Fires of Delight (40 page)

He leaned toward her and kissed her on the mouth. The teacup trembled in her hands. A little of the hot liquid spilled onto her breasts, but it was as nothing to the flash of heat that shot through her body.

“Come back to bed,” she pleaded, clinging to him, wanting him again.

“Sorry,” he replied, laughing. “I am just as you say. Calculating
Business before pleasure. I must leave now.” He stood up. She saw by hard outline against cloth that he was fully aroused.

“Oh, yes! I note precisely how much your mind is upon business just now…” She reached out, closed her hand around him, and drew him gently back toward her and down upon the bed. He did not undress but undid his breeches only, and had her fast and forcefully. It did not matter. It was as good as it had ever been, the urgency only serving to enhance the piercing delight.

After Royce had left, Selena washed, brushed her hair, smoothed the wrinkles from her dress as best she could, then went out into the street and made her way to the Tuileries palace, which was almost two miles away. Several passersby glared at her, and one of them snarled threateningly for no reason she could fathom. But then a sympathetic adolescent, who’d witnessed this abuse, handed her a cockade, telling her to put it on and keep it on.

“’Tis like a passport,” he advised.

Selena pinned it to the collar of her dress and made her way to the palace without incident.

It was surrounded by a great crowd, as it had been yesterday, but the mood was more subdued, less unruly, than it had been. She kept her head down, avoided speaking to anyone, and pressed slowly but relentlessly toward the gate. Royal Guards were on duty there, attempting without too much success to appear fearless and in command. They knew what had happened at the Bastille; they’d been present during the bread riot at Versailles; they were very aware of just how vulnerable the Tuileries was. Given even half an excuse, the suggestion of a reason, this sullen, smoldering mob could tear the place apart, and the Guard along with it.

Selena presented herself at the gate, and gave her name to a sergeant on duty there. She was a bit tentative, truth to tell. It was one thing for Princess Francesca to invite her here; it was quite another to be shown inside.

To her relief, however, the sergeant had been given his orders. He recognized her name immediately, and turned her over to a pale, lisping steward, who escorted her into the palace even as many in the crowd sent angry hisses after them.

“The Princeth Francethca has been waiting for you thince early morn,” he said. “My God, thoth awful people outthide!”

The Tuileries, while scarcely as magnificent as Versailles, was nevertheless sufficiently grand to impress Selena all over again. To think of this incredible wealth and grandeur! Any member of the mob outside the gates would have been driven to a frenzy of regicide at the sight of the artwork alone.

Francesca received her friend in her bedchamber, a room so large and elegant that the young girl looked almost like a child or a doll in it. Selena noted that she’d been crying again and had attempted with powder to conceal the fact. She was seated on a couch of crushed velvet, magenta in color, and the pages of a letter she’d been reading fell to the floor when she stood to welcome Selena.

“Come, sit down beside me,” she said, beckoning Selena toward the couch. “Do you wish tea? Food? Anything?”

Selena, who’d had no breakfast, eagerly accepted this offer, and within minutes two huge silver trays were brought in, piled with eggs and sausages and fruit, breads, cakes, butter, various preserves, and enough tea to serve ten people.

In spite of this bounty, however, which Selena attacked with zest, Francesca merely nibbled at an orange, reading and re-reading the pages in her hand.

“This is a letter from William,” she said at length, when Selena had finished her meal. Tears pearled at the ends of her exquisitely mascaraed lashes. “Please read it and tell me what you think.”

Selena wiped her lips on a glossy white napkin and took the missive. Written in English, in a clear, bold hand that yet betrayed traces of shakiness, it read,

My Dearest,

Divine Providence alone knows if this message will reach you. Day after day, more tales of horror arrive upon our shores, and with each new chronicle of mayhem, I wonder and I suffer about your safety. Pray this letter reaches you! Pray you are well and safe and thinking of me—of us—if it does.

I cannot believe there is a God so cruel as to end our dream of happiness before it has fully begun.

I cannot contemplate, nor accept, the thought of a future without you.

While I know it is folly to write of these things, be assured that if worst comes to worst, if the rabble rise up and threaten your illustrious uncle’s domain, England shall retaliate. I was allowed to attend a conference yesterday, at which our ambassador, Lord Bloodwell, and a certain officer named Oakley assured my father that everything would be done to guarantee the safety of you and your relations.

You must know that I am thinking of you with greatest love in this time of trial and separation, that I shall cherish forever our moments alone during the holidays in Salzburg, and that no matter what happens, no matter what becomes of us, I will always love you.

Yours undyingly,

William

Selena finished reading the letter and looked at the princess, who had been watching intently.

“It’s a lovely letter,” Selena said.

To her surprise, Francesca began to bawl. “He doesn’t love me anymore,” she wailed. “He’s telling me good-bye.”

Selena put her arm around the girl, while scanning the letter a second time. “Why do you say that?” she asked. “I see nothing at all to indicate, or even to suggest, such a negative reading.”

“You don’t understand! You don’t
understand!
”

“All right. Explain it to me.”

Francesca grabbed the letter, her teardrops falling upon it and smudging some of the words. “Look what he writes,” she said. “‘I cannot contemplate…the thought of a future without you…no matter what happens…I will always love you.’”

“So?” asked Selena, puzzled.

“That is his gentle way of telling me good-bye!” the princess wailed. “He will not wait for me. He thinks I will never reach England, as it was arranged!”

“I beg your pardon, but you are upset. To me, the letter is filled with nothing
but
love. William is wise to recognize the present
difficulty, but he has not given up at all. The words of the letter are eloquent, and fairly glowing with his love for you.”

The princess stopped crying and thought this over. She even read the letter again. “Do you really think so?”

“Oh, yes. There is no doubt. I have been apart from those I loved, and one is prone to misunderstand at such times.”

Francesca snuffed and sniffled. “You wouldn’t lie to me?”

“Never, but least of all over something like this.”

“Well…” said the princess, brightening at this new interpretation of things.

“How did you come to receive this letter?” Selena asked. “I had thought that, with the National Assembly in control, diplomatic messages would be difficult to come by.”

“A private traveler brought it here at great risk. William paid him handsomely.”

“So there you have it! Why would he have done such a thing if he did not love you anymore?”

“I…I guess you’re right,” the girl agreed. “Little good that it will do.”

“What do you mean?”

“Because we are all leaving very soon. Uncle Louis has decided to flee toward the eastern frontier and seek safety in Germany.”

Instantly, Selena realized the nature of the secret to which she was now, unwantedly, privy. It meant that the King
had
been false in his statements of support for the revolution. It meant, further, that the maniac Robespierre had been correct in his suspicions. Safe outside the borders of France, Louis XVI could legitimately hope to rally and direct foreign armies in the destruction of revolution and reform.

She tried not to show her surprise that Francesca would have blurted such a thing, but the girl was too innocent of politics—and too concerned with her lover—to notice or to care what she’d said.

“It means,” the princess continued, “that I may be trapped in Germany for years. If there were only some way that I could reach England…”

“When is His Majesty planning to flee?” asked Selena, as casually as she could.

“As soon as everything can be arranged. We will all travel as peasants.”

“That seems to be the vogue these days,” Selena said wryly. Momentarily, she considered whether somehow Francesca might leave Paris with Royce and her, but that was impossible. The two of them alone could expect to encounter problems enough. In short, except for sympathy and encouragement, there was little more that she could do for the girl.

“I’m speaking from experience,” Selena said. “Whatever happens, never give up hope.”

“Oh, I shan’t, I shan’t,” Francesca replied. “Would you like to come with us to Germany? I think I might be able to arrange it.”

Selena considered the suggestion quickly. It
did
make sense. Royce was a favorite of the royal family’s, or at least of its Queen. He and she might escape the conflagration in France, reach safety, and be on their own to Scotland in due course. She would mention it to Royce.

“May I return and see you again tomorrow?” she asked. “Perhaps I might be able to give you an answer then.”

“Oh, do. Please do!” the princess said.

Selena was advised to depart from the palace via a rear entrance, but even so her exit was not without incident. “Traitoress!” people screamed when they saw her come out. “Villainess! Reactionary bitch!” Even worse, she saw—or thought she saw—Maximilien Robespierre amongst the crowd, and took great care to make sure he was not following her as she sped back to Royce’s residence.

There she waited alone, in growing concern, for his return.

When he finally came back, sweating and smelling faintly of the sewers, she told him what had happened.

He could not believe it. “The King is preparing to flee!” he cried. She had never seen him so…not exactly agitated, not that, but…genuinely alarmed. “Are you certain?”

“That is what Francesca told me. We might be able to accompany them. Why, is something wrong?”

“Is something
wrong?
He will never make it. All France is expecting just such a foolhardy ploy on his part.” He put on his hat and grabbed a coat.

“Where are you going? You’ve only just returned.”

“Selena, there are things you don’t know. Let me put it this way. If Louis flees, whether he is successful in flight or not, he will be playing into the hands of the extremists, Robespierre and his ilk, and the revolution will become like a bloodthirsty animal. The only way to maintain a measure of peace, and insure that the reforms already enacted remain intact, is to keep Sorbante in control…”

“What?” she asked, mystified. She understood the political implications of what he’d said all right, but why was he so suddenly concerned about the welfare of the revolution? He was a monarchist.

Royce was striding toward the door. “You stay here,” he ordered. “I must go at once to Pierre Sorbante and tell him—”

The door flew open with a crash. Royce stopped in his tracks. Selena started in astonishment and cried out.

Jean Beaumain, sword in hand, death in his eyes, stood there in the doorway. “Aha, my darling!” he said, looking at Selena. “I have found the love nest to which you fled.”

In spite of his rage, there were tears in his eyes.

“Oh, Jean,” said Selena.

Royce was unarmed. He backed slowly away from Jean as the sailor entered the room and shut the door behind him.

“I gather you two know each other,” Royce said dryly.

“I meant to tell you—” Selena began.

“I’ll just bet you did,” snapped Jean. “Well, now’s your chance.” He brandished the sword. “Both of you,” he commanded. “Get over there to the bed. I’m sure it’s a fitting place to die. Go on! Get over there and sit down.”

Selena stood riveted to the floor. Royce turned toward her, his dark eyes grim. “Do as he says, Selena. We’re in no position to resist, and I want to find out what this is all about.”

Royce and Selena sat down on the edge of the bed. She could feel him tensed to spring. Yet when he spoke, his voice was calm.

“All right, sir,” he said, addressing Jean Beaumain, who stood over them, sword at the ready, “I assume you have an explanation for this intrusion?”

“I’ll explain,” said Selena, looking at Jean. In his eyes was that wild-eyed, drugged look he’d always had when he spoke of Chamorro. His body trembled, but the blade was steady in his hand. It was keen as a razor’s edge. She imagined her severed head upon the floor, and Royce’s beside it.

“No, I’ll do the talking,” Jean declared. “You may not know it, Campbell, you charlatan, but you are with
my
betrothed.”

Royce’s eyes widened slightly. He looked inquiringly at Selena.

She nodded. “It’s true. I meant to tell you, but I…I couldn’t. I gave my word to marry Jean, but only after I thought you were dead. You see, when I saw your grave—”

“Ah, Campbell,” interrupted Jean Beaumain. “See how faithful she is!”

“Please, Jean—” Selena began.

“You be quiet!” he snapped, tears running down his tanned
cheeks. “I spoke to Martha Marguerite. She told me. She told me with what haste you forgot me and joined this skirt-chasing rogue!”

“There is no need, even now, to be uncivil,” Royce said coolly. “Sir, I know nothing of what you speak. I assure you—”

“And you be quiet as well! You will have ample opportunity to vent your thoughts before you die.”

Selena knew that he meant it. Jean intended to kill them both.

“Jean,” she implored, meeting his eyes, her heart overcome by the pain she saw in them, by knowledge that she had caused that pain. “Jean, Royce is telling the truth. He didn’t…he doesn’t…know anything about us.”

“As soon as I leave you alone,” he accused her, “just as soon as you are out of my sigh—”