By Honor Bound (18 page)

Olivia’s heart sank. She had no chance to win Philippe back unless Honneure was out of the picture. “But … but surely the king will tire of her. Eventually.”

“I cannot take the chance. I will not. Not this time.”

“Then … then what do you propose?”

“To get rid of her, of course.”

Olivia had to stifle her sigh of relief. “Does Madame … does Madame have any ideas?”

“Not yet. I don’t know enough about her.” The comtesse looked at Olivia and smiled. “That’s where you come in, Olivia. You’re very good at finding people’s weaknesses. And exploiting them.”

Had anyone else said such a thing to her, Olivia would have been insulted. Coming from the comtesse, however, it was a compliment. She returned her mistress’s smile and let it spread into a wide grin. Things were definitely looking up.

“As a matter of fact, I do know something about Honneure. And she has a very great weakness,” she replied, thoughts turning to a handsome, dark-haired young man.

“How lovely,” Madame du Barry purred. With the tip of her chin, she indicated a chair near the dressing table. “Sit down, Olivia. And tell me all about it.”

Chapter Seventeen

The day had dawned with no memory of the night’s fury. A perfect, pure, and sparkling blanket of white lay atop the world. The wind had died, and the sky was a piercing, cloudless blue. It was the kind of beautiful winter’s day that made it possible to wait for spring and kinder temperatures. But Philippe hardly noticed as he drove the leopard sleigh toward the palace and, hopefully, the waiting princess. His thoughts were in turmoil, and the urgency of time running out pressed down on him like a physical weight. How could everything be so right one minute and wrong the next?

Philippe squinted against the blinding light of sun on snow, but he was not yet close enough to see if Antoinette’s entourage had entered the Marble Court.
Please don’t let her be late today
, he prayed. He needed to speak to her, to win her to his side and help him to get Honneure to see reason.

The Lipizzan mare trotted on, her coat as pristine as the new snow. It always gave Philippe such joy to drive her. But there was no gaiety in him today.

Didn’t Honneure understand the danger she was in? If she truly loved him, as she had said, and wished to marry him, why wouldn’t she listen to him?

To his vast relief, Philippe saw the royal party emerge from the palace as he passed the tip of the northern wing. Fixing a smile to his face, he pulled into the courtyard and halted in front of the princess’s entourage. He stepped down from the coachman’s jump seat and bowed to the dauphine.

Fortunately, it seemed Antoinette, too, was in no mood to waste any time. With alacrity she took her place in the velvet-lined seat and bid Philippe to drive on. He did not hesitate. For a few minutes, until they were well away from anyone’s earshot, the only sound was the hiss of runners over crisp snow.

“Well, Philippe,” the princess said at length. “I suppose you’d better tell me what has gone amiss between you and Honneure. This morning, when the two of you came to me and asked for permission to marry, I was overjoyed. It’s the perfect solution for everyone. Now, however, Honneure is telling me she cannot go away with you.”

“I apologize deeply to you, Highness, for the trouble you’ve had to take.”

“Nonsense.” Antoinette waved a dainty, gloved hand dismissively. “You know how fond I am of both of you. Your happiness matters very much to me. I was devastated last night to learn of the king’s decision to send Honneure to
Le Parc aux Cerfs
. You cannot imagine how happy I was to give my permission to you to marry Honneure and take her out of harm’s way. But now she says she cannot go, she cannot leave me. She will wed you, happily, joyfully … but she will not leave the palace.”

Philippe briefly closed his eyes. He spoke just loud enough to be heard over the wind rushing in their faces. “Honneure is devoted to Your Majesty.”

“But at her own peril?”

“So it seems, Majesty. Ever since she was a little girl, she has felt her loyalties intensely.”

“It is an admirable quality, Philippe. Yet this time, I fear, it will not stand her in good stead. Can you not speak to her again, reason with her? Unless she is well away, I’m afraid the king will have what he wants. And soon. I have put him off for a day or two, saying I must find someone to replace Honneure. But the king is, as you know, an impatient man. He will have what he desires.”

“Even if we are wed?”

“In this Court marriage is not viewed as an obstacle to one’s desires,” Antoinette replied so quietly Philippe had to strain to hear her. “No, you must take her away. At once. And you must convince her yourself. I’ve done all I can. I have even, as you know, promised to find you another position. But she stands firm.”

There was nothing more to say … except to Honneure. And he was at a loss. She already had her hackles up at his insistence that her devotion was misplaced. The dauphine had released her, and her place was with him, at his side. Why was she unable to see that?

The temptation rose strongly in Philippe to tell Honneure what he suspected, in fact was almost certain of, about her past. Perhaps fear could do what reason could not.

But he couldn’t tell her, at least not now, not yet. She had suffered enough trauma and distress in the last few days. He could not add to it a potentially crushing knowledge.

With a heavily burdened soul, Philippe returned the princess to her party in the courtyard. “Take heart,” she said in an undertone as she climbed from the sleigh. “Come to my apartment when you’re done. I’ll make sure Honneure is there to speak with you.”

It was all he could do. He turned the mare back in the direction of the stables and cracked the buggy whip over her flank. She stepped out briskly, long mane lifting from her elegantly curved neck. It took only a few minutes to return to the stables.

There was a great deal of activity, as usual. Philippe did not notice at first the footman making his way in his direction. When he saw him at last, he smiled grimly at the man’s nervousness around horses. It was obvious he was from the palace.

“Philippe Mansart?” the footman asked tentatively as he sidestepped the mare.

When Philippe nodded, the man handed him a slip of paper. Philippe thanked him curtly and unfolded the note, which said, “Dearest Philippe, I must see you as soon as possible. Please meet me in the Salon of Hercules. I await you.”

The note was not signed and scribbled so hastily he barely recognized the handwriting, but it had to be from Honneure. Had she changed her mind? Is that why she wished to see him now? Hope leaped in Philippe’s heart.

It didn’t take long to unhitch and rub down the mare, yet it seemed an eternity. The afternoon waned, and time was of the essence. Every day, every moment counted now. He hurried from the stable and jogged toward the palace.

It occurred to Philippe as he entered the first of the courts that funneled visitors into the château, that the Salon of Hercules was an unusual place for Honneure to request a rendezvous. If he was not mistaken, it was part of the greater area that made up the king’s suite of apartments. But perhaps that was the reason. At this time of day, late in the afternoon and before the commencement of evening activities, they would undoubtedly have privacy. Philippe hastened his steps.

He had been correct. After a hurried inquiry, a footman directed him up the King’s Staircase.

Philippe hesitated at the top of the royal stair. A few passing servants eyed him curiously, but no one questioned him, dressed as he was in the dauphine’s livery. He looked to the left, toward the actual living quarters where the majority of the activity seemed to be taking place, and proceeded to the right. He passed through two grand and gilded reception chambers, the Salon of Abundance and the Salon of Venus, and came at last to the Salon of Hercules.

The chamber was greater in dimension than the previous two rooms had been and just as ornate. Philippe’s eyes were drawn upward to the fantastic ceiling painting of the triumph of Hercules, and he did not notice, at first, the figure standing in a corner of the huge room.

“Philippe. I’m so glad you’ve come.”

The voice was low, seductive, and familiar. And it made his flesh crawl. He halted in midstride.

“You.” A single word, yet the tone of it fully revealed the depth of his loathing for her. “What are
you
doing here?”

“Why, meeting you, as my note clearly stated,” Olivia replied smoothly. She wanted to fly at him and scratch his eyes out. But she would have her revenge, against both of them. Very soon now. “I assume you got my message … That’s why you’re here?”

“
Your
message.” Philippe’s hands were clenched into fists.

“Yes, of course. Why, Philippe? Did you simply
assume
the note was from … another?”

He knew he should simply turn and walk out. But a visceral curiosity delayed him.

Olivia took advantage of it. From a cut crystal decanter on a small table she poured two glasses of wine, then carried them toward Philippe.

“You can stop right where you are, Olivia.”

“But, Philippe,” Olivia protested with a smile, “we must toast your good news. We must raise a glass to you and your … future bride.”

Philippe felt his blood run cold. “How did you know?” he demanded.

“Oh, Philippe, you know how the palace is. There are no secrets.”

Ice continued to creep through his veins. It made it difficult to move. But she was approaching him again, moving closer. He managed to turn away.

“Wait, Philippe. Don’t go. We really must celebrate. So much good news in a mere twenty-four hours!” Olivia halted in front of Philippe and smiled up at him. “Your engagement. And Honneure’s winning the king’s favor …”

“Olivia!”

Both looked toward the door. Madame du Barry frowned at Olivia in mock disapproval.

“I thought this was to be a toast to
good
news. I’m sure your handsome friend doesn’t wish to be reminded of any unpleasantness at this particular moment. Neither do I, for that matter.” On satin-slippered feet, the comtesse glided toward the pair in the center of the room.

Philippe stood rigid in stunned, awkward silence. What was going on?

Madame du Barry took one of the glasses, the one nearest her, from Olivia and handed it to Philippe. “Take it, please. I insist.” When Philippe reluctantly complied, she took the second glass of wine.

“I’m sure you’re wondering what this is all about, are you not?” The comtesse allowed her gaze to caress the equerry from head to foot. He was as divinely good-looking as Olivia had said. Perhaps when this was all over and the rival for the affections of
both
of their lovers had been driven from the palace, she would have a taste of what Olivia found so delicious.

“It is just as Olivia has said. She and I, too, would like to toast your happiness. Olivia because she considers you a dear friend, and I … well, I’m certain I don’t have to spell out to a man as intelligent as yourself why I would like to see the lovely Honneure happily wed and no longer a temptation to the king.”

With a smile on her expertly painted lips, the comtesse touched Philippe’s glass. “To love.” She drank.

Philippe felt he was caught in the bizarre and complex web of a nightmare from which he could not awaken. This simply could not be happening. But it was. And he wanted it over with as soon as possible. Throwing back his head, he drained the goblet dry.

“I … hardly know how to thank Madame,” he said with what he hoped was an air of finality. “It is kind and generous of you to take note of and care about the lives of mere servants.”

“Oh, I do care,” the comtesse purred. “More than you know.”

“Then I thank you again and will take my … take my … leave …”

“Olivia? I think you should summon a footman. Your friend doesn’t appear … quite himself.”

Philippe heard the comtesse’s words, but they seemed to come from very far away, and he couldn’t make sense of them. He only knew he had to get away. He turned toward the doorway.

Someone was coming through the door. And he couldn’t move his feet. They seemed rooted to the parquet floor. His body, however, had already begun to lean in the direction he wished to go.

The floor came up to meet him, slowly …

Winter’s early night was falling, and the setting sun laid sheets of pink and gold atop the fresh snow. Honneure caught her breath as she stood at the window preparing to draw the drapes. The world sparkled, glittered, and almost seemed on fire with color so pale yet pure that it hurt the eye.

But cold stung the flesh, and window glass was too thin a barrier against the winter night. Reluctantly, Honneure pulled the heavy silken drapes together and arranged their folds. Behind her Madame Thierry lit the lamps while another servant banked the fire. Madame Campan was in the princess’s boudoir buttoning the gown Antoinette had chosen for the evening. The dogs, walked and fed, were asleep in their beds in a corner of the salon. Her day was almost done.

Where was Philippe?

“Everything is done here,” Madame Thierry said. “At least until the dauphine returns from supper. You may take some time for yourself, if you like.”

“Thank you, but no. I think I’ll wait here.”

“As you wish. I’m going to spend some time with my son. Good evening.”

Honneure curtsied in response. Madame Thierry as well as the other servant left, and the room was suddenly very quiet. Too quiet.

There must be something else to do. Honneure turned, critical eye surveying the room, but everything was perfect. She could find nothing to busy her fingers and occupy her mind. She could avoid reality no longer. And reality was that she had driven Philippe away with her stubborn loyalty and determination.

Honneure clasped her hands and squeezed them together as stinging tears rose to her eyes. Though she tried to stay the memory, it was too new, too fresh. She saw the look in Philippe’s eyes as he had proposed, the love and devotion. He would do anything for her; he had proved it. He was willing to give up the best position he could ever possibly have just for love of her, to make and keep her safe. And how had she responded? Honneure winced as the morning’s memory assailed her.