Royal 02 - Royal Passion (35 page)

With the sudden decline in amusements, those at Ruthenia House were thrown back upon themselves. Mara spent one evening writing to her father, a task she had been putting off for some time. She began and then tore up so many drafts that she very nearly exhausted her stock of writing paper. There seemed to be no delicate way of setting down what had taken place, no way of explaining without sounding either as if she were making excuses for her conduct or blaming what had happened on her grandmother. At last she had written down the sorry tale as simply and completely as she could, then sealed it before she could change her mind yet again.

Roderic came upon her as she was setting the letter out for Sarus to carry to the sending office. He strolled with her to the salon. The situation between them was fresh in her mind after having just written of it. She had managed in the round of daily events to distance herself from it somewhat, but now it troubled her once more.

"The world is spinning toward destruction and France toward anarchy, but the fault isn't yours. Why then the scowl?"

"I'm not scowling,” she said, and ruined the effect of a ferocious frown by allowing the corners of her mouth to twitch into a smile. She sobered at once. “No, I was thinking of your father. He doesn't seem overly concerned with the trappings of royalty; certainly he doesn't stand on ceremony. Your mother, despite a connection to the Bourbons, disclaims all pretense of being a blue blood. What then is it that King Rolfe objects to in me? Is it my character? My appearance? Or is it the part I played in involving you in the attempt on the life of Louis Philippe? It can make no real difference, but I would like to understand it."

Roderic, watching the play of emotions across her face, recognized her quiet courage in her search for the truth. She was not the fiery type of woman, quick to anger, flamboyant in her passions, and yet there burned inside her a steady and unquenchable flame. He saluted it by offering her what she needed to know.

"You need not trouble yourself. It's much more likely that it's my defects that stir his wrath. You assume he protects me, a grave error. He is much more likely to be protecting you."

She stopped still. “It cannot be."

"He is a loving parent and a devious one, but it would not, I think, occur to him that I stood in need of his defense."

"But why guard me?"

"Being of such a devious turn of mind, he suspects me of planning your seduction and foiling a coup in a single operation."

She stared at him. “You mean he thinks that you might have sent de Landes with instructions to embroil Grandmère Helene in illegal gambling, in order to persuade me to do his bidding? Why would de Landes do that?"

She was very quick, something to remember. Or else the possibility had occurred to her before. “For the sake of my aid in assassinating Louis Philippe."

"But you didn't aid him. You protected the king."

"A fine double cross, in that case."

She put her hand to her forehead, trying to think clearly. What he was saying made sense in a terrible kind of way. Abruptly, her face cleared. “No. You had no idea I existed until that night at the gypsy camp."

"You had been in Paris some weeks. Perhaps I had seen you somewhere, on the street, at the theater? Perhaps I knew you had arrived due to some communication between my mother and your grandmother and made discreet inquiries. Once I had seen you, I might have decided to make you my mistress, an impossibility if we had met in the respectable family circle."

"Surely you would have known that our—that the association would become known, with the attendant scandal?"

"Perhaps I never intended it to last beyond a few nights. Perhaps once I had held you in my arms I was content to let matters take their course, content to accept the consequences that would tie me to you."

It was no more than a game of words and ideas. That was all it was. “How could your father believe such a thing of his own son?"

"Easily,” he answered, his eyes shadowed in the echoing dimness of the great corridor. “Why should he not since you half believe it yourself?"

"That I do not!"

"Don't you,
chère
? Don't you?"

She gave him a cold look. “It might help to clarify my feelings if you could tell me why it is that de Landes is still free, still going about his duties at the ministry?"

"How is it,” he inquired softly, “that you know what he is doing and where?"

"What are you suggesting?” she asked, her spine stiffening. Her face paled with a fearful anger.

"It was a civil question."

"In whose opinion? But you need not exercise your mind upon the problem; there is no mystery, no subterfuge. I saw him at the theater, as you might have if you had not been occupied with your reformist friends."

His gaze was opaque behind the gold spies of his lashes as he studied her. Finally, he said, “There is a saying, hackneyed but expressive: ‘Better the devil you know ... ‘"

"Meaning you are watching him?"

"Something like that."

"Why?"

The question was bald, but she thought he would respond to it as well as to any attempt at subtlety.

"To see what may be seen."

If she had thought to learn what manner of man he was by direct methods, she must accept defeat. Her face tightened. “Very well. Be secretive if it pleases you."

"You suspect me of evasion?"

"Do you deny it?"

"Do you think,” he asked, his tone pensive, “that if I wished I could not find a more pleasing lie?"

"I think that for you simplicity may pass admirably for a devious ruse."

It was not fair that he should stand so straight and tall, the embodiment, in his perfection of form and masculine beauty, of all that was proud and honorable.

He answered, unsmiling, “Then you will have to decide for yourself which it is, won't you?"

The weather moderated, becoming almost mild. The sun shone so bright that it hurt the eyes, and there was a feeling of spring in the air though it was only late January. The poor of Paris stirred from their dank rooms, coming into the streets to lift their faces to the sun; women with thin, silent children, beggars in their rags. Men gathered on the corners, talking, arguing, sometimes marching and shouting until dispersed by gendarmes on horseback armed with sticks and swords.

The ladies of Ruthenia House, drawn out by the warmth, went for a walk, down to the rue de Faubourg St. Antoine and along it to the Place de la Bastille, then to the right over the Pont d'Austerlitz to the Jardin des Plantes. The gardens were extensive, with thousands of botanical specimens collected from the far reaches of the world and methodically cultivated within its precincts. There were huge conservatories with arched glass roofs shining in the winter sun, and also a collection of exotic animals, including lions and giraffes from Africa.

They strolled along the gravel paths between the rectangular flower beds with their layers of mulch. They nodded at the nurses with young charges in prams and the elderly gentlemen who tipped their hats as they sat sunning on the benches beneath the bare-limbed trees. By degrees, Juliana and Mara drew ahead of Angeline and Grandmère Helene, who were walking at the pace of the older woman.

Demon, who had attached himself to Mara for the day, raced up and down inspecting this new territory. Juliana's Sophie trotted on her leash with her head up, sniffing the air, starting and darting momentarily under Juliana's skirts as a lion roared. Pigeons swooped here and there in flocks, descending en masse to strut about the walks, scratching in the gravel. Sparrows fluttered about like dry leaves. Children ran up and down, some bowling hoops along, all happily scattering the pigeons.

The Pekingese, being a dog with a superior pedigree, took exception to the looks of a common poodle, barking in pitched excitement. Demon joined in for support. The poodle, not to be intimidated, spread its forelegs and stood its ground beside its mistress.

"For shame, Sophie!” Juliana exclaimed. “What conduct is this for a dog who is in a delicate condition. You have no more manners than morals.” She turned on Demon. “As for you, you Casanova, quiet!"

The poodle's owner, a lady in an expensive toilette of varying shades of apricot beginning with the darkest color at the hem of her gown and gradually lightening to the palest at the silk flowers on her extremely fashionable bonnet, laughed and scolded her pet.

The poodle looked away in disdain. Incensed, the other two dogs increased their protests at its presence. In annoyance, Juliana commanded her Pekingese to be quiet in such quelling tones that Sophie flattened herself on the ground with a final, deep-throated growl. Demon, his assistance no longer needed, sat down with his tongue lolling out and awaited developments.

When she could make herself heard, Juliana apologized for her dog, and Mara added her own excuses for Demon.

"Please do not concern yourselves! It's only natural.” The woman glanced over their gray costumes. “You are, I think, the ladies from Ruthenia House?"

s"Have we met?” Juliana inquired, her tone a little distant. There was a dashing veil attached to the lady's apricot bonnet, and on closer inspection it could be seen that the jacket of her ensemble was cut with pronounced fidelity to the curves of her breasts.

"Oh, no. It would not be very likely. You were pointed out to me at the opera."

"I ... see."

"Yes, you are quite right. I am indeed one of those ‘dangerous and wonderful’ women of the world, as we have been called. I prefer that to other names less complimentary. You need not fear, however, Your Highness, that I will claim an acquaintance when next we meet; I know my place better than that."

The words were spoken with such dignity and obvious sincerity that Juliana relaxed. She turned away. “Well, we are sorry to have inconvenienced you."

"Don't go, please! I would not speak ordinarily, but since the opportunity has come, I would like a few words with the other young lady."

"With me?” Mara inquired.

"If you will permit? You have been called in the gossip sheets an adventuress, one who has allowed herself to become involved with a most unstable prince. I would like to warn you,
ma chère
, of the danger you run."

"You know Prince Roderic?"

"Only by reputation. But though you have advantages of birth that have not been given to other women he has known, there can be no future for you there. He will have told you so himself; it's his way, or so I'm told. Believe him. Believe me."

"Spite and fatalism make a poisonous combination. Don't listen to her,” Juliana said, catching Mara's arm.

"His affections are violent, compulsive, but are quickly over. You will be left to make your own way, and that way will lead you to this half-life that I live. Be warned."

There was, as Juliana had said, an undertone of defeat in the woman's words. Moreover, the things she said had occurred to Mara a hundred times over. She thanked the woman with a few stiff words and walked away with the princess. Still, the things that had been said would not leave her mind. Adventuress. Was that how Paris saw her? Was that how King Rolfe and Queen Angeline saw her? It did not bear thinking about.

There was only one aspect of the situation for which she could be grateful. Unlike poor little Sophie, she was not
enceinte.
There would be no consequences of that nature from her sojourn in Roderic's bed. It was a relief, and yet she could not be entirely happy. The complications that would have arisen were not something she cared to contemplate; still, the thought of carrying Roderic's child had an insidious and warming appeal.

There was an opportunity a few days later to discover what Roderic's father thought of her. Mara, with a footman behind her to carry her purchases, had been shopping for fresh vegetables for the house in the early-morning market at Les Halles. It was a job usually left to the cook, but now and then she liked to do it to keep current with what was available. She had thought that the queen might prefer to oversee it herself, but found that Angeline was no more inclined to usurp the place Roderic had given her than Juliana. Angeline, had, in fact, been loud in her praise of the transformation in the house since her last visit. She herself had always been a little in awe of Sarus, she said, and fearful of offending him. She might have ventured it if she had spent much time in the house in Paris, but she and Rolfe had always missed Ruthenia too much to make an extended stay. It was brave of Mara to risk the dirt and thievery of Les Halles for the sake of a better table, but surely it wasn't necessary?

Mara had been returning from the market when an open carriage pulled up beside her. The door panel carried the crest of Ruthenia, and lounging on the seat behind the coachman was Rolfe. He inclined his head and reached to swing open the door. “Angeline sent me to find you. Get in, if you please."

Mara instructed the footman to return with his basket to the kitchens without dallying for flirtation or political speeches. That taken care of, she stepped into the vehicle. The order to proceed was given at once.

"It is kind of the queen to be concerned about me,” Mara said, “but there was no need."

"Martyrdom is not necessary either, whether for the reputation of the table at Ruthenia House or for the benefit of my scapegrace son. From now on you will send a servant."

"I don't mind at all, and even enjoy it at times."

"Bliss among the broccoli? That is a pleasure you may easily forego."

Mara recognized the command in his tone. “As you wish, sir."

He sent her a long glance. She stared back just as frankly. He was a distinguished man, with his silver-gilt hair and the laugh lines at the corners of eyes that gleamed with intelligence and calculated daring. This was the way Roderic would look in thirty years, she knew, and the thought caused a spasm of pain in the center of her chest.

"Tell me, mademoiselle, has Roderic been annoying you since the gypsy feast?"

"Not at all, sir."

They understood each other very well. Roderic had not been to her rooms, had made no overtures of a clandestine nature since that night in the hay wagon. Mara hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry, nor did she have any idea if the omission was due to the man beside her or to Roderic's peculiar set of principles.