Royal 02 - Royal Passion (28 page)

There was something wrong; she knew it with suffocating certainty. The feeling of being held fast in a snare from which there was no escape was so strong that she could not move.

From outside the ballroom came the faint noise made by the arrival of several carriages. Louis Philippe and his entourage had arrived. A flurry of anticipation swept through the room. The murmur of voices rose, then began to die away. The vicomtesse hurried from the room, and the clatter of her heeled slippers could be heard as she descended the stairs. Then came the sound of the downstairs door opening, of formal greetings exchanged by their hostess, in a tone that was high-pitched with excitement, and the king, in a deeper and slower timber. There was a pause while the men and women who had accompanied him, members of his household and his guard, were also welcomed; then came the heavy and measured footsteps of the elderly Louis Philippe on the stairs, preceding his hostess and all the others as was his privilege.

The music stopped. There was a slight surge toward the door, a shifting as those gathered made room for the ritual curtsies and bows required of them at the appearance of their sovereign. From the corner of her eye, Mara caught a glimpse of a waiter, a man dressed in white trousers rather than the black that the others of his kind were wearing. He was inching forward as though anxious for a glimpse of royalty, but one hand was hidden under his jacket. He wore no braiding or bars on his jacket, no stripes down his trouser legs, but it struck Mara with the force of a blow that at a glance he looked very much like one of the cadre.

Her chest ached. There was a red haze before her eyes. Each footstep on the marble stairs grated in her ears with the abrasiveness of a grindstone. On they came. She could feel the honed concentration of the man at her side, the poised and balanced intent.

De Landes had moved closer and was within a few feet of where she stood. His attention was not on her, however, but on the door. He stared at the opening with a feral grin baring his teeth as the footsteps sounded, louder, closer, then slowing from the long climb as the king reached the top.

They stopped, became a stride as Louis Philippe crossed the landing, moving toward the wide double doors. De Landes threw a hurried glance behind him, then stared in triumph at the prince. Mara, still watching him, saw that the dark man had looked first toward the waiter, who was now only a few feet away. Within seconds the king would appear. Silence held the room as every eye was turned on the door.

Driven by an uncontrollable impulse, Mara put out her hand to touch the prince's arm. She spoke in an anguished whisper, forcing the words past the constriction in her throat, “Take care, Roderic, oh, take care—"

There was a brief flicker of movement in the doorway. The chest of the majordomo in charge of announcing guests swelled as he drew breath. “His Majesty, Louis Philippe, king of the French!"

The king, a practiced and genial smile creasing his lined face, his barrel-chested form held with conscious and regal erectness, stepped into the room. Silks and taffetas rustled as the gathering swayed, bending like blown wheat as they paid their respects.

In that instant the white-clad waiter drew a pistol and sprang forward. Roderic, moving like the uncoiling of a cracked whip, was upon him in an instant, flinging up the waiter's arm. The report exploded in the room with a rolling concussion that made the chandelier clash with the tinkling of crystal lusters and brought plaster down from the ceiling.

The crowd surged away from the center of conflict with yells and screams. Cries of “Assassin! Assassin! They've killed the king!” arose in the sudden babble. The cordon of Roderic's
garde du corps
tightened, moving in upon the king, sweeping him back out the door and into the safety of his attendants’ arms. As a passage was cleared from the room, men and women poured toward the doorway, surrounding the small struggling group where Roderic and Michael held the waiter.

Suddenly, there was a whispering rush followed by a soft thud, a deadly sound in the din. The waiter stiffened, then slumped with the haft of a knife protruding from his chest. Panic ran through the guests who were nearest. Screaming, babbling, shouting, cursing, they pushed and shoved, trampling each other as they tried to find a way out.

Mara stood still with the shock of comprehension. She saw de Landes backing away from the knot of men around the waiter, saw him turn and run with blank terror on his face.

A strong, hard hand caught her arm. She saw the white uniform and every muscle tensed.

"Don't be afraid,” Michael said, his thin, earnest face flushed and his voice breathless as he fought to keep her from being jostled by the crowd. “It's only me. I'm to get you out of here, Roderic's orders."

"No,” she cried, “I can't go with you!"

"There's nothing you can do to help. No matter how it looks, I assure you that Roderic has it under control. Come on."

She was half pushed, half dragged through the struggling crowd as Michael, with the ruthless use of elbows and fists, made a path for them both. It seemed useless to protest further. Even if she could make Michael understand, he would still not disobey the orders of his cousin, the prince. There was no one in that maddened gathering to whom she could appeal, no one who would help her. It seemed best to do as she was directed until this upheaval was over. She could think of what she must do later.

They left the room by a side door that led to a back stair. Apparently, the choice of exit was no accident, for at the foot of the narrow staircase they found Luca with Juliana in tow, along with Trude and Estes, who were holding their wraps, which had been left downstairs. Others also knew of this back way out, however, for they could hear them on the stairs behind them.

No words were wasted in greeting or exclaiming. They raced along the dark corridor leading from the stairs and burst out of a door that gave on to a side court. They crossed it. Ahead of them was a small garden with gravel paths and a gate that, in turn, gave on to the front court where their carriage, conveniently turned toward the street, waited. Behind the carriage were the mounts of the cadre. In an instant, Mara and Juliana were handed into the vehicle and the cadre mounted. Michael shouted an order, and they plunged away from the bright lights and confusion of the Beausire townhouse.

The carriage rocked and swayed, rattling over the cobblestones with a force that made Mara's teeth clatter together. She clung to the velvet hanging strap, staring into the darkness, her body shaking not only with the violence of the ride, but also with reaction.

Assassination. The thought had crossed her mind, but she had not really believed it. De Landes had known that the attempt was going to be made; that much was clear. What was not clear was whether he had wanted the prince to be there to prevent it or to be the scapegoat. It seemed the latter, and yet the man prided himself on the twists and turns of his planning. Considering his position in the ministry under Louis Philippe, it made no sense for him to try to depose the king. Had he thought to benefit in some way then, from being on the scene when the plot to kill the king was brought to nothing? Had he seen to it that Roderic and his cadre, famous for the prevention of such crimes, were there to do the dirty work while he stepped in to take the credit?

But who would become king if Louis Philippe was killed? The young comte de Paris, grandson of the king, whose father Ferdinand, the duc d'Orléans, had been killed in a carriage accident five years ago, was next in line. Doubtless a regency would be declared if he took the throne, perhaps one controlled by his mother, Helen of Mecklenburg-Schwerin. But other ambitious men might come close to the throne in such a case, men such as de Landes who knew how to think ahead. Could that be it?

Did it matter? The king had not been assassinated. Roderic and his men had intervened to prevent it. The waiter who had made the attempt was almost surely dead, and lost with him was the name of the man or the cause for which he had risked so much.

There had been a moment, when the waiter had been knifed, that she had looked instinctively for the newest member of the cadre, Luca the gypsy. He had been near, though if he had thrown that lethal blade—and, if so, on whose order?—she could not tell and preferred not to guess.

In these things she had no part. The questions that did concern her, and most deeply, were whether de Landes would consider that she had failed, and, if he did, what he meant to do about her grandmother. Another was whether Roderic realized that it was she who had in all deliberation enticed him into the fiasco tonight. She wondered, too, if there was a reason why he had sent Michael to rescue her and return her to Ruthenia House other than concern for her safety. And if there was, what did he intend to do with her? It did nothing toward allaying her fears to discover, as they passed a gaslight street lamp, that Juliana was watching her with compassion.

Mara moistened her dry lips. “Where is Roderic? Why has he remained behind?"

"There will be an official inquiry,” the other girl said, her voice calm. “Those directly involved will be expected to give their version of what occurred. Doubtless King Louis Philippe will wish a verbatim report in person also, especially in view of my brother's position here."

"His position?"

"As the official representative of our country."

"I see. Do—do you think that we will be called upon for questioning?"

"It seems unlikely. This is one of the few occasions when it is just as well to be female. In any case,” Roderic's sister added in considered tones, “I believe we can depend on Roderic to shield us."

Was the choice of words a deliberate double entendre? Mara could not be certain, and she dared not ask.

Back at Ruthenia House, they settled down to wait, for what it was not quite certain. By unspoken agreement they took up positions in the public salon since it was felt that this was an occasion of a certain formality. Fires were hastily kindled, and trays of wine and of various savories and cakes were brought. There was much heated discussion of what had really happened and when. They spoke also of why, though not of the reason that they had been there to stop it. It was, Mara thought, an exercise in mass diplomacy.

Roderic's cadre was not, either collectively or singly, stupid. They knew their prince had not meant to attend the ball, knew that he had changed his plans for her sake. They had received certain orders concerning the arrival of the king, orders that they knew had been kept from her. It was plain then that they suspected her of involvement in the night's affair. They withheld judgment, pending Roderic's return. There was a general feeling that it was possible the prince had reasons that none could know or guess. Their attitude toward her, however, lacked its usual warmth. At the same time, they treated her with the brusque solicitude usually reserved for those on the eve of their execution.

It was daybreak when Roderic returned at last. His temper was short, his mood perilous, and his words flaying. He had, he said, been suffering the blatherings and slow wits of officials for the past five hours and had nothing more to say on the subject of the assassination attempt. The king was tucked up in his bed sleeping the sleep of the well-served. The waiter had died without speaking. The man who had killed him had not been identified; he had taken himself off posthaste, vanishing in the crowd. It would be as well, the prince of Ruthenia suggested, if his entourage could find in one of those three examples conduct they could emulate. Except for Mara.

Within moments the salon had been cleared and she was left alone with the prince. She sat with her silk skirts spread around her, her ermine cape still about her shoulders, and her hands clasped in her lap. Pride kept her back straight and her gaze steady as she watched Roderic, but inside her was fluttering panic and the leaden depression of guilt.

He stood staring into the fire with one booted foot resting on the massively ornate brass andiron, allowing the endless moments to stretch. At last he turned and placed his hands behind his back. His bearing, regal and military, conferred upon him a towering authority. His fluid yet controlled movements gave an impression of leashed power. In the softness of his tone as he spoke was incalculable menace. “Who are you?"

"Don't!” His voice cut across hers with the slashing force of a sword blade before he went on."Don't make the mistake of thinking that a new lie will serve."

"No, I won't,” she said quietly. “My name is Marie Angeline Delacroix."

"Mara."

She stared at him without surprise. It had come to her that his information-gathering system was too well organized for him not to have known who de Landes was, or at least to have discovered his identity after seeing him with her at the Hugo salon. It must have been easy for him to learn who she was. “Why? Why did you let me go on?"

"You seemed to lack the qualities of a true conspirator. Besides, I was curious.” The words were curt, tinged with self-derision.

"Were you, indeed? About what?"

"To see how far you would go."

The color drained from her face. He watched it go and felt inexplicably that he had struck an unarmed opponent. His anger was unappeased, but he could at least be fair. He made an abrupt gesture of negation, allowing his gaze to fall. “It was an experience of novelty and enthralling charm. To discover the purpose behind it, it had to continue."

"It must have been an expensive curiosity,” she said, lifting a hand to the pearls at her throat.

"Nothing out of the ordinary."

It was amazing, the pain a few words could bring. She swallowed, then went on, “Well, at least it's over now. Whatever you may think, I'm glad that the king is safe."

"That is, of course, an immense relief. Perhaps the next assassination you attempt will be equally unproductive, for the sake of your tender conscience."

"There will not be another."

"Prove it so that we may all sing merrily and shout our great thanksgivings."

She raised her gray gaze to meet the flaring mockery in his eyes. “What do you want of me? Shall I say I'm sorry? Very well. I will always regret my part in what happened last night. Now will you let me go?"