Marguerite watched him shrug into his robe of black silk, then walk to the door. “I will miss you,” she said. “If you are gone too long, I might cry out in the streets for you.”
He paused on the threshold and arched a brow. “Mon Dieu, do not believe that nonsense. It was one woman and her brain was afflicted.”
“Poor thing. However, I doubt it was her brain you were attracted to.”
Philippe growled. “Wait up for me.”
“Perhaps . . .”
He blew her a kiss and made his egress.
As he shut the bedchamber door behind him, Philippe’s smile faded. He belted his robe more securely and descended the stairs to the lower floor. Good news was rarely delivered at this hour, so he approached the coming discussion with grimness. With the scent of sex and Marguerite still clinging to his skin, he was more aware than usual of how vital her presence was in his life. She kept him connected with his humanity, something he feared had been lost by years of pretending to be someone he was not.
The door to the parlor was open and he entered without slowing his stride, his bare feet crossing onto the rug from the cool marble of the foyer.
“Thierry,” he greeted, startled by the identity of his visitor. “You were to report to Desjardins this evening.”
“I did,” the young man replied, his cheeks still flushed from his ride. “That is why I am here.”
Philippe gestured for the courier to take a seat on the settee while he sank into a nearby chair.
Travel-stained and disheveled, Thierry sat gingerly upon the edge. Philippe smiled at the care displayed to protect the new burgundy velvet. When the home had served as a bastion for secret du roi agents, the furnishings had been abused without thought. But the house had been abandoned after a time, an oft-used tactic to avoid suspicion, and he had removed all traces of the house’s former use and refilled it with luxuries suitable for the love of his life.
“I apologize for disturbing you,” Thierry said wearily, “but I have been ordered to depart again in the morning and I could not chance missing you.”
“What news is so urgent?”
“It regards Mademoiselle Piccard.”
Straightening from his semireclined state, Philippe studied the courier alertly. “Yes?”
“When I arrived at Desjardins’, he had a visitor and I was asked to wait outside his study. I do not think he realized how clearly his words travel.”
Philippe nodded grimly, having always found it noteworthy that such a slightly built man would have such a booming voice. He did not, however, find it interesting that the man would be discussing Marguerite. It was alarming because, quite simply, his very sanity rested with her well-being and proximity. Comte Desjardins was young, ambitious, and hungry for the king’s regard. Those qualities made him dangerous to those who stood in his way.
“I heard the name Piccard,” Thierry said softly, as if he might be overheard, “and though I attempted to turn my thoughts elsewhere, I could not help but listen more closely.”
“Understandable. You cannot be faulted for hearing conversations spoken within earshot.”
“Yes. Exactly.” The courier offered a grateful smile.
“About Mademoiselle Piccard . . . ?”
“Desjardins was discussing how preoccupied you seem of late and how best to manage it. It was suggested that Mademoiselle Piccard was to blame for your decreasing participation.”
Philippe tapped his fingertips atop his knee. “Do you know who this visitor was?”
“No, I am sorry. He departed through a different door than the one I waited outside of.”
As he blew out his breath, Philippe’s gaze moved to the banked fire in the grate. This parlor was considerably smaller and less appointed than the one he shared with his wife, yet this residence was home to him. Because of Marguerite.
Who could have foreseen how a reluctantly accepted invitation from the Fontinescus would become the turning point of his life?
Thoughts of Marguerite filled his mind, and he smiled inwardly. He had been unaware of how the many diverse and competing aspects of his life had been affecting him negatively until she’d brought his attention to it.
“You are so tense,” she noted one night, her slender fingers kneading into the sore muscles of his neck and shoulders. “How can I help?”
For a brief moment, he had considered forgetting his troubles with a few hours of passionate sex, but instead he found himself telling her things he told no one else. She had listened, then engaged in a discourse with him that brought to light alternate solutions.
“How clever you are,” he’d said, laughing.
“Smart enough to choose you,” she replied with a mischievous smile.
There was no doubt that even had he known how meeting her would affect him, he would change nothing. Her beauty was astonishing and a source of endless delight, but it was her pure heart and innocence that won his deeper regard. His love for her filled him with contentment, an emotion he had come to think was not meant for a man such as himself. His joy was nearly complete; his only regret was his inability to offer her the security of his name and title.
Philippe inhaled deeply and looked again at Thierry. “Is there more?”
“No. That is all.”
“You have my gratitude.” Philippe rose and moved to the escritoire in the corner. He opened it and withdrew a small purse. Thierry accepted the proffered coin with a grateful smile, then departed immediately. Philippe exited the parlor after him and sent the butler back to bed.
A few moments later he rejoined Marguerite. She lay curled on her side, her lustrous blond curls scattered atop a pillow, her sapphire blue eyes blinking sleepily. In the light of a single bedside taper, her pale skin glowed with the luminescence of ivory. She extended her hand to him and his chest ached at the sight of her, so soft and warm and filled with welcome. Other women had told him they loved him, but never with the fervency that Marguerite expressed. The depth of her affection was priceless. Nothing and no one would ever take her from him.
He shrugged out of his robe and rounded the bed to slip between the sheets behind her. He draped an arm over her waist and her fingers linked with his.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Nothing for you to be concerned with.”
“Yet you are concerned, I can feel it.” Marguerite turned in his arms. “I have ways to make you tell me,” she purred.
“Minx.” Philippe kissed her nose and groaned at the feel of her warm, silken limbs tangling with his. He related the conversation with Thierry and stroked the length of her spine when she tensed. “Do not be alarmed. This is a minor irritant, nothing more.”
“What do you intend to do?”
“Desjardins has high aspirations. He needs to feel as if every man working with him is as committed. I am not, which was proven when I began rejecting any mission that would send me to Poland.”
“Because of me.”
“You are far more charming than the Polish, mon amour.” He kissed her forehead. “There are others who will give him the level of dedication he requires.”
Marguerite pushed up on one elbow and gazed down at him. “And he will allow you to simply walk away?”
“What can he do? Besides, if he feels that my effectiveness is so diminished that he must concern himself with my private life, then my withdrawal should be a relief to him.”
Her hand slid over his chest. “Be careful. Promise me that much.”
Philippe caught her hand and lifted it to his lips. “I promise.”
Then he tugged her down and took her mouth, soothing her fears with the heat of his passion.
The gathering of close friends and political acquaintances in Comte Desjardins’s dining room was loud and boisterous. The comte himself was laughing and enjoying himself immensely when a movement in the doorway leading to the foyer caught his eye.
He excused himself and stood, moving to the discreetly gesturing servant with calculated
insouciance.
Stepping out to the marble-lined hallway, he shut out the noise of his guests with a click of the latch and arched a brow at the courier who waited in the shadows.
“I did as you directed,” Thierry said.
“Excellent.” The comte smiled.
Thierry extended his hand and in it was an unaddressed missive bearing a black wax seal. Embedded within that seal was a ruby, perfectly round and glimmering in the light of the foyer chandelier. “I was also intercepted a short distance up the street and given this.”
Desjardins stilled. “Did you see him?”
“No. The carriage was unmarked and the curtains drawn. He was gloved. I saw nothing more.”
The same as always. The first letter had arrived a few months past, always delivered through a passing courier, which led Desjardins to the conclusion that the man had to be a member of the secret du roi. If only he could determine who, and what grievance the man had with Saint-Martin.
Nodding, the comte accepted the note and dismissed Thierry. He moved away from the dining room, heading toward the kitchen, then through it, taking the stairs down to the cellar where he kept his wine. The missive went into his pocket. There would be nothing written within it. After a dozen such communiqués he knew that for a certainty.
There would be only a stamp, carved to prevent recognition of handwriting, imprinting one word: L’Esprit. The ruby was a gift for his cooperation, as were the occasional delivered purses of more loose gems. A clever payment, because Desjardins’s wife loved jewelry and unset stones were untraceable.
The volume from the bustling kitchen faded to a dull roar as Desjardins closed the cellar door behind him. He rounded the corner of one floor-to-ceiling rack and saw the smaller, rougher wooden planked door that led to the catacombs. It was slightly ajar.
“Stop there.” The low, raspy voice was reminiscent of crushed glass rubbed together, grating and ominous.
Desjardins stopped.
“Is it done?”
“The seeds have been planted,” the comte said.
“Good. Saint-Martin will cling to her more tenaciously now that he feels threatened.”
“I thought he would weary of the same bedsport months ago,” Desjardins muttered.
“I warned you Marguerite Piccard was different. Fortunately for you, as it has led to our profitable association.” There was a weighted pause, then, “De Grenier covets her. He is young and handsome. It would be a thorn to Saint-Martin to lose her to him.”
“Then I shall see that de Grenier has her.”
“Yes.” The finality in L’Esprit’s tone made Desjardins grateful to be this man’s associate and not his enemy. “Saint-Martin cannot be allowed even a modicum of happiness.”
Prologue 2
“The Vicomte de Grenier has come to call.”
Marguerite lowered the book she was enjoying and stared at her butler. It was the middle of the day, not a time when Philippe was known to be visiting with her. Regardless, only those privy to the secret du roi felt such urgency that they would seek him out at his mistress’s home.
“The marquis is not here,” she said, more to herself than to the servant who knew that already.
“He asks for you, mademoiselle.”
She frowned. “Why?”
The butler said nothing, as was to be expected.
Frowning, she snapped her book closed and rose. “Please send for Marie,” she said, desiring her maid’s company so that she would not be alone with the vicomte.
When the maid arrived, Marguerite descended to the lower floor and entered the parlor. De Grenier rose upon her arrival and bowed elegantly.
“Mademoiselle Piccard,” he greeted with a gentle smile. “You steal my breath.”
“Merci. You also look well.”
They sat opposite one another and she waited for him to reveal why he would seek her out. She should have, perhaps, refused him. She was another man’s mistress. In addition, she would be de Grenier’s wife now, if she had followed her mother’s wishes. From the slight flush along de Grenier’s cheekbones, that uncomfortable realization did not elude him either.
The vicomte was a young man, only a few years older than she was. Tall and slender, he bore handsome features and kind eyes. He was dressed for riding and the deep brown color of his garments created an attractive contrast against the pale blue décor of her parlor. The smile she offered him was genuine, if slightly bemused.
“Mademoiselle,” he began, before clearing his throat. He shifted nervously. “Please forgive the importunateness of my visit and the information I am about to share with you. I could conceive of no other way.”
Marguerite hesitated a moment, uncertain of how to proceed. She glanced at Marie, who sat in the corner with head bent over a bit of darning. “I have recently gained a new appreciation for bluntness,” she said finally.
His mouth curved and she was reminded that she’d always liked him. The vicomte was charming, making it easy to feel comfortable around him.
Then his smile faded.
“There are matters of some delicacy that Saint-Martin oversees,” he murmured. “I am aware of them.”
Her breath caught as she realized what he was attempting to tell her. How extensive was the secret du roi?
“Is something amiss?” she asked, her fingers linking tightly in her lap.
“I fear for your safety.”
“My safety?”
De Grenier bent forward and set his forearms atop his knees. “Saint-Martin has proven to be very valuable to the king. In addition, he is well respected, and when it comes to traversing certain . . . intimate channels, he is unsurpassed. And missed.”
Marguerite’s stomach knotted with jealousy. Of course the women who had known Philippe intimately would want him back. But would that be enough to jeopardize either of them? “What are you saying?”
“He has withdrawn from service and assists with matters only when they do not take him from your side. This has led to some unrest.”
The vicomte steepled his fingers together and lowered his voice to barely a whisper, forcing her to bend forward to hear his words. “The king has begun to pressure Desjardins to bring Saint-Martin back into the fold. So far, his efforts have met with failure, leading Desjardins to a state of frustration and aggravation that concerns me. I overheard him mention your name in a discussion with one of his associates. I suspect he has some plan to remove you. He sees you as an obstruction, yet the more he urges Saint-Martin to set you aside, the more contrary the marquis becomes.”
Her gaze moved to Marie, then rose to the portrait of herself above the empty grate. Saint-Martin had commissioned it soon after their affair had begun. In the swirls of colorful paints she was forever arrested in her youth and innocence, her blue eyes dreamy with love and desire.
“What can I do?” she asked.
“Leave him.”
Snorting softly, she said, “You might ask me to rip out my heart with my bare hands, it would be easier.”
“You love him.”
“Of course.” Her gaze returned to his. “I have been ostracized. I could not have survived it if not bolstered by love.”
“I would still have you.”
Stunned, Marguerite froze. She stared at him, confused. “Beg your pardon?”
The vicomte’s mouth lifted into a rueful curve. “I want you. I would take you in.”
She pushed to her feet. “You must go.”
De Grenier rose and rounded the small table that acted as a barrier between them. She retreated and he halted. “I mean you no harm.”
“Saint-Martin will not be pleased that you were here.” Her voice shook slightly, forcing her to lift her chin with bravado.
“Very true.” The vicomte’s eyes narrowed. “There has always been some rivalry between us. He knows the danger, yet he does not act because he suspects how I feel about you.”
“What danger?”
“The king’s agenda is of tremendou
s importance and secrecy. If Desjardins feels it is necessary to remove you, he will do so. If Saint-Martin cared as much for you as you do for him, he would end your affair to protect you.”
“I do not care.” Her hand lifted to cover her roiling stomach. Her protests would mean nothing when pitted against the will of the king. “I would be miserable without him. Better to stay and enjoy what I can, while I can, than to leave and have nothing.”
“I can give you all that you have lost.” He stepped closer.
“I have gained more.”
“Have you?” His jaw tightened. “You have lost your family, friends, and social standing. You have no life beyond these walls, waiting to serve the pleasure of a man to whom you are a peripheral indulgence. I have seen what happens to the women he discards; I could not bear to witness a similar end for you.”
“You offer the same,” she snapped.
“No, I offer my name.”
Marguerite felt the room spin and reached out to grip the carved wooden edge of the settee. “Go. Now.”
“I would wed you,” he said, his voice low and earnest. “I am being sent to Poland for a time. You would come with me. There is safety there and the opportunity to begin your life anew.”
She shook her head, wincing as it throbbed with painful pressure. “Please leave.”
De Grenier’s fists clenched at his sides, then he bowed in a fluidly graceful motion. “I leave in a sennight. Should your feelings on the matter change between now and then, come to me.” His shoulders went back, drawing her attention to the breadth of them. “In the interim, ask Saint-Martin to reveal the gravity of the situation you both face. If you know him as well as you believe, you should see the truth of what I have told you.”
He left the room with a hard, determined stride and Marguerite sank weakly into the seat. A moment later a glass filled with red liquid was held out to her and she accepted it from her maid with a grateful smile.
All the servants in her household had been carefully selected for their discretion. How Philippe knew whom he could trust or not was beyond her comprehension. But then everything he did with regards to the secret du roi was a mystery to her.
Sylvia Day - [Georgian 04] Page 2