Leopard in Exile (6 page)

political life.

Thomas Jefferson, Earl of Monticello and Lord-Lieutenant of New Albion, looked calm and even

content: he ruled Britain's presence in the New World with an Augustinian detachment, presiding over the

turbulent New Albion Parliament which met in Philadelphia, the colonial capital, a location

equally-inconvenient to all the delegates.

Burr and Jackson were another matter, a badger and a fox each intent upon an independent New World

kingdom, each for his own purposes. Jackson had spoken openly of clearing the Indians from the land to

make way for British colonists, though he had not received much support for the notion. Burr was more

subtle. He spoke beguilingly of the vast mineral wealth of the New World that lay fallow for men of vision

to harvest. The lure of gold was powerful, and Burr was a persuasive man. If he managed to raise enough

support among the New Albion lords, and somehow raise an army…

If only
, Wessex thought wistfully,
it were as simple as shooting him
. But political murder created more

problems than it solved. Better to watch enemies you knew than destroy them and face trouble from an

unknown enemy.

He accepted a glass of wine from a server, moving on through the press of celebrants—each intent more

upon his own interest than upon the wedding celebrated here today—until he had reached Lord

Malhythe.

Colworth Rudwell, the Earl of Malhythe, was in some sense a colleague of Lord Misborne, though they

were masters of separate fiefs in Britain's intelligence community. He was a conscious epigone, even in

the 19th century preferring the powdered wig and ruffles of an earlier age. Like Wessex, the late Charles

James Fox, and half the peers of England, Malhythe could trace his lineage back to Good King Charles.

He was attached to the Horse Guards in some inexplicit fashion, coordinating the reports from the

Army's Exploring Officers and sharing the information where needed. Malhythe and Misbourne had

clashed several times in jurisdictional disputes as military and political intelligence fought for ascendancy.

"My lord Earl." Wessex bowed. "A great day for England, is it not?"

"A better day when the Heir is born. Then His Highness can extinguish himself upon the battlefield as he

likes, without fear of opening the throne to a German prince."

"As you say, sir. But securing Denmark as our ally seems to me to be a great cause for rejoicing,"

Wessex answered with studied mildness.

"If only because England has been the midwife of peace between Denmark and Russia," Malhythe

riposted. Wessex smiled to himself. The Grande Alliance fought only slightly more fiercely against

Napoleon man it did within its own membership.

He was about to say more, when a motion at the doorway stopped him. He turned toward the

movement, as he did hearing Malhythe bite down upon a fervent oath of displeasure.

The man standing in the doorway was dressed in black velvet and diamonds, supporting himself upon a

tall ivory cane. The tail of his silvery wig cascaded down his back. Wessex knew him. All the players of

the Shadow Game knew him. But what in the name of the infernal saints was Baron Warltawk doing at

Prince James' wedding breakfast?

He excused himself hastily from Malhythe, moving toward Warltawk. But before he could reach him,

Sarah had appeared at his side, her court dress changed for a similar gown cut
a la mode
.

"Wessex!" she said, innocently pleased at having located him in the press. "I just saw the Lord

Chamberlain—" she broke off, gazing at the peculiar figure in black velvet, who was moving slowly

among the press of guests. "Who is that?"

"In his youth they called him 'Warltawk King-breaker,'" Wessex said meditatively. "He is a Jacobite who

fled abroad in '69, and has lived virtually retired since the Revolution forced him home again. And I

wonder very much what he is doing here."

The bell signaling that it was time to go in to breakfast chimed, and Wessex and his lady sought their

places in the order of precedence.

"Is he important, this Warltawk?" Sarah asked as they rode toward Herriard House at the end of a day

of toasts and speeches. The festivities had dragged on until there was barely enough time for the wedding

guests to retreat and prepare themselves for the various balls and routs of the coming evening.

"He was once," Wessex said uncomfortably, unwilling to speak of things touching so nearly upon his

other life. "Sarah, I do not wish to involve you—"

"Pooh!" said his wife roundly. "You are involved—how can I not be? And if it is gossip you want, who

better than I—a weak and feeble woman—to get it for you?"

Wessex sighed. His better self warred against his practical nature, and, as usual, lost. "What I want to

know," he said, gazing at the roof of the coach, "is who he sees, and why. Especially if it is any of the

Albionese." The Duke wondered abruptly where Sarah would stand upon the question of a New World

revolution. In her world, such revolutionaries were looked upon as heroes.

"Anything else?" Sarah asked helpfully.

Wessex shook his head. He never forgot that the enemies of England could make his wife a pawn on the

chessboard of Europe, and what she did not know, she could not reveal. There were secrets he must

keep, even from her.

Herriard House was forty covers at dinner. Tables had been brought from storage, and the doors

between the dining room and the withdrawing room thrown open to accommodate the vast length of

linen-draped table. Most of those attending would go from here to the Wedding Ball being given at

Buckingham House this evening, and even the Duke and Duchess of Wessex would make a token

appearance there before returning to preside over their own festivities.

Looking down the table, Wessex had a moment's fervent wish for the presence of his partner, Illya

Koscuisko. The volatile Pole was a master of disguise, and would have no difficulty in ferreting out the

things Wessex so urgently wished to know. But Koscuisko was still able to operate upon the continent,

and had been away on assignment for several months.

Warltawk's presence in London complicated tilings. Wessex was looking for a French spymaster and an

English agent. Wessex had run agents in his time, and knew that a man would have to be mad to attempt

to recruit Warltawk, so it was unlikely that the Baron was a French agent. Nor could Warltawk be

running agents of his own—the former Kingbreaker was too closely watched for that. But if Warltawk

were neither agent nor spymaster he must be playing at a different game.

To find out what it was, Wessex needed an ally. Suddenly, he smiled.

It had just occurred to him where to look for one.

Legend in Green Velvet

(Paris, May 1807)

T
he recently-christened
Palais de l'Homme
held the treasures of a plundered Empire. The wealth of

Italy, the ancient grandeur of Egypt—the jewels, paintings, statuary of a thousand years filled the

Emperor's palace. As were so many constructions of the Empire, the grandly titled
Palais de l'Homme

was a makeshift thing created from the hasty joining of two older edifices: the Louvre and the Tuileries.

Those who remembered the early days of the Revolution and the glorious ideals of equality and liberty

they had held in those days kept prudently silent now. The ideal-crazed revolutionaries had toppled one

luxurious despot only to discover themselves replacing him with another in the space of a handful of

years. And France's present Imperial master, unlike her past Royal one, would not be content until he

had devoured the world and remade it in his own image. At the same time as he proposed draconian

peace treaties upon his victims, Napoleon tore down the ancient buildings of Paris to rebuild the city as a

second Rome, eternal monument to his glory. The immense new palace that Percier had designed would

not be finished for several years: until that day, the Emperor reigned in the place from which his

predecessor had reigned… if not quite in the same style.

The Emperor's court was the largest the modem world had ever seen, and its rituals were conducted

upon a stunning scale. When a supplicant entered the vast blue and gold throne room, the occupant of the

throne at the far end was a distant and nearly-invisible figure set against a vast gilded sunburst

surmounted by the laurel-crowned Imperial signet and surrounded by his courtiers. As one proceeded

down the long scarlet expanse of carpet that connected the throne and the entrance, slowly the petitioner

felt his own consequence diminishing as the figure of Napoleon loomed larger and larger, until at last the

petitioner gazed up a flight of white marble steps to the gilt and crimson throne upon which sat the Master

of the World, and felt himself dwindle into utter insignificance.

Illya Koscuisko did not feel insignificant as he gazed about the throne room, making note of who was in

attendance this day and who was not. He had been a part of mis great drama for some months now, and

had gotten used to its scale.

He only wished he could become as used to his uniform.

Napoleon rotated his ceremonial guard, but his favorite—for propaganda reasons—was the
Garde

Polonaise
, formed from the regiments of partitioned Poland—and he employed it often. Upon forming

the unit, he had redesigned the uniform of the Polish hussars from which most of its members were

drawn—now the eagle-wings were of gold, towering six feet above the soldier's heads. The wolfskin

pelisses had been replaced with whole leopard-skins lined in red silk, and upon the fronts of their shakos

the men now wore a golden dragon's mask, an empty symbol of their stolen kingdom.

It was because of the Emperor's hollow promises that Illya had first joined the White Tower Group, for

only through the defeat of the Corsican Tyrant could his beloved Poland live again. It was one of the

amusing paradoxes with which his life abounded that to work against Napoleon, it was necessary for Illya

to embrace the life that would have been his if he had in fact joined the tyrant, and for some months now

Illya had been passing as a member of the
Garde Polonaise
.

In his
persona
as a loyal Polish
chasseur
, Illya saw everything that went on in open court and a great

deal that went on behind closed doors. He kept notes of all he learned, but passing the material back to

England was dangerous, and he took the risk as rarely as possible. It would soon be necessary to make

the effort, however, especially if rumor did not lie.

Illya tried, unobtrusively, to ease the aching weight of his ceremonial wings. The impractical ornaments

would shear loose in the first seconds of a cavalry charge, but it was unlikely that the
Garde
would ever

again be called upon to fight. At least when his duty here was over he could remove the wings—and in

fact, Illya had it in mind to remove rather more than that, and the prospect of agreeable company in

which to do so.

"Donatien Alphonse François de Sade, Due d'Charenton!" the herald cried.

The great golden doors of the throne room were thrown open with a booming sound, and the hunched

figure of the Satanic
due
moved slowly to the center of the scarlet carpet.

So
it is true
, Illya thought in faint amazement. For the last several weeks, it had been rumored about the

Court that the Emperor intended to appoint the Due d'Charenton the new governor of French Louisianne

in the far-off Americas. It was the only reason Illya could imagine for Napoleon to summon d'Charenton

to appear in open court. Even in the atheistic religious climate of Imperial France, the man was worse

than a scandal.

Illya knew little about the political situation in the Americas, but from Court gossip he had learned that

Napoleon's hold upon his New World possessions was sketchy at best. Louisianne was rich, but it was

also more loyal to the murdered Capet line than it was to Imperial France, and so the Emperor had

always preferred to concentrate his efforts on holding the rebellious—but more easily subdued—sugar

isles of the Caribbean. Talleyrand had long urged his master to take a conciliatory path with Louisianne,

but anything less tactful than sending them d'Charenton, Illya could not easily imagine.

After several minutes, d'Charenton reached the foot of the throne and knelt. An aide handed

Napoleon—his Army uniform swathed in a purple velvet and ermine robe, and a coronet of golden laurel

leaves upon his brow—a set of scrolls with ornate jeweled terminals. The Emperor unrolled it and began

to read in his nasal, accented Corsican French.

"I, Napoleon I, by virtue of conquest King of France, Italy, Austria, Egypt, Africa, and the New World,

do hereby grant the governorship of the province of Louisianne, located in the New World, to the Due

d'Charenton, there to rule as the representative of Imperial France, to mete out France's justice and to

deal with her enemies in my name."

A discreet murmur of comment rose among the ranks of the courtiers. It was, Illya reflected, quite

vexatiously puzzling.

Fortunately I don't need to know why Boney would do such a mad thing. I merely need to know

that the news is important enough to risk trying to get it to England.