Royal 02 - Royal Passion (16 page)

"Do you always quarrel?” Mara led the way into the adjoining salon, indicating a chair. Juliana seated herself, sighed, then reached up to take off her hat and cast it on the floor beside her.

"Not invariably, but often."

Mara had wondered many times what it would be like to have a brother or sister. She had thought of them playing together, presenting a united front against the world, not of quarreling. She opened her mouth to say so, but realized in time that it was a dangerous subject for someone who was supposed to have no memory of the past.

"Roderic usually manages to quarrel with everyone except our mother. Maman hates raised voices and so never indulges in tirades with words as weapons like the rest of us. But if she is pushed too far, she will rise up and annihilate you in a single phrase."

"I have noticed Roderic's peculiar speech patterns and also, to some extent, yours,” Mara said, her voice dry.

Juliana grimaced. “A trait picked up from our father. I try to curb it; Roderic makes no attempt. You should hear them when they are together. Or perhaps you had better not.

When they disagree, bystanders are likely to be dissolved by the acid of their comments. Maman was always caught between them. I think, though I cannot be sure, that it was his concern for the pain such confrontations gave her that made Roderic leave Ruthenia."

Juliana was speaking of Angeline, queen of Ruthenia, Mara's own godmother. Mara resolved to think of some way to discover more about her. “Roderic and his father are estranged then?"

"I wouldn't say that. They are deep men, so it's hard to tell what passes between them. It could just as easily be that our father forced Roderic from Ruthenia because he thought it best my brother should be on his own, that he should make his way in the world. It was what he was made to do when he was that age."

Mara frowned. “It seems hard."

"Yes, but beneficial. Roderic survived very well, indeed. He and his cadre strike fear into half the courts of Europe."

"Fear?"

"They are called the Death Corps. Didn't you know?"

Mara shook her head. There was a feeling of disquiet inside her, though she was not certain why. “What is it that they do?"

"They fight, or at least so I suppose. They are always found where trouble is brewing. I remember hearing once that they helped to train special units of guards for royal houses, something like that. Assassination is always a threat these days. Everyone must guard against it in the best way they can."

"I don't think I understand why the cadre should be feared if they train others to protect members of the courts."

"It's the way they go about it, not just by honing a fighting force, but by infiltrating, gathering information, becoming friendly with all political elements so as to learn where the greatest threat lies. Some say that with their tactics it would be just as easy for them to overthrow a government as to save it, and on occasion what they have learned has made Roderic decide that the opposition would be best in power. It is a little like letting the wolf in at the back door in order to keep the vultures from the front, and so the title."

"The Death Corps,” Mara whispered to herself, and shivered.

In the brief pause there was a scratching on the salon door. Mara looked up sharply. “Come in."

It was Trude who stepped into the room. “I am sorry to trouble you, mademoiselle, but I wondered if—"

As the woman saw Juliana, she stopped abruptly, her tall form stiffening. Juliana lifted a brow, but rose at once."Don't mind me, I'm just going."

"No, no, don't go,” Mara said. There had been no time to ask about Angeline. “Perhaps Trude would care to join us? We could order chocolate and cakes and perhaps chat a little."

"I haven't the time,” Trude said, her tone distant. “I only wanted to ask if you had an ointment that I might put on my face. Estes suggested it might prevent scarring."

"I'm afraid I don't,” Mara began.

"I do,” Juliana said, “and most effective it is. If you will come with me, I'll search it out for you."

"I couldn't allow—"

"Nonsense. We women must stick together. The very idea of Roderic touching your face! He could just as easily have hit your arm if he had wanted. I would not have believed he could be so careless."

"It wasn't carelessness.” Trude's voice was harsh, as if the words were forced from her against her will.

"Are you saying it was deliberate?"

"It was a lesson to me, for accusing Mademoiselle Chère of vanity."

"No,” Mara whispèred, rising to her feet."He couldn't."

"You don't know him."

The words were a reminder to Mara that she was new among them. They also held a certain bitter derision that might have been directed not only at Mara but at herself.

"If what you say is true, I'm sorry."

"There is no reason for you to be sorry. It was not done because of you, but for—for my own good."

"Well,” Juliana said briskly when Mara made no answer, “whatever the reason, we must repair the damage. Come along."

The two women left. Mara took up her mending, but though her needle moved steadily, she could not forget what Trude had said. Had Roderic injured Trude's face as a reprimand? And, if so, had it been done for the reason Trude had implied; as a lesson not to speak of vanity in other women without taking her own into consideration? Or had it been in retaliation for the embarrassment the woman had caused Mara, for an insult that the prince had appeared to dismiss at the time? That any man could act in such a cold-blooded way was disturbing to her. That she must become intimate with one who might have done so made it that much worse.

The Death Corps. What kind of group was the cadre, indeed, and what kind of man was the one who led them? She had thought Roderic a playboy prince, handsome, intelligent, musically gifted, but of minor importance. The more she learned, the less she seemed to know or to understand.

She met Roderic in the long gallery as she was on her way to the public rooms later that evening. He was coming from his apartment while she was making her way from her own through the central corridor rather than going through the rooms taken over by Trude and Juliana in her own wing. She paused as she saw him, unconsciously searching his face for some sign of his humor. He offered his arm. She took it, moving beside him a few steps before she spoke of precisely what was on her mind.

"May I ask you something?"

The glance he sent her was wary, but he inclined his head in silent permission.

"Did you deliberately cut Trude's face?"

"Is that what she is saying?"

"You know that it is."

He exhaled with a soft sound that might have been a sigh.

"Trude is too good a soldier. Such devotion has its uses, but she is in danger of forgetting that she is a woman."

"It's hardly surprising since she is seldom treated as one. We tend to see ourselves as others see us."

"When that happens, it would be as well if we were forced to take another look."

"Is that it? You wanted to remind her that she is female and subject to vanity?"

"To remind her that there are other things besides being a member of the cadre."

"I somehow feel that she knows that."

"Buxom and tender of heart she is, or so you think? It also seemed necessary to prevent her from making me into some figure of romance. It's popular at the moment for some men to pose as misunderstood, yearning, poetic souls, but I am none of those things. I am a man with a job to do, and I can do it best without attachments. More, there is room in the cadre only for those who will put the goods of all first instead of turning instinctively to see to the welfare of one in particular."

"You fear she will endanger the others for your sake? But where is the threat?” Was there a warning in his words for her? Was he saying in his own peculiar way that he had no time for dalliance with any woman?

"If we knew, it could be neutralized so that it would be no threat for long."

"But why? Why was it necessary for you to—to—"

"To meddle? Trude is my responsibility, as are all the cadre and now you. Anything that happens to any one of you will be laid at my door."

"Who would accuse you?"

"I would."

The timbre of his voice was unrelenting. The question could not be argued. She abandoned it. “Still, it seems a hard lesson for Trude."

"She understands it. Besides, she has her own kind to console her. I don't doubt you soothed and sympathized with her wound and her fears."

"Juliana did."

"The child must have matured behind my back if she can discover pity inside her for one so self-sufficient as our Trude."

"What is it that you were trying to prove; that she was too hard or too soft?"

"Another champion; I thought so. My intent was to make her consider the direction in which she is going. No more."

They had reached the antechamber that led into the public salon with the dining room beyond it. A footman held open the door and they passed through it.

Her voice low, Mara said,"In that case, I suspect that you succeeded."

"Too well, or so it may prove. How shall I contain my joy?"

She sent him a sharp glance and found his blue gaze dark as it rested on her face. There was no time for more, however, for Juliana was there before them, and with her was Trude, wearing a shirtwaist of white silk, with a jabot of fine lace, tucked into her uniform trousers.

What had Roderic meant? Was the regret she had seen reflected in his face for a brief moment because of her disapproval of his action, a disapproval deliberately courted? Was it for what he saw as the necessary lack of closeness between them? Or had it been merely that he had seen Trude in her silk immediately and mourned the corrupting of a good soldier? But if the reason was the last one, hadn't he contributed, with all deliberation, to that excursion into femininity? The possible convolutions of his thinking eluded her, and she gave up the subject in exasperation.

She had planned to try once more to detach the prince from the others that evening. She was given no opportunity to do so, however. Directly after the lengthy dinner, the prince swept them up with him and out of the house. The writer Victor Hugo was holding a literary salon in his home close by at the Place Royale. A card had been received inviting Roderic and as many of his retinue as he cared to bring. They would enjoy the stimulation of the presence of some of the best intellects and most liberal minds in Paris, and if they did not, they could at least be entertained by them.

"Liberal?” Juliana scoffed. “Hugo is a libertine!"

"Prudery, my dear sister, is an affliction that is stifling to the body and the energies of the brain. Would you deny a man greatness merely because he pays expenses for three households, all within walking distance of each other?"

"No man needs two mistresses as well as a wife. And it's indecent that Hugo keeps his collection so close together. What are the women involved thinking of, to live so for the convenience of one man?"

"Not for nothing is his motto ‘Ego Hugo.’ I call it sublime."

"I call it ridiculous."

"Great men can be forgiven many ridiculous things. Dumas and his waistcoats, for instance."

"Among other things! They say he keeps a menagerie of animals, including a pet vulture named Jugurtha worth fifteen thousand francs and a battalion of mistresses who change places as regularly as a palace guard—and which he shares with his son!"

Roderic refused to be drawn, however. Tucking his sister's hand in one arm and Mara's in the other, he swept them with him, calling over his shoulder. “
En avant, mes enfants
!"

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The gathering was not large, but it was loud with talk and laughter. People stood in groups arguing and gesticulating, or else sat here and there with their heads together and expressions of concentration on their faces. Madame Hugo circulated among her guests, making introductions, directing the serving of wine and cheese and small pastries. Victor Hugo held court from a vast armchair near the fire to an audience of men and women seated on the carpet at his feet.

The room was long and commodious, with walls hung with red cloth painted with oriental designs. The furniture was dark and heavy and ornately carved, with a great deal of red plush and a number of fat ottomans, both the latest style in decor, on display. The gaslight overhead sputtered and hissed in a black cast-iron fixture with milky, etched globes. The drapes that shut out the night, and also the skirts on the various tables about the room, dripped with layers of silk fringe.

Mara stood with Estes and Michael in a corner. She was glad of the company of the men and also for their indulgence in pointing out people to her; she felt more than a little intimidated in such unfamiliar and ferociously intellectual surroundings. Everyone seemed so sure of themselves and their ideas, so ready to shout down opposition. They were never at a loss for the meaning of a word or an abstract phrase. Theories and the ramifications of ideologies were tossed about like toys. Books and plays were being discussed that she had never heard of, much less read. There were people there who were no doubt famous in their fields, but she had no idea who they were.

"Not to worry, mademoiselle,” Estes reassured her when she said as much to him and Michael, “half of the people in this room understand not a tenth of what the other half is saying, but they all—all!—pretend like mad. It is the way of the world."

Mara recognized Alexandre Dumas wearing another of his execrable waistcoats, this one in bilious green and egg-yoke-yellow stripes. His round face was beaming with enjoyment and he was eating thick slabs of cheese without bread and talking about his new production of
Hamlet.
Near him, but not of his circle, was a woman in her early forties, dressed conservatively in a gown of black wool with a tight basque and full skirt with organ pleats, and over it a gray-and-black-striped pelerine. This lady had been pointed out to her on the street when she first came to Paris and Roderic had also mentioned her.