Royal 02 - Royal Passion Read online

  To Mara, the house was a palace, nothing less. There were, she had been reliably told, some seventy rooms under the various angles of its roofline. Above the south court, the entrance court, was the main gallery, a long hall holding the grand staircase that mounted from the entrance and led to the public reception rooms that occupied the wing on the left. To the right were the apartments of the prince, including various antechambers, salons, and other rooms, and beyond them the state apartments for King Rolfe and Queen Angeline, all grouped around the east court. Around the north and west courts were private salons built whimsically in oval and circular shapes, a long gallery sometimes used for exercise and for dancing, plus various other salons, antechambers, bedchambers, and dressing rooms. Near Mara's own suite, which included a salon, bedchamber, and small dressing room, was a back stair that led down to the kitchens on the ground floor. Also on that lower level were the servants’ quarters, the storage rooms, the carriage house, and the stables.

  It was without doubt an enormous and splendid residence, and yet the furniture and draperies, the paintings and enamelware, the faience, crystal chandeliers, and chinaware, though once of superb quality, were now of a uniform shabbiness. There had been little effort to update the great, rambling place; though many houses in Paris had installed gas lighting, here there was only accommodation for candlelight. There were treasures hidden in the dark recesses of the various rooms, but also ancient dirt and bits of broken furnishings. The windows needed washing, the floors polishing, the ceilings cleaning of the accumulated soot and grime of decades. Not one of the cavernous chimneys in the place drew as it should, nor was the service from the kitchens efficient enough to assure hot food delivered to any room. There were piles of horse manure in the entrance court and noisome heaps of refuse that would not bear investigating on the street outside the kitchen door. In some wings the stench of chamber pots was pervasive; in others the odor was unidentifiable and indescribable, but just as overpowering.

  Mara had been ordered to keep to her bed. She had obeyed from necessity for two days, from choice for another, but on the fourth she had rebelled. The food that had been brought to her was inedible, the girl who brought it a slattern. The sheets on her bed had been musty to begin with and had remained unchanged. There was ancient dust in the folds of the bed curtains and on the speckled, gilt picture frames on the walls, and enough dirt in the rug bedside the bed to sprout seed. Visitors had apparently been forbidden to see her, for she had had none. It was disgust, no less than the boredom and the feeling that valuable time was passing while she did nothing, that had driven her finally from her chamber.

  She had not seen Roderic since that first morning. In the back of her mind was a vague memory of a conversation with him on the day they had reached Paris. She was afraid that cognac on a virtually empty stomach, coupled with exhaustion and pain, had made her indiscreet. She could not quite recall what had been said, however, a true loss of memory. She could not think that she had been too confiding or surely she would not still be in the household of the prince. And yet it was possible that something she had said had caused him to isolate her, to suspect her convenient amnesia.

  She had wondered more than once if the prince had not deliberately made her intoxicated. Such a tactic, she thought, would not be beyond him. Oh, she absolved him of using any such means to force himself upon a woman—a man with his appearance and title would have little need of it. Regardless, there was a ruthlessness about him that suggested that he would not be too scrupulous about his methods of gaining information if he thought the situation called for it. The idea gave her a feeling of unpleasant vulnerability.

  Roderic also, Mara suspected, used more conventional methods of gathering information. In the few short hours she had been up and about, there had been a steady stream of visitors to see the prince. To this the official embassy of Ruthenia had come men with the stern and pompous look of statesmen and financiers and ladies wrapped in furs who trailed silk skirts and clouds of expensive perfume. These were to be expected, and were received in the public salon that overlooked the main entrance court. But what of the authors with ink-stained fingers, artists with flowing ties in the romantic style, street cleaners, fish vendors, drivers of cabriolets, black-coated waiters, and little seamstresses in their cheap gray dresses that had given them the name of grisettes? What purpose could such people serve except for what they might be able to tell Roderic? What reason could he have for gathering such knowledge except to find answers to the riddle she represented?

  Perhaps she was giving herself too much importance. It seemed doubtful that a man such as the prince would go to so much trouble to discover the identity of a woman. She could not flatter herself that he was that taken with her charms. Certainly she had seen little sign of anything more than curiosity. There might have been a moment of brief attraction, but it had been quickly submerged by irritation and annoyance. She could not feel that an undying passion for her had been kindled out of such minor reactions.

  She was no longer certain, of course, that such passion was to be desired. Her instructions had been to persuade Roderic to bring her with him on his return to Paris, to install herself in his home. It had been expected that she would be forced to share his bed in order to accomplish that object. She had not. It had not been explained to her what the purpose of her presence was, except that she would be instrumental in involving the prince in some scheme de Landes had in mind. She might well be able to do what was necessary without going so far as actual intimacy with the prince.

  But did it matter? Mara, for all the indulgence of her upbringing, was a realist. She was not foolish enough to think that she could emerge unscathed from this escapade. It was true that she was not well known in Paris; still, there were people whom she had met, people who would recognize her. Sooner or later, if she stayed long enough with Roderic, there would be someone who would see her and draw the inescapable conclusion.

  It was possible it would not happen until she had done what she must—she prayed that it would not for the sake of her grandmother. But if it did, if it was discovered that she was in Paris rather than in the country with her grandmother, as her cousin believed, the scandal would be great. Paris, for all its cosmopolitan outlook, was provincial about some things. The appearance of virtue must be maintained. Some railed against such a bourgeois attitude, one that had emerged with the advance of the middle class after the revolution and steadily increased in strictness with every year since. But it did no good. A woman who cared for her good name did not live under the same roof with a man, especially one such as the prince.

  Once the tale was out, it would reach New Orleans without delay. What her father would say and do, Mara did not like to think. What she herself would do afterward, how and where she would live when her task was complete, she preferred not to consider. Her grandmother would be safe, and that was all that mattered.

  Mara was traversing the main gallery above the south entrance court after inspecting the public rooms when she heard the faint sound of barking. It was Demon, she was sure, though the sound seemed to be coming from some distance away. The acoustics in the house, as in all houses of any size, were peculiar. A person could yell herself hoarse in one spot and not be heard beyond the next room, while a whisper in another place would reverberate through the entire upper floor.

  She thought at first that the dog might be in Roderic's apartments. She had not penetrated into that section of the building, but knew that the rooms occupied by the cadre were located in the same wing, along one side of the east court, with the exception of Trude's, which was near to her own. The dog was surely with his master, Estes, since he was seldom far from the count's side. Estes would, in all likelihood, be with the other men of the cadre.

  She had not spoken to them since her arrival. They seemed to have a constant round of duties to carry out for Roderic, duties that took them to all parts of the city, moving back and forth in a steady stream. Their relaxation was pursued with th
e same intensity; they were always setting out for a cockfight or a prizefight, the theater or a drinking bout in the rooms above some restaurant. They must rest sometime, she knew, but she had not yet discovered where or when.

  She had not looked for Roderic's cadre, of course. She had been intent on her inspection of the building, on learning her way around it and discovering why it was in such disorder.

  She had come to the conclusion that it was one of two possible reasons. Either there was no money to hire the necessary number of servants to keep things as they should be or else there was no one to direct them and hold them responsible for keeping their jobs done. She thought it the latter, for she had come upon any number of men and women in livery and aprons standing gossiping in the corridors, drinking and arguing in the kitchens, or playing slap and tickle behind the doors of the guest bedchambers. It would be an enormous undertaking to bring order to the great house, but just the sight of all the grit and filth, to say nothing of slacking servants, made her itch to try it.

  The barking sounded again. She turned her head, listening. Combined with sharp, excited yelping were dull thumps and thuds, with now and then a shout. The noise was not coming from the east wing after all, but from the north court wing. Lifting her skirts, she hurried along the gallery, turning left into an antechamber, moving from it into an extra bedchamber with a dressing room beyond, then right into a long salon, which she crossed before turning right again into another long gallery.

  The room, lined with windows on both sides and heated by a fireplace at each end, was as warm and bright as it was possible to be on such a cold and gray day. Candles burned in the chandeliers overhead so that their grime-coated luster appeared silver. A long, woven rug, threadbare but beautiful still in a design of classical figures on a cream background in dark blue, red, and gold lay on the intricate parquet floor, the only item of furnishing in the room. The high ceiling was groined, with heavy moldings and cornices covered with gold leaf, leaving a series of open squares down the room. These squares were painted with scenes depicting the life of Diana and were of the same colors in the rug beneath them. The paintings were dim beneath layers of dirt, but the colors were still warm and rich. In the center of the room, directly under a scene of Diana with Cupid, was a pyramid of people.

  The bottom tier was made up of Michael, Jacques, and Jared on their hands and knees. Braced on top of them, also on hands and knees, were Trude and the gypsy Luca. On the top of these two was Estes, who was balancing precariously as the others swayed back and forth in an apparent effort to dislodge him, while he himself was doing his best to persuade Demon to scramble up to crown their pile. The dog, his mouth hanging open in a canine grin between sharp barks, was keeping well away from them.

  There were complaints about sharp knees, bony shoulders, and great behemoths who overeat; groans, moans, and muttered curses. But there was also breathless laughter and a feeling of fun and ready camaraderie. Mara, putting her hands on her hips, could not keep from smiling.

  "What are you doing?” she demanded.

  Michael turned his head sharply. His face flushed as he saw her and, instinctively, he started to rise. Luca gave a yell as he lost his balance. Trude slipped and said something under her breath. Then in a tangle of legs and arms the pyramid dissolved. Estes sprang to his feet, raised his arms, and flipped into the air. Trude and Luca made diving rolls forward. Michael, Jared, and Jacques somersaulted. And suddenly there they were, all six, on their feet in front of her with their arms spread wide. As one, they bent double in a bow. Demon, not to be outdone, capered forward and stood on his hind legs, dancing in a circle.

  "Oh, well done!” Mara exclaimed, applauding.

  Estes bounced upright. With his arms still spread, he turned to the others. “Shall we do it again?"

  "No!” they chorused.

  Estes turned back with a shrug. “Eh bien, the show is over."

  "Show, my eye,” Jared said, flexing his shoulder and back muscles.

  "A demonstration of the art of falling then, a useful skill."

  "Yes,” Mara said, her tone rueful, “I seem to remember you mentioning it before. Do you think I could learn?"

  "Nothing easier, when you are recovered."

  "I'm perfectly well."

  "No more mal de tête?"

  "No headache."

  "Your shoulder?"

  "A bit stiff, but it might be as well if I used it."

  "Well, then!” the Italian count exclaimed, then as he glanced down at her slender form, his face fell.

  "What is it?"

  "Ah, there is the matter of ... you see—"

  "What he is trying to say,” Trude interrupted, stepping forward, “is that it will be difficult for you in your skirts."

  Mara gave a slow nod. “I see."

  "You have the trousers?” Estes asked, his tone hopeful.

  "No. Nothing except this gown."

  "Ah."

  They looked at one another, then back to Mara. They looked at Trude, who shook her head."Mine are too large."

  "And mine too small,” Estes said regretfully.

  "Mine are too long,” Michael said.

  Luca flashed a grin that showed white teeth. “I have only one pair of a quality fit for a lady, and I have them on as I came today to Paris to see Roderic. Of course, if they are required, I will gladly—"

  "That will not be necessary.” Trude gave him a repressive look.

  "Ours are too big,” the twins said.

  Trude pursed her lips as she looked at them. “Perhaps not. Size in the lower body of a woman is deceiving; our pelves are larger than they may appear, for natural reasons."

  "Still, I think not,” Estes said.

  "Roderic's?” Michael asked.

  Sadly, Estes shook his head. “Too large."

  As one, they turned toward Michael. “Scissors. Who has scissors?"

  Mara did not cut the trousers that they brought for her, however; she only rolled them to her knees. The shirt she had also been loaned hung upon her with the sleeves in rolls around her elbows where she had turned them up. There were no studs to hold the shirt closed, so she used a piece of ribbon from her camisole to tie it at the top and tucked the remainder into her trousers. She removed her waist-heeled shoes, but retained her stockings of opaque white silk, bedraggled though they were, since they gave her some feeling of semirespectability. Still, it was rather embarrassing to emerge from the salon where she had changed wearing them, a little like appearing in public in her pantalettes and camisole.

  They began with simple somersaults down the length of the rug, rolling over and over like so many garden bugs tucked into balls. Agile as a monkey and twice as droll, Estes showed her how to relax as she fell. It was tight muscles and joints that caused injury, he claimed; she must relax and move in the direction of the fall, continuing the motion so that it was dispelled, instead of trying to stop it and having it come to a jarring halt against the hard ground with her body in the way. They progressed from somersaults to gentle tumbles and cartwheels for Mara, while the others bounded down the length of the gallery in a series of quick, head-over-heels springs. So fast did they move, and so vigorously, that it was as if they were made of coiled steel.

  Time passed, and Mara began to lose a sense of self, to feel that her muscles could and would respond to the dictates of her brain on an instant's command. At first there had been some soreness in her shoulder, but it seeped away. Her hair came down from the loose knot she had put it up in that morning. It spilled around her, clinging to her flushed face with its dew of perspiration from the exertion. They were moving so quickly, however, that there was no time to see to it.

  "Now we will teach you to land on your feet like the cat,” Estes declared. “We make the standing pyramid, all seven!"

  Once again, Michael and the twins took the load on the bottom row. Estes, talking all the time about footholds and handholds and the art of climbing a human body, clambered up to stand on Michael's sho
ulders on one side. Trude made her way up to balance on Jared's shoulders on the other, and Luca climbed up onto those of Jacques in the middle. Those on bottom held the ankles of those in the second row, who in turn linked arms, gently swaying for balance.

  "Come, Chère, now you on the very top. Up you go!"

  She could not do it, she told herself as she stared up at the place she was meant to be, so near the painting on the top of the high ceiling. At the same time, she took a few running steps and began to climb, bracing on a knee, the crook of an arm, a shoulder, pushing, pulling, gasping with the effort to draw herself higher. At last she knelt on Luca's shoulders, her fingers clutching his hair.

  "Ouch!” the gypsy yelled.

  "Steady, my angel,” Estes called as she released her grasp and had to fling her arm out abruptly, wobbling back and forth to maintain her place on the wavering, shifting column of bodies.

  "I'm going to break my neck and be an angel indeed,” she said with resignation.

  "Indeed not!"

  There was more gaiety than she thought seemly in the Italian's tone. “Yes!"

  "Trust me, my cabbage. Put your hand on Luca's head. Now push, fast, fast, up, and get your foot on his shoulder. Good. Steady. Now take your fingers from his hair—"

  "Thank you,” Luca said.

  "Quiet. Rise, little one, rise. Turn. Place your other foot on his other shoulder. Easy. Hands on hips. Voilà!"

  The muscles in her legs were on fire, trembling with the effort. Her heart was beating with hammer strokes, thudding against her rib cage. Her breathing was a sharp pain in her chest. Her hands were balled into fists for self-control, and her toes were tightly curled. But she was there. She had made it.