Juliana, returned from her drive with the Prussian, watched her brother for a moment, then sent Mara a quick glance. “If he isn't careful, he is going to find himself with a sword cane in his back. That, or else under the table from mixing brandy with wine. He never drinks to excess unless he is hurt or enraged. I wonder what can have occurred to put him in such a passion? One would almost swear he had been thwarted in love."
"Hardly that,” Mara said, her tone tart.
"No? How interesting."
How much did Juliana know of what had taken place the night before? Her face with its well-defined features gave nothing away. Mara did not think that Sarus or Michael would have spoken of what they had seen, but there was no way of knowing what servants might have been about or who else might have looked out of their rooms. Nor was there any way of guessing what those who had seen might have made of the sight of the prince returning her to her bedchamber. It was an act that could mean anything.
But had Roderic been angry then? Perhaps a little, she had to concede, but not in the same way he was now. Slowly, she said, “It must have been something else."
"Such as?"
"I have no idea."
She had not spoken to Roderic, nor he to her, all that long day. Facing him had not been as bad as she had expected due to the melee with the dogs. Her chagrin at being found surrounded by men and with the younger Dumas's face buried in her lap, plus her anger at Roderic's deliberate misreading of the situation, had carried her over the first moments. His own complete lack of consciousness with her, as if the events of the night before had never taken place, had also helped.
And yet remaining in the same room with him all that long day had been nearly unendurable. She thought that he realized it and cared not at all for her sensibilities. It almost seemed that he stayed on, watching her instead of closeting himself with his affairs as he usually did, as a punishment. She was being fanciful, of course. Her discomfort was real enough, but his reaction to it was surely a figment of her own imagination.
Night fell and dinnertime came at last. Twenty-eight sat down to the table, including the Dumases, father and son. The food was rich in variety and beautifully prepared, the wine bountiful. Mara, pushing a piece of veal about her plate, reminded herself to compliment the cook on her ingenuity in providing so well for a number that had gradually increased as the evening advanced. The voices of the diners were loud, their spirits convivial. Both affected her like the scrape of fingernails on a windowpane. She could feel a headache forming behind her forehead, a sign of the strain of the day. More than anything else, she longed to be alone in the quiet of her room. As soon as it was possible, she was going to slip away.
They were leaving the dining room when Sarus came to touch Roderic on the shoulder. The prince leaned his head to listen to a whispered message, then with a graceful excuse left them, promising to join them in the salon later.
The party became more subdued almost at once, though it was still lively. Almost everyone knew everyone else. People congregated in groups here and there throughout the room, but particularly around Juliana, who sat on the settee in the center of the salon. The Prussian, who had returned for dinner, hovered over her, while the elder Dumas paid her extravagant praise and did his best to convince her that she should give up being a princess to become an actress.
One of the few people who stood apart, alone, in the room was Luca. He leaned against a window embrasure with his shoulders braced against the frame, his dark gaze following every gesture and change of expression on the face of Roderic's sister. There was gypsy blood in Juliana, if Roderic was to be believed, and perhaps it responded to the silent admiration. At any rate the princess was aware of it, for now and then she would look toward Luca and her mouth would curve in a secretive smile.
Mara had thought of herself as being apart also until she was joined where she stood before one of the two fireplaces by the younger Dumas. He placed a hand on the high marble mantel, leaning against it as he brushed back his tailcoat to put the other hand in his pocket. “They are saying, Mademoiselle Incognito, that you have become the mistress of Prince Roderic. Are they correct?"
"What an impertinent question!” she answered, trying for a light tone.
"You don't deny it, so it must be true. I would like to warn you that the life of a courtesan, la vie galante, is not as easy or exciting as it may appear."
His manner was serious and no doubt he was sincere; still, she was in no mood for lectures. “You have spoken plainly, so you will not be surprised if I tell you that such advice sounds a little odd coming from one who has, or so gossip has it, shared his father's mistresses for years."
He shrugged. “I was once in the habit of wearing out my father's mistresses and breaking in his new shoes. No longer."
"Indeed,” she said politely, and looked around for some means of extricating herself.
"I have no right to speak to you, I know, but you remind me strongly of someone I once knew. She was called Marie Duplessis, but her real name was simply Alphonsine Plessis."
"Was?"
"She died not long ago of a lung ailment. She was twenty-three."
"She was ... dear to you?"
A shadow of pain crossed his face. “If you mean to ask if she was my mistress, no. We were lovers, but I could not afford to keep her. She drifted away, became the favorite of others, the toast of Paris. But the life of camellias and diamonds and furs doesn't last. As they get older, the women grow grasping and afraid, or else disease claims them. You don't belong any more than Alphonsine did. You should go back where you came from, be a farmer's wife, a nun, a spinster—anything except this."
Mara looked up at him, her gaze dark. “I would,” she said, “if I could. Now if you will excuse me?"
She walked away and did not stop until she was out of the room. Still, the things the younger Dumas had said echoed in her mind. She had not needed to hear them to realize the risk she ran; she had known it from the beginning. Outside in the main gallery, she placed her back to the wall beside the door and closed her eyes. What would become of her when her association with the prince became known? Even if she and her grandmother told what had happened, who would believe them? It seemed so unlikely.
She had few illusions. Soon she would be notorious as the mistress of the prince. Once word reached New Orleans, there would be knowing looks and laughter behind fans. They would think that she had made that fatal misstep against which all young women were warned. Inevitably, there would be those who would say that they had expected it all along after the way her father had indulged her and the flighty way she had behaved.
What else would there be for her except to stay on in Paris, to become what everyone thought her already? She had never dreamed when she left Louisiana that she was destined to become a courtesan, a participant in la vie galante, the life of pleasing men.
There seemed to be no way out. Through no fault of her own, she had been drawn into this morass of lies and subterfuge. Now she was trapped.
She pushed away from the wall and started toward her rooms. The stair gallery above the entranceway with its double line of windows was cold. She hugged her arms around herself and hurried along. Where the stair gallery met the north-south corridor of rooms that formed the St. Andréw's cross, she turned left, crossing the three rooms that were seldom used, those leading to the private salon and long gallery favored by the cadre on most days. There were no fires here, and they were also chill and damp. She turned left again to reach the antechamber that contained the servants’ back stairs and gave access to her own suite overlooking the west court.
The door to the antechamber was just closing as she neared it. She thought nothing of it, expecting only a house servant on some errand. Pressing down the handle, pushing it open in one smooth movement in her haste, she stepped inside.
Roderic whirled, dropping into a crouch as with a sliding snick he drew a dagger from his belt. She stopped with a smothered cry. He cursed, fluently a
nd long. Behind him a man walked out of the shadows.
"Introduce me, my dear prince. A lady who can face you with a knife in your hand without screaming the house down must be as discreet as she is lovely."
It was Charles Louis Napolean, Prince Louis Napolean if he were given his proper title, the nephew of Napolean I and therefore the Bonaparte pretender to the throne of France. This was the man with whom Roderic had been closeted since dinner.
She gave him her hand, curtsying as he bowed above it. He did not release her fingers, but stood holding them in a gentle grasp as he stared at her. She looked at him just as frankly as she tried to decide what business he could have with Roderic. He was not a prepossessing-looking man, being of no more than medium height with narrow shoulders and thin brown hair with a slight wave in it. His mustache and small beard were neatly trimmed, and he wore a dark brown frock coat and tan waistcoat with charcoal trousers. His best feature was his eyes. Dark and liquid, hooded as if to conceal his thoughts, they held a steady determination.
"Enchanted ... Chère, is it not?"
"I had no idea you were in France, Your Highness."
"Nor does anyone else. I am still, as I have been for some years, persona non grata here, thus my departure by the back door. It would be flattering, this great fear of me, if it weren't so inconvenient."
From the corner of her eye, she noticed the quick, hard gesture with which Roderic replaced his dagger. He was scowling as he watched the two of them. She said to Louis Napolean, “You will be in danger then. I must not keep you."
"Yes.” He gave a sigh of regret. “I suspect that if you should, it would be worth the risk."
He was a gallant with an eye for a lady; there could be little doubt of that. Still, he was so charmingly diffident about it that he failed to cause alarm. It would be easy, she thought, for a woman to be lulled into a false sense of security by him. She smiled. “Permit me to wish you Godspeed."
"I suppose you must. A pity."
Roderic, watching them, slowly forced himself to loosen his grip on the dagger. It would not do to spill the blood of the Bonaparte pretender all over his own doorstep. He recognized what ailed him with something less than riotous humor. Jealousy. How could it have come upon him so quickly? How could it have happened at all when he was armored against it by cynicism and suspicion? How was no longer important. He had allowed a woman without a name to creep under his skin, to burrow toward his heart. She would have to be plucked out because she was nameless no longer.
Mara, he thought, trying out the syllables in his mind against the reality of her before him, and wondered if he had spoken aloud when she sent him a quick, nervous glance. No, they were waiting for him to move, to play the host by showing his guest out through the servants’ entrance. Without a word he indicated that Louis Napoleon was to precede him, then followed the other man quickly down the stairs.
Mara did not go to bed. She paced up and down, trying to make some sense of what was happening around her. Roderic was a prince, the heir to a throne, and must be presumed to have a vested interest in seeing that monarchy as a form of government was preserved in Europe. He was also a trained fighter with expertise in the protection of royal heads of state—or else in their removal. Through his house trooped radical republican elements, members of the French court, legitimists who would like to see a Bourbon return to the throne in the person of the comte de Chambord, and now Louis Napoleon, the bright hope of the Bonapartist faction. Roderic seemed to have no loyalties, no purpose, and yet he worked diligently at the gathering of information. Why?
Soon there was to be a ball with King Louis Philippe in attendance. Roderic must be there, must be in a certain place as the king entered. Why?
Why? The question was driving her mad.
If by some miracle she played her appointed part and Roderic was where he was supposed to be at the given time, what happened then would be on her head. She would be the cause. That, too, preyed on her mind.
If he was not there, if nothing happened, then her grandmother would be hurt, perhaps killed. This threat was with her constantly.
It might have been an hour later that Juliana pounded on the door, then opened it and looked in around the edge. “Good, you're still dressed. Come on! Hurry!"
"What is it?"
"They're having a race!"
"Who?"
"The cadre, of course. On the Seine. Bring your cloak!"
Mara came to her feet. “They must be mad."
"Drunk, at least so I think."
The last was muffled as Juliana withdrew her head and pelted away down the corridor. Mara hesitated only a moment. Anything was better than the ceaseless round of her thoughts. Snatching her cloak from the armoire, she ran after Juliana.
The night was cold, the streets slick with dirty, half-melted snow that turned to streaks of black diamonds in the glow of the lanterns. Bundled in furs, buttoned into woolen overcoats, the guests slipped and slid on their way to the carriages lined up outside the house. A few coachmen were exercising their horses, tooling them up and down the streets to prevent damage from standing in the cold, so everyone piled into the few that were available for the short ride to the river's edge. They started out in excitement aided by quantities of wine, but the chill ride along the dark streets, through the Place de la Bastille with its column towering into the night sky to where the Pont d'Austerlitz arched across the Seine, dulled their enthusiasm. They wound up cursing their unpredictable host, though even then they shook their heads in laughing admiration. One never knew what Roderic would be at next: He was a mercurial prince, was he not? So different from the stolid and stiff-rumpled bores at court!
There was no clear consensus about the cause of the race. It appeared to have evolved from a discussion of boating on the Elbe in Prussia, but whether it was the result of a wager, a challenge, or sheer high spirits, no one seemed to know. There was no apparent ill-feeling involved, and yet the men were to be divided into two teams, one headed by the prince, one by the Prussian.
The Seine was the lifeblood of Paris, its main roadway. On its green-brown waters rode much of the commerce of the city, some of it carried by small luggers and thick-waisted barges, but most by narrow boats with square sterns and sharply pointed prows that could shoot easily back and forth under the arches of the many bridges. These smaller crafts were usually controlled by one man with a sweep oar in the stern, though sometimes another man wielded another oar in the prow. They were individually owned, though the fathers and grandfathers of the boatmen may have plied just such skiifs for generations. These boats were moored at night in small flotillas here and there along the river, but especially near the quays upriver where the incoming ships docked. Roderic and the cadre had gone on ahead of the others to wake the sleeping boatmen and to drive a bargain for the use of four of the crafts.
The boats were waiting under the bridge. Each was double-manned with an oar in both the stern and the prow. The cadre had drawn lots to settle the pairing of the teams. The Prussian and Estes were in the first boat, and Michael and Trude in the second, forming the first team. Roderic would be rowing with Jared, and Luca with Jacques, for the second team. Their course of something less than two miles would take them down a straight stretch of the river to where the waters divided to pass around twin islands in the river, the Île Saint-Louis and Île de la Cité. There the boats would separate, the first team going to the right, the second to the left. They would converge again past the point of the second island for the straight stretch sweeping toward the Pont Royal. The first to emerge from under this last bridge would be declared the winner.
They had gathered a crowd. There was a great deal of banter between the boats and the shore. Underneath the bridge a trio of grisettes were tearing the flowers and veiling from their hats, flinging them at Jacques and Jared. The twins were flirting with ready wit, at the same time tucking the makeshift favors here and there about their persons. Estes also joined the fun. The others ignored the p
retty seamstresses.
Juliana jumped down from the carriage and ran to the bridge railing. “Roderic!” she called down to the men milling about the bobbing crafts below. “I want to go with you!"
"To risk the damp embrace of the Seine? It is not a consummation to be wished. Our respected father would damn it, and rightly so.” His voice floated up, rich and clear and insouciant. His face in the light of the lantern that hung at each prow was pale, but his eyes were bright, too bright. He was not sober.
"He isn't here."
"An unassailable argument. What of the handicap?"
"If it matters that the numbers are uneven, then Chère can go with the other team."
"Fair burdens, both. Shall we see which lady cries quarter first?"
It would not, Mara thought in tight disdain, be her. If it had not been for that slur, she might have refused. The water below the bridge moved black and swift in the night, treacherous with its ripples and wavelets and strings of bubbles whispering of uncertain currents. Here and there along the section of the course that stretched before them was the feeble gleam of lanterns and gaslight street lamps striking across the river's width, but they served only to highlight the windy darkness. From the water rose the sour, oily smell of ancient mud. The boats thudded against the piers of the bridge, oars creaked as the rowers tried to hold them in place. She hoped she did not lack courage, but joining the men in this midnight race did not appeal to her.
"You heard him, we can go. Come on,” Juliana cried. Catching Mara's arm, the other girl half dragged her toward the steps that led down to the footpath under the bridge.
The boats were maneuvered to the water's edge. Juliana climbed into her brother's boat, and Mara was taken aboard that of the Prussian. They seated themselves in the middle so that the weight would be evenly distributed. Once more the skiffs took their places under the bridge.
Royal 02 - Royal Passion Page 16