprise her. She returned her gaze with a stare as insolent as she could make it.
"So you are awake. Your powers of recuperation are amazing but welcome."
She would not lie supine, trussed, before him. She slid across the mattress and pushed her bound feet over the side, struggling up by pressing her hands together to brace herself. She swayed, swallowing convulsively, as she came to a sitting position, but it was worth the effort.
"I can't think why,” she said, speaking with slow control.
"Because I have a use for you, of course."
"Which is?"
"Why, to induce Prince Roderic to come to terms. He will if he values your safety."
"Your ideas of how to gain what you want seem to be limited."
His mouth tightened at the slur upon his inventiveness. “Why abandon a means so effective? You did what I wanted for the sake of your grandmother. Your prince will do the same for your sake."
The thought of Roderic being forced to bow to the dictates of this posturing, self-satisfied creature filled her with repugnance. “What makes you think he will? What makes you think he cares in the least what becomes of me?"
"You shared his bed."
"For a few days only. The association did not last."
"How very distressing for you."
"Not at all. I was happy to be free of the obligation."
De Landes stared at her, frowning, then gave an abrupt laugh. “I think you protest too much. Did innocence pall for him? What a blow for your pride! No doubt you expected to hold his attention longer than the average courtesan. Why, I can't imagine; a courtesan has at least some skill in her trade."
He was a despicable man. She was on the right track, however. She gave him a blazing look. “I told you, I was glad when it ended!"
"A woman scorned. How affecting. Then you will not mind if I use him a bit ... roughly."
She shrugged. “As you wish, but he won't come."
"He is one of the noble ones who have been taught from birth that duty is supreme. They take responsibility with the utmost seriousness. Because you are a pawn in this game, at risk for him, he will feel the weight of it. He would come if you were no more than a foot soldier under his command. He would come if you were a gypsy maiden with whom he had whiled away a chance hour. He would come if you were the lowest servant. Instead, you are a guest under his roof, the goddaughter of his mother, and a woman who once claimed his affections. You are entitled to his protection three times over. He will come."
"Why you should want him to is more than I can see. Isn't it a little like Jack inviting the giant to dinner?"
"I am no Jack,” de Landes said, a flush of annoyance rising to his face. “I can handle Prince Roderic."
"Can you? Still, what is the purpose? If it's revenge, you are a trifle late."
"It's never too late for vengeance. Being a patient man, I preferred to wait until the time was ripe."
"What makes now any different? If you think you can injure Roderic with impunity, I fear you underestimate him."
"Injure? Ma chère, I mean to kill him."
She had suspected as much, but to hear it put into words sent a chill down her spine. It might be done. A foreign prince found beaten to death, an apparent victim of one of the demonstrating mobs that prowled the city, would be an incident as regrettable as it was unfortunate. Apologies would be tendered to Ruthenia, promises of a full investigation would be made, and that would be the end of it. If the threatened revolution actually occurred, the matter might not receive even that much attention.
"Will that suffice for you?” she asked, keeping her voice light with an extreme effort. “I would have thought a public humiliation would be more satisfactory."
"So it might. This much I will give him, however: He is too wily by far to lend himself to any situation that might be suitably compromising."
She gave him a small, tight smile. “Is he, indeed?"
The idea that was burgeoning in her brain was vague but daring. Could she do it? Would it work, or would it rebound on her and Roderic, making matters a thousand times worse than they were now?
He took a step closer. “What do you mean?"
"Why should I tell you while I am trussed up like this and freezing? Why should I talk at all when my mouth is as dry as cotton?"
The Frenchman stared at her, his black eyes hard and shining in the dim room. Finally he nodded to the heavyset woman. “Release her. Bring some wine, whatever you have."
The instructions were obeyed. Mara rubbed her wrists with her hands and flexed her feet as they prickled and burned with the return of circulation. She pulled the coverlet up around her shoulders as a cloak, then shifted to sit with her back to the side wall of the bed alcove before taking the greasy glass of wine. She sipped at the thin, sour liquid, grateful for the warmth it brought to her stomach.
"Get out,” de Landes said to the other woman, “leave the ropes."
He did not trust her entirely and wished that knowledge to serve as a warning to her. It would, indeed.
"Now,” he said when the door
had closed upon the woman's bulk, “let us hear this charming scheme of betrayal."
"Certainly, but should you not be making preparations for the arrival of the prince?"
"Presently, you will send him a message. Until then he need not trouble us."
"How clever."
He sent her a sardonic glance, but at the same time smoothed his mustache with his fingers in a preening gesture. She looked down at her hands, trying to be certain that what she was doing was correct. There was no way to be sure. She must trust to instinct. One thing she knew. She could not bear it if Roderic was hurt because of her, because he came when she was in need. She would die inside if that happened. But it would not. She would prevent that immolation, no matter what the cost.
"Come, what good are second thoughts? Unless you have discovered within yourself an unwillingness to do to him what he has done to you."
"I was only thinking,” she said slowly,"that if you acted quickly and well, it might mean execution for him."
"Execution?"
"As a spy."
"Indeed?” he answered, but so significant was that single word that it compressed within it intense gratification.
"Of course it depends on your own loyalties."
"My loyalties?"
"I am assuming that on the night of the assassination attempt you did not, in fact, wish it to be prevented?"
"Brilliant,” he drawled.
"Roderic was to have been the scapegoat—” She paused for confirmation, but it was not forthcoming. She went on hardily since it was too late to stop, but abandoned a line that did not appear to be productive at the moment. “It follows then that you are not a supporter of the Orleanist party. I cannot think that you are a reformist, for you have never been involved in that circle. That leaves either the Bonapartists or the legitimists."
"I congratulate you, mademoiselle, on your grasp of the situation. Which, do you think?"
She looked down into her wine, pretending to consider. “Those who clamor for Louis Napoleon Bonaparte seem to be chiefly concerned with the glory of France, while those who support the Bourbon heir Henri, comte de Chambord, are anxious for personal gain. I do not think you are a Bonapartist."
Royal 02 - Royal Passion Page 32
