by Kit Brennan
“Señorita Cupid,” he said.
“My name is Eliza Rosana Gilbert.”
“I know it is. You wish us to remain on a professional footing. I respect that, so let me tell you how I fit into the puzzle.” I put on a haughty glare as he continued, “I’m not sure Ventura de la Vega would agree, but I believe it best for you to know what is about to happen, not just your own role in it. There is a difference of opinion between Ventura and myself in this regard.” He grinned again with those strong, white teeth, and his finger returned to the mustache with a raspy twiddle and a twist. It was very distracting. “Please, may I?” he asked, indicating the door.
He wanted it closed. But, despite the charm, how was I to know he was not the shadowy demon who wanted me dead? Or if not, then in league with glass-eyed Pedro Coria, if it was Pedro Coria, up in the flies?
“Leave it,” I commanded, snatching up my pistol again and waving it.
He put the hat upon the floor, raised both hands in a placatory manner, and came towards me. “I must speak softly, then, as no one must hear. Our lives may depend on it. Please sit, and I’ll draw closer.”
Diablo, that hadn’t been my intention.
“You know that Don Juan de Grimaldi and I are associates?”
“So you say.”
He brought the chair up close, indicating that I sit upon the settee. I did so, and he sat knee to knee with me. His knees were hot.
“You also know that de la Vega has been organizing a masked ball?”
I nodded.
“It is to happen in four weeks’ time. The princesses have been invited, along with the other important people at court. If all goes well, there will be an enormous crowd, all disguised and enjoying themselves.”
“Ventura has told me he needs me for this event, yes,” I said. “More than that I don’t yet know.” I was holding on to my dignity with all my might.
“You are very close to the princesses now, I believe?”
“I like to think so. They are sweet girls, like any children. Why is Ventura not telling me all this himself?”
“He’s occupied tonight.”
My finger twitched on the pistol. Ventura was a cad. I’d have to be careful.
“Señorita, you’d best be careful,” he said, as if reading my mind, then glanced at the weapon. “We wouldn’t want it to go off unexpectedly.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” I retorted, but realized something else. The metal cap, required for firing, was still on the end of my left nipple. Damnation. I removed my finger reluctantly from the trigger.
Diego de León leaned forwards from the waist, and now his sleepy-lidded eyes were only inches away, their irises boring into my own. “Dear Señorita Cupid, it is all very fine, this dance of ours, but we don’t have time to be coy. Listen to me carefully. You can trust me with your life. In fact, you must. Ventura de la Vega and I are avowed Cristinos, as is Don Juan de Grimaldi, who sent you. One other associate, General Manuel Gutérrez de la Concha e Irigoyen, is also deeply involved in the plan. He is known as to his friends as Concha. You will meet him shortly.” He placed a brown hand upon my knee and squeezed. “Everything depends upon the next few weeks. You must be strong, and brave, as you demonstrated tonight that you can be. And quick.”
And with that he seized the pistol in my lap and placed it behind himself on the floor. As I reacted and tried to jump up, his grip on my knee tightened. “Shh!” I could hear nothing, but he twirled, scooped up the pistol again, and, crouching, ran to the dressing room door. He certainly was lithe, like a small black cat, sure of its agility. He peered either way down the corridor, then turned back to me. “This time I must protest. Let me close this. Let me lock it?”
“Very well. For a minute or two.” Then, oh fool! I thought. He has your pistol!
He threw the bolt, returned swiftly to the chair, and sat, knees again touching mine. He kept hold of the pistol. My knees began to tremble. “Two things more. First . . .” He blinked, and those eyes again turned syrupy, dreamy. “Madonna, they never told me you were so beautiful. What is a man supposed to do—”
“Who do you think is out there?” I asked, terrified, and hoping to break the lock of his eyes upon mine—to no avail.
“Shadows. They’re everywhere. Trust no one.” His other hand came up and began rasping through the mustache again, twirling, twiddling. “I’ve become jumpy as a cat these last few months. Forgive me, beautiful Cupid . . .”
We were both puffing up at shadows. What was the plan? Was he about to kill me? Why had I ever let go of my pistol?
“You were saying?”
“Sí.” He became brisk again, but his voice remained low. “First, there has been a change of plan. We shall be relying upon your intimate knowledge of the royal household. You must try to learn more about the palace guards, who and what they are, how they function. Where they are stationed, at all hours, how they are deployed within the palace itself, as well as when they are out in public, accompanying the royal family.”
“I know one of them; he’s undoubtedly waiting for me right now. He’s been assigned to look after me.”
De León looked alarmed. “Outside, here?”
“As usual, I’m sure.” How could I have forgotten? I wondered whether I should scream for him, shout for help.
“Then we must hurry.” De León leaned even closer, moving his body forwards to the edge of the seat, his knees pressing at my own. The man exuded heat; I needed to fan myself desperately. How could such a small body be so crammed with muscle and energy? “The night of the ball is the night it shall happen. Nothing must be allowed to go wrong. Everything depends upon timing, cooperation, and luck.”
“And what exactly is supposed to happen?” I was getting lost in the cryptic murmurings and his alarming temperature. Or was it my own? His finger rasped on in his mustache, twisting, twiddling. The mustache was bewitching . . .
“My dear señorita. You breathtaking woman . . .” One knee was suddenly between mine, the other pressing the outside of my skirt. “The mission has changed. Señor de Grimaldi has affirmed, and now everything is moving, with the seal of approval from María Cristina of Bourbon-Two Sicilies, and—”
The pistol was on the floor again. How had that happened? The other hand now left his upper lip and was travelling south.
“And?” I whispered, blinking and breathing rapidly, a she fox cornered by a pack of hounds.
“In the excitement of the evening, taking advantage of the disguises and all of the comings and goings, under cover of that—” his face was so close I could feel the heat of it. “We will kidnap the princesses.”
I gasped and fell back upon the settee. Kidnap the princesses?
“And second, Señorita Cupid . . .” His breath at my ear was sweet and as hot as the rest of him. This was impossible, I couldn’t take it in; that hand, where had it gone? Then I knew. I could feel heat upon my knee, then moving stealthily up my bare thigh. It was under my skirts . . . how—? His voice murmured softly, “There is no longer any necessity for you to seduce the tutor.”
Oh! I understood that, and gave a cry of delight. “Oh dios mio! Oh, I’m so happy!” and I kissed him, his mustache at that moment the most compelling and amazing thing I had ever seen in the world, I, and it simply had to be experienced again. “The man is so obscene,” I gasped between explorations. “I had no idea how I could ever—”
“Shh, Cupid . . .” He kissed me silent. Somehow he had vacated the chair, which had fallen over with an unnoticed clatter. Our tongues were mingling; I was all of a melt. “No necessity to seduce Arguëlles. The plans have changed.” They certainly had, and I no longer cared that the door was locked, that the palace guard was waiting and likely wondering where I was, that any moment he might come looking. This stealthy, lithe cat of a man, this mustache-twirling dynamo, had captured all my attention.
De León had one finger up me when he added, “You must seduce General Espartero, the prime minister.”<
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Oh I was caught in a desperate whirlpool of events, good and proper. I could barely react to these alarming words and the intention behind them—being so completely distracted by what was going on inside—when suddenly there was a violent pounding on the door and the bodyguard’s deep voice called, “Señorita Gilbert? We must return to the palace. The entire theatre is closed. Señorita?”
Attempting to disentangle myself, I called shakily, “I am just coming!” (Oh, and I was!) “Not now, I must . . . Stop that this second,” I panted, and then could say nothing more, the black cat having placed a velvet paw upon my mouth and muffled my abrupt, ecstatic moan. A little death. Oh my god, this man was good.
“Remember, señorita,” he whispered into my ear as I shuddered and shook in the aftermath of such abrupt and surprising pleasure, “not a word about all this. It will happen on the night of the ball; you must be ready.” He kissed me again. “Are you listening? Say nothing to anyone, particularly not to the Infanta Carlota of Naples, who I hear has arrived from La Granja.”
I leaned away from him, and then walloped him across the cheek, the one I hadn’t walloped the first time. “Diablo!” he cursed, and tried to restrain me, but I clambered off his lap, picked up my makeup bag and dark wool cloak, and rushed to the door.
“Cupid,” de León called softly. I turned back to look at him: A red welt was appearing, and two perpendicular fingers were held to his lips. “Me llamo Diego. I will be in touch again. Very soon.” And he plunged the fingers into his mouth.
I unlocked the door and fled into the night.
I tossed and turned in my bed until dawn. I was appalled, and thrilled, at the man I’d just met, couldn’t get him out of my head. I wanted him badly and was angry at myself for having allowed this to happen. I’m not a stupid, wanton girl with no experience, I chided myself. Have a care, he could be dangerous. No, I’m sure he’s dangerous, dangerous to my health! No matter, I still craved him, lay awake, wet, for him. Damnation! And this new, extreme plan of kidnapping the princesses? It seemed so radical, so madcap! Must we go so far to keep them safe? How did I know that it was Grimaldi who was directing operations? Was Diego to be trusted? No one was what he seemed to be in this place. Warned to say nothing to Carlota? But how could I ensure that I was in fact following Cristina’s orders? If not, and if I was to get into trouble, how much more deadly would be the trouble I’d be in if the object of my mission was a prime minister rather than a royal tutor! And my missing emergency fund—a disaster! What was I to do?
Cautiously, I went to Ventura the next morning for advice. He was harried, sitting at a desk on the stage itself, surrounded by papers and diagrams.
“Ah, Rosana, we must sit down, but not yet.”
“I am desperate for information, Ventura. Diego de León—”
“Good man, good man. He’s filled you in on the change of plan?”
“Well, that’s exactly what I need to know. He gave me the outline, not fully, just sketchy. It sounds half mad. What does Grimaldi say, when—?”
From the shadows of the theatre, a figure stepped forwards. “We meet again, señora.” It was the Jesuit, Father Miguel de la Vega, his tonsured hair grown in again, wearing his black attire. He looked even thinner, if that was possible. Positively concave.
“You remember my brother?” Ventura asked, as if I could forget. “Miguel, perhaps you can help her.”
The black eyes glittered in that way I remembered. “What is your question, señora?”
Always he had to remind me of my married state. I despised the man. I hid it nobly and said, “Is Diego de León to be trusted? How am I to know that what he tells me comes from Grimaldi, and therefore from Queen María Cristina of Bourbon Two-Sicilies?”
“Former Queen Cristina,” he answered, and then, “alas.”
The man was so pompous, so correct in his . . . everything! Had to be just so, had to be phrased in such and such a way! Had to show himself up as perfect in every particle! So Jesuitical! I took a deep breath. “Could you tell me, please?”
“General Diego de León,” the priest said slowly. “What do you think of him?”
His question took me aback. Unfortunately, I also felt an immediate blush suffusing my cheeks. “I have no thoughts one way or the other.” A vision leapt into my head: the man sucking his fingers with a lecherous grin. “I am . . . trying to follow orders,” I went on, “in a chaos of—. I am trying to return home safely as soon as possible. Surely you understand that, Father.”
“Oh, I understand,” the devout ass intoned. He surveyed me with his mouth like a sucked lemon and folded his attenuated hands. “Yes, de León is a man of the Cristinos. Undoubtedly.”
He continued to look at me but said nothing further. Ventura took my hand, patted it, and said, “There you are then, fears abated. Forgive me for having been so distracted, Rosana. Now, think about a costume, if you have any suggestions. Money not an object, brand new, for your figure. You must dazzle them.”
This was exciting. My mind raced in all directions. By the time it had returned to earth, only a few seconds later, I’m sure, the Jesuit was gone.
Ventura saw my reaction and chuckled. “Never mind, cariña. My brother has always been odd, even when we were boys. He never seemed to live in the same world that we did.”
I couldn’t imagine such a spooky close relative. “What made him this way?”
“God only knows—and I say that with piety,” Ventura answered with a shrug. He went on to tell me that their eldest brother was a model son who never rebelled, that he himself was the baby and a dreamer, his mother’s pride and joy, and that perhaps Miguel, the middle child, had felt left out, neither parents’ favourite. In any case, when Miguel was a young man, he left home. He set out one day; they didn’t know where. When he returned a year later, he wouldn’t tell them much except that he’d decided to be a priest. Over time, through things he let slip, the family discovered he’d been following Father Merino, the warrior priest. This priest had been on the wrong side, an early Carlist. A Castilian. A ferocious old War of Independence soldier whose heroism was legendary, so he attracted followers like moths to a flame.
“I swear,” Ventura said, “that war was what made the men ruling us now so bloodthirsty. They can’t get enough, just have to keep starting it over and over again. They need blood to feel alive. Blood of men, of women and children . . .” He shook his head and continued. “Volunteers joined this Father Merino as he made his way north. Almost ten years ago, Rosana, in ’33. Hotheads were everywhere, men on the move. Miguel would have been twenty-five, restless, looking for a cause. Father Merino’s example was austere: He didn’t smoke or drink. His followers believed he never slept. Miguel liked that.”
I’ll bet he did, I thought, remembering the man wrapped like a bat at the foot of my bed, wishing bad dreams upon me.
“I don’t exactly know what changed, but after his march north with Merino, Miguel broke away again and came south, joined a seminary, and began his studies. So you see, although he may have considered joining the Carlists in the very early part of the war, he came to his senses and found his vocation. And his cause. Make no mistake, he is every inch a Cristino; he fights for the monarchy, for moderate liberalism. He fights the good fight.”
Ventura was nodding to himself. He seemed more than usually troubled.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“This damned masquerade.” Running his hand across his eyes, he began rubbing them. “But it’s also . . . he’s been bothering my wife, who is so very tired these days with the new baby. He wants her to be more modest. He’s such an ascetic, unused to women. Anyway, he’s staying at the seminary now; it’s where he’s most at home. Things should be better.”
I felt for her, this beloved wife. One man so tender; this other, though of the same blood, so rigid. Blood can be a frightening bond; one can look into the face of brothers or sisters and recognize the same features repeating themselves with small var
iations, yet inside that outer mask of similarity beats an entirely different soul. It is very strange.
“I nearly forgot,” Ventura went on. “I’ve changed my base. I’m over at the Teatro de Oriente, where the ball will be held. So when you come looking for me, you won’t have to be reminded. I know you’re still sad about leaving the play.”
“That’s true,” I admitted, looking around at the familiar backdrops and props, but shivering a bit as I glanced up into the flies. “I have a worrying problem,” I faltered, venturing at last into my pressing private concern. “I don’t know how to tell you, but I must. I had an emergency fund of my own, tucked away—quite a large one—and it was stolen, here at the theatre. It’s all gone. I have nothing now, and I must know I can leave, that I’m not completely dependent—”
His look was almost ferocious. “I’ll give you whatever you require, on behalf of Grimaldi. But you cannot leave, Rosana, you have a crucial role to play in this next venture. We expect your full attention.”
“And you have it! But really, Ventura, you mustn’t keep me in the dark. I’ve been going mad with worry.”
“Trust de León. We’re in good hands, we’ll succeed beyond our wildest dreams. Believe me.”
And I could get nothing further from him.
The date of the ball was set for the last Saturday in January. At the Oriente, Ventura whirled like a dervish, directing operations. The enormous room he’d chosen for the event was designed for painting curtains and sets, but in the pre-Lenten season the space was not required for its usual function. He could do what he wished with it.