Royal 02 - Royal Passion (3 page)

With her wardrobe replenished, Mara and her grandmother had embarked on a round of entertainments: attending the opera, the Comédie Française; being fêted at dinners and balls kindly arranged by their hostess. It was at one of the latter that they had met Nicholas de Landes.

De Landes was an official of the court, serving in a minor capacity in the ministry of foreign affairs, though Mara had never discovered exactly what it was that he did. Slim and dark, with a close-trimmed mustache and beard, he had had the manners and breeding of a courtier of the
ancien régime,
and the same meaningless smile. He had declared himself enchanted to make the acquaintance of the ladies from Louisiana, once a much valued colony of France, and offered to do everything in his power to make their stay in Paris memorable.

Their Parisian cousin had warned them against him, saying that for all his airs he was merely of the petty bourgeoisie; his parents, the son of a notary and the daughter of a small landowner. He very much wished to rise higher; this was a known fact. Such obvious class consciousness had not impressed Mara and her grandmother. If anything, it had caused them to treat him with greater warmth, as if in compensation.

It would have been better if they had listened to their cousin. De Landes had introduced Mara's grandmother to one or two of the discreet gaming houses hidden away in the less fashionable districts of the city. Gaming was illegal within thirty miles of the city, but there were always those who would cater to so intriguing a pastime. At first the play had been exciting because it was forbidden and Helene had won small amounts, but by degrees it became an obsession. She lost more and more. De Landes acted as her banker, extending the loan of various sums and accepting her scribbled notes of hand in lieu of payment. Each morning after a disastrous night at the card tables Helene had vowed she would never return, but when night fell she could not seem to stay away. Mara, watching her, had been anxious, but had considered Grandmère Helene a reasonable woman, one with a firm grasp on the worth of money.

The morning had come when Nicholas de Landes had paid them a call. Though he was devastated to be forced to say such a thing to a lady, he could no longer support the gambling losses of Madame Helene Delacroix. She must repay what was owed to him with interest. He was sure there would be no difficulty since it was well known that the sugar planters of Louisiana commanded enormous wealth, and he knew that Madame's son would not fail to extend her the money, should she be temporarily embarrassed. The only question was how it was to be arranged.

Helene had been aghast at the total of her losses. How the sum could have mounted so high without her being aware of it, she was at a loss to explain. But there it was, neatly totaled day by day, an accumulated debt in excess of one hundred thousand francs. She did not have that much, or anything near it. Nor, she knew, did André.

The year of 1847 had seen a financial panic in the United States, and in the world, for that matter. The previous fall, a potato blight had destroyed one of the major food crops all over Europe, and unseasonably cold and wet weather had made the wheat harvest scanty. Now food was so scarce that prices had soared out of sight, and the French were calling it the Year of Dear Bread. André had been affected along with everyone else; he had, in fact, been forced to borrow against his next crop in order to find the cash to send them to Europe and to see Mara properly outfitted. With his finances already under such a strain, he would be forced to sell some portion of his holdings to meet this new debt, and that would take time.

De Landes was in no mood to wait. He required payment immediately. If it was not forthcoming, he would take drastic action. Madame would certainly not enjoy that, he promised.

Helene had been shocked at the ruthless mien that had been hidden under the façade of the courtier, but that was nothing compared to her agitation when he suggested in tones of implacable reason that if Helen could not find the money, her charming granddaughter might redeem her notes by doing a service for him. If Madame would permit, he would take Mademoiselle Delacroix for a short drive while he explained the matter to her.

The suggestion that de Landes had to make was so incredible, so insulting, that Mara had stared at him in disbelief. There was a Balkan prince who was being obstructive, he said. It would benefit de Landes and those with whom he was associated if this royal gentleman were to become susceptible to influence. In order to redeem her grandmother's notes, Mara would be required to seduce the troublesome prince, to become his mistress.

There had been a moment when she had not been able to speak, could not trust her voice, so great was her rage and indignation.

"Stop the carriage! Set me down at once!” When he did not comply, she reached for the handle of the carriage door.

He caught her wrist in a hard grasp, his fingers biting into her flesh. His tone smooth, but carrying a malicious undercurrent, he said, “To refuse is your prerogative, of course."

"I do refuse!"

"A hasty decision, and one far from wise. Before you give me your final answer, you should consider that accidents sometimes befall those who fail to pay their just gambling debts. The bones of elderly women such as your Grandmère Helene are so very fragile. Even a small mishap can have extremely painful—possibly even fatal—consequences."

Cold fear struck Mara, taking her breath. She sank slowly back against the seat. Her heart thudded in her chest as she gazed with sick comprehension into the narrow black eyes of the man beside her. He was, she thought, taking a peculiar pleasure in her apprehension. She moistened her suddenly dry lips.

"You are saying that if I don't do as you ask, you will harm Grandmère?"

"Crudely put but accurate. Her safety and comfort rests in your hands, my dear Mara. You must consider well."

It was blackmail, an ugly and sordid coercion, but it could not be fought. The authorities, as de Landes pointed out so reasonably, were unlikely to be interested in the difficulties of two American women, especially since illegal gambling was involved. And that was even if they could be brought to believe that he, in his official capacity, would offer so bizarre a proposal to a young female. She could apply to her elderly, aristocratic cousin for aid, but that lady would be no more able to prevent any accident that might happen than they were. Mara's father was far away, and she had no other male relatives who might come to her defense. It would be best if she resigned herself to the task, however unpleasant she might find it.

After two days of agonizing indecision, Mara had been forced to concede that he was right. She had no choice except to agree to de Landes's debasing demand.

It had not been possible to tell her grandmother what de Landes had proposed; Grandmère would have insisted on defying him and taking the risk. That could not be. The elderly woman, well past seventy, had aged years since her confrontation with de Landes. She had never seemed old to Mara, but now, almost before her eyes, she became frail and distracted, in need of care. Mara gave her grandmother to understand that she was expected to do no more than initiate a flirtation with the prince at some public function, then lead him to a rendezvous with de Landes's superior, François Guizot, the minister of foreign affairs and a favorite of King Louis Philippe.

Helene had fretted over the supposed assignment, but accepted the explanation at last. Affairs of state were often complicated, nearly impossible to untangle, and perhaps the favor was not so small as it seemed; indeed, it could not be since de Landes was willing to sacrifice such a sum to arrange it. She, Helene Delacroix, had little doubt that de Landes had known all along of their connection to the prince. She strongly suspected that he had enticed her into the gambling dens for exactly the end he had achieved.

Watching the clever way de Landes had persuaded her grandmother to act as his hostess for a house party at his chateau while leaving Mara behind to complete her mission, seeing the maneuvering and changing of carriages that had led the elderly cousin with whom she and Helene were staying to believe that Mara was going to the Loire Valley with her grandmother, Mara could only agree. The detailed instructions as to what she must say and do, which she had received on the long ride to the gypsy camp, and the violent way that ride had ended, had served to reinforce the impression.

There was no time to dwell upon what was done, however, for questions, as swift and lethal as an ambuscade of arrows, were hurtling around her.

"From whence did your carriage come? What was its color? How many horses, outriders? What folly caused you to be expelled? Was it lack of cooperation or too much? How came such beauty to be scorned? And where then is the fury? And the hell?"

The questions were directed with suspicion. That they were well founded did not prevent the rise of a feeling of ill-usage in Mara. “Doubtless,” she said, sending the prince a flashing glance as she acknowledged the quote that had become a saw and traced it to its source, “in the same place as the rage of heaven."

"There are things, then, that you remember,” Roderic said, his tone soft.

Mara stared into his bright blue gaze, refusing to look away. “So it would seem."

"How fortunate, otherwise you would be as a child again, wet, wiggling, and beguiling, as well as quite helpless..."

"Fortunate for you that I am not."

"Oh, I don't know. I might have enjoyed jogging you on my knee."

"A perilous undertaking, under the conditions you describe."

"You mean if you were wet?"

She had, of course, but it was disconcerting to be taken so literally, and with such an open and engaging, therefore dangerous, smile. She had been warned about the prince's penchant for games with words. He meant her to be disconcerted.

"It would be a natural condition,” she said, her tone even.

The voice of the prince softened, lowered. “The man was a fool."

"What?"

"To discard you."

Mara felt something tighten inside her chest, but she refused to follow so obvious a lead. “It might have been a woman."

"Do you think so? An abbess, perhaps? But none would wish to be rid of such tender and easily sold merchandise. A jealous rival? She could have cut your throat as easily or else splashed vitriol here and there where it would do the most harm. A relative, perhaps, bent on discrediting you? But why? To destroy your good name and make you unfit for a proper bridegroom? Men can be such idiots about such things, as if a night in the dew mattered. Will it matter?"

"Oh, don't!” she exlaimed, swaying a little, frowning as tension caused her head to pound. “There is no need to mock me."

"I was thinking, instead, of sending you to your repose. It seems, above all, what you need."

Was that compassion she heard in his voice? She could not be sure. Repose, composure. No doubt he was right. She could not seem to think any longer. If she weren't careful, some unguarded remark would give her away. Her gaze shifted to the caravans drawn up around the fire, particularly to the one painted blue and white and decorated with scrolls of gold; one newer, neater, than the others.

"Where shall I sleep?” she asked, and began wearily to gather her cloak around her.

Roderic, hearing that simple question, caught his breath. The temptation to direct her to his caravan, his bed, was so great that he was startled into silence. Where had it come from, this sudden wave of desire for a bedraggled, injured female without a name? She was beautiful, but he had seen beautiful women before, had had more than his share of them. She intrigued him—not the least because the lilt of her voice and her choice of words were the same as those of his mother, easily recognizable as being of Louisiana—but women with mysterious pasts were ten per centime in Paris. No, it was something more, something indefinable, something of which he must be wary. Still, his caravan was the safest place.

Mara looked up and, seeing the blank, suspended expression on his face, felt her heart begin to pound. Inside her rose a terrible hope, and, just as wracking, a fear, that this seduction was going to be made easy. She felt a great need to reach out, to touch him, and knew with an instinctive certainty that it would be the right thing to do. The urge grew, burgeoning until she could not tell whether it was a mental and calculated desire or a real physical need. It made no difference. She could not force herself to move.

He surged to his feet, swinging away from her with the powerful grace of well-used muscles. His order sliced the night air with the feral quietness of a rapier blow. The music stopped. Men and women moved, gathering up rugs and pots and bowls and weapons, melting away from the fire, slipping away into the caravans or the encircling darkness. A young girl came and curtsied to Mara, taking her hand to lead her toward the blue and white caravan. Stiffly, Mara got to her feet to follow and would not turn to look back.

The prince stood alone beside the leaping flames, his expression grim. Then, with controlled movements, he lowered himself once more to the pile of rugs that were left. He picked up the mandolin and began to pluck out a tune.

Mara, catching the melody as she stepped into the caravan, stopped still. Torn between amusement, anger, and a strange feeling of being near tears, she had to force herself to move again. Mocking in its sweetness, haunting and delicate, the song the prince played was a lullaby.

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The caravan of the prince was little different from the others on the outside, except perhaps that the paint was brighter. The interior, however, was furnished in what appeared to Mara to be royal, rather than gypsy, fashion. The appointments had been chosen for richness and quality, but also with a care and variety that seemed an indication of the man.

Two walls of the caravan were lined with books in five languages, volumes on philosophy and the arts, religion and history, music and the theory of war. The other two walls were richly paneled and set with brass whale-oil lamps in gimbals. In one corner was a table with folios of music strewn across it, half hiding a chased sword of steel and brass, while underneath were cases holding musical instruments. Nudging the table for the room was a desk. On its surface was an inkstand of gold and glass with a gold pen in its holder and several sheets of foolscap in a precise pile. A straight-back chair was behind the desk, but for comfort there was also an armchair with a winged back and a matching footstool, both covered in dark blue velvet. The floor was of polished wood parquet centered with a Turkish rug in cream, gold, and blue. Built-in armoires flanked an alcove at one end that held the bed in a lengthwise position. The bed curtains fell from a gilded rod that was shaped like a giant's spear and were looped back on either side with tasseled cords. On the mattress was a bolster and pillows encased in cream linen piped with dark blue, cream sheets discreedy monogrammed, and a coverlet of white fox fur. The impression was one of utility and aestheticism, with more than a touch of opulence.