Royal 02 - Royal Passion Read online

  They cheered, a lusty roar that held a note of admiration for her pluckiness, plus warm male appreciation for the fact that she was a woman and attractive. So vital and loud was the sound that they did not hear the opening of the door.

  "A fine carouse and an edifying spectacle, but not a proper greeting for a guest—or treatment for an injured lady."

  It was Roderic, standing straight and tall in the doorway with a large gentleman at his side and the sharp chill of ice shards in his voice.

  "Hoopla!” Estes called. Demon barked once, then sat with his tongue lolling out and tail wagging expectantly.

  The pyramid disintegrated. One moment it stood firm and steady beneath her; the next there was only air between her and the hard parquet floor. She exhaled as she had been taught and relaxed, beginning to curl forward as she fell. Abruptly, she was caught in a net of arms. The cadre, grinning hugely, held her a moment until she had caught her breath. Then they bounced her gently and tipped her up forward onto her feet.

  Estes turned to Roderic with a flourish. “You see, my prince! The lady was as safe with us as a babe in arms, safer than she knew, this you may believe."

  The prince was displeased. He said nothing, but it was there in the set of his shoulders, the bronze implacability of his face. He transferred his gaze to Mara, missing nothing of her dishevelment and odd costume, her flushed and moist cheeks, and the flustered concern for her dignity that was dawning behind the bright triumph and merriment in her eyes.

  "Magnifique!" The man beside Roderic stepped up to catch Estes's hand, giving it a hearty shake. “A fantastic thing; such control, such strength and agility! I wish I might try it, but, alas, I have partaken too well of the good things of life for such acrobatics."

  "Monsieur exaggerates.” Estes inclined his head in acknowledgment of the compliment, his tone polite.

  "No, no, I assure you I wouldn't try,” the man said, patting his bulging waistline. “But it's sad that my father, when he was an officer in the army of Napoleon, was able to sit in the saddle holding on to a stable beam and pick up his horse with his thighs."

  "Formidable,” Estes said, his eyes wide.

  "Yes."

  "Forgive me, Alex,” Roderic said, “I did not mean to neglect you. You know my garde du corps, permit me to present to you this lady whom you wished to meet, Mademoiselle Incognito. Chère, the well-known writer Alexandre Dumas."

  "My appreciation for those kind words, Roderic. Mademoiselle, I am enchanted. The prince has told me something of your story. What a delicious mystery, the very stuff of a novel—I must consider it."

  "It would make a short and sorry tale, I fear."

  "Not,” he said superbly, “when I had finished with it."

  "Perhaps so,” she agreed, her lips curving in a smile for the courtesy and simple ego of the man. He was tall as well as large, in his midforties, handsome in a florid fashion. He was well dressed in a frock coat and trousers of the latest cut, though the waistcoat that covered his expansive chest was of a blindingly bright red brocade embroidered with gold thread. His hair was dark blond and wildly curling, with traces of white over his ears. His eyes were blue and his complexion the color of the café au lait commonly given to children, more milky cream than coffee. It was common knowledge that his grandmother had been a Negro slave from the West Indies plantation of his grandfather when the two had begun to live together, a relationship that may or may not have been legalized. In New Orleans it would have been cause for shame; here in Paris it merely made him interesting. She added, “It is a great pleasure to meet you. I have enjoyed your historical romances so very much, particularly The Three Musketeers."

  "You remember my book, you who have forgotten so much else of importance? How delightful. The brain is a strange thing, is it not, picking and choosing among its memories?"

  "So it seems. But I am happy to be able to tell you that of all you have written, I think this book and also The Count of Monte Cristo are surely masterpieces.” She had always spent much time during the long Louisiana summers reading, but books had been an especially valued retreat during her period of mourning for Dennis.

  "Of all I have written! Apt words. I wish the Académie Française might agree with you. Due to my prolific output, they consider me negligible, me and my dear friend Balzac, who suffers from the same problem, a too great facility with words."

  Estes stepped forward and snapped his fingers. “That for the Académie. You will be remembered, Monsieur, when the ones who refuse you admittance are forgotten."

  "But what of Monsieur Hugo who has also written great reams?” Mara asked with a smile. “He is a member of the Académie, I believe."

  Dumas shrugged. “Ah, yes, Victor's output of words is prodigious, though not so great as mine, naturally. But the great Hugo had to apply four times—four!—before he was admitted, and even then it was only the influence of the late duc d'Orléans that made the difference."

  "A political victory then?"

  "Exactly, mademoiselle. But then Victor considers himself a politician. He has been supreme in the realms of poetry, drama, novels, finance, and in the boudoir. For him, politics is one of the last fields left unconquered."

  He seemed in his wry self-deprecation and openness to invite familiarity. “And what of you, monsieur? Have you no ambitions in that direction?"

  He gave a great laugh. “I have still many fields to conquer. But all I truly want is to be wealthy enough to write what pleases me—and to finish my house. You have been so amiable, all of you. You are good for me. It would please me greatly if you would all come to my house when it is completed. We will eat and drink and talk, and celebrate my beautiful monstrosity."

  "You are building a house?"

  "Rather a monument,” the prince said.

  "Yes, to history and to melodrama, and to all the things I find beautiful. It will be unique and stupendous, perhaps ugly to some, but with many fascinating parts."

  "In imitation of its builder?” Roderic suggested.

  Alexandre Dumas fixed a sorrowful gaze on the prince. “Someday, my dear friend, someone is going to slip a large knife between your shoulder blades or else cut out your clever tongue."

  "And someday you will spend more on your follies than can be made with your facile pen, and you will be hounded out of Paris for debt. But it won't happen this afternoon.” Roderic swept the bare room with a comprehensive glance. “I would offer you a chair, Alex, but it appears there are none in here. Shall we all move to the salon?"

  The prince stood aside to allow his guest to go before him. At a gesture from him, the others began filing from the room. Roderic touched the arm of the gypsy, detaining him. There was no surprise in the gaze that rested upon him, however. It was as if the prince had marked the man's presence earlier and was only now at leisure to give it a portion of his attention.

  When there were only the dark-haired gypsy, Mara, and himself left in the long gallery, he said, “Joining the cadre, Luca?"

  "If it pleases you,” the gypsy answered, though there was a suggestion of hauteur in his manner, as if he expected to be refused and was ready to retreat into stiff unconcern.

  "The choice isn't mine alone. You will have to please the others."

  "You mean, your men?"

  "It is a requirement. They are not easily satisfied.” The tone of the prince was quiet, incisive with warning.

  "I will try to be worthy, Your Highness."

  "You had something to report?"

  The gypsy hesitated, as if he would say something more. Finally, he inclined his dark head in acceptance. “My people are encamped at Montreuil outside the gates of Paris, as you instructed. They await your bidding."

  "Drink, eat, sing, dance, but stay out of the city. You comprehend?"

  "No begging, no picking of pockets, no enticements of the women, no trading of unsound horses. I comprehend."

  "To admiration. Will you join us?"

  Moisture sprang into the eyes of the g
ypsy. He made no answer beyond a tight, short bow, but squared his shoulders and lifted his head before he moved after the cadre.

  "And you, Chère?"

  Mara had been hanging back, hoping to escape unnoticed. She had no idea if she was to be included in this gathering of men, but she did not intend to join them. It was one thing to tumble about on the floor with the cadre dressed in trousers and a baggy shirt, but quite another to enter a salon with such a distinguished visitor, to sip wine and eat cakes there in formal hospitality. “I think not. I—I really should get dressed."

  "Unnecessary. We have seen you as you are and can bear the sight for some time longer."

  "I prefer not to sit among you looking like a boy dressed up in his father's clothes."

  A smile curved his mouth, rising into his eyes. “There is little danger of that."

  A peculiar doubt struck her. She glanced down at her shirtfront, following the direction of his warm gaze. The ribbon holding the edges of the voluminous garment together in lieu of studs had come untied, allowing it to fall open to her waist. Through the gap could be seen her camisole with the soft, white curves of her breasts rising above the lace-trimmed neckline. She turned away quickly, clutching at the shirt with one hand.

  "Regardless, you must hold me excused. Perhaps I will join you later."

  "Chère?"

  The word was soft, but no less commanding for that. She paused in her retreat to glance back over her shoulder.

  "Be certain that you do. Or expect to explain in detail of exacting plausibility why you failed."

  "Why? I have not been with you for some days; surely there is no need for my presence now."

  "I wish it. What other need should there be?"

  "An arrogant attitude, I must say!"

  "But my own. Is there a reason why you would avoid us?"

  "Perhaps I am tired."

  "It would not be a surpassing surprise. Are you?"

  She was beginning to feel the ominous return of her old headache, but refused to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. It was not from her exertions, she thought, but purely from the strain of this exchange with him.

  "The truth is, I ... my wardrobe is somewhat scanty. It doesn't lend itself to appearing at formal entertainments."

  "One subject for discussion between us."

  Did we mean there were others? The possibility was dismaying. She concentrated on the subject he had broached. “I require nothing of that nature from you."

  "Do you not? But I require that so long as you are under my roof you will not appear like a waif, bedraggled and spattered with cinders. It doesn't suit my consequence to have anyone think I would keep a woman in such a state."

  "You are not keeping me!” she said, her voice hard.

  "No? You are here and, by ancient law, any woman who shares the rooftree of a hereditary lord of Ruthenia enjoys his protection."

  "It was not my choice!"

  Swift and hard came his reply. “Is it against your will?"

  "What—what has that to do with the matter? I have no memory, so have no way of knowing where I belong, where I wish to be."

  "Exactly. But my guest is waiting. I will expect you shortly, and later we will talk."

  Mara stared after him when he and the others had gone. In her mind was a niggling disquiet. Could it be that he had deliberately played on her fears and her anger, hoping for some unguarded reaction, some revealing remark? She did not like to think so, and yet there had been something odd in his manner, some hint of a carefully directed testing of her defenses. He was capable of it, she knew. It could well be that he had left her alone until now out of consideration for her weak state, but that on finding her so nearly returned to health he had decided that she was able to withstand such means of interrogation.

  But what of it? He was a forbidding man, armored in intelligence and vital strength, sufficient within himself, possessed of that silvery and trenchant turn of phrase that Helene had described so often in his father, and yet he was only a man, an unimportant princeling from a powerless Balkan state at the outer edges of central Europe. It was ridiculous the way everyone jumped at his merest whisper, cringed at the lift of his brow.

  She would not do so. She might have no moral right to be where she was, might be a source of some form of danger to him, but that did not give him the right to order her life or to treat her with condescension. She was required at the moment to live as near to him as she could, but she did not have to accept any treatment he cared to mete out. Nor would she.

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  4

  By the time Mara reached the salon an hour later, there was no sign of the cadre or Monsieur Dumas. The prince sat alone before the fire under the great marble mantel. He lounged in a chair, his golden head bright against the dark blue silk brocade. He stared at the flames, with one long leg and booted foot thrust out before him and a glass of wine in his hand.

  Beyond the windows, the afternoon had advanced to early evening and was made darker by the overcast sky. A branch of candles burned with a smoky and unsteady light on the table that was centered in the large room. It made a pool of brightness, leaving the corners in shadow. In the gloom could be seen the tapestries by Gobelin that covered the walls, the frieze of classical figures carved into the marble around the top of the fireplace, the Persian carpet with its riot of flowers in gold and blue, and several commode chests, settees, and chairs from the Louis XV period. Mercifully, the dust and grime was concealed by the dimness.

  Mara had thought Roderic unaware of her presence, but as she paused halfway into the room, he rose to his feet and turned to face her. His glance flicked over the crumpled gown of white silk she had of necessity put on once more, but he made no comment. Moving to a commode where a wine tray with glasses sat, he refilled his own glass, then poured one for her and stepped over to offer it to her.

  "Sit down, please."

  She could not object to his tone. It was not warm, but neither was it imperious. She came forward to take the wine. There was a fauteuil chair to match the one he had occupied on the other side of the great fireplace, and she sank down upon the edge of it.

  He did not immediately return to his seat, but stood with his back to the fireplace. He stared down at her, and his eyes were dark, as if he were weighing alternatives. Stretching out his hand, he touched the rough and scabbed area on her temple. When she drew back at once, he frowned and lowered his hand.

  "A paragon of healing. You have recovered quickly from your ordeal."

  "There was nothing of any importance wrong with me."

  "Except for a small matter of memory. I can't think that you would still be with us if that had returned, so I assume it has not?"

  Was there a trace of derision in his voice? She could not be sure. “No."

  "There has not, apparently, been a report filed with the authorities concerning the disappearance of a woman of your description. Nor is there word in the streets of such an occurrence."

  "I see.” The wine in her glass was ruby red. She watched the shift of its rich color as she turned the glass in her fingers.

  "It appears that you must stay with us."

  "Must?"

  "Unless you have somewhere else you would prefer to go."

  She gave a slow shake of her head. “I ... am sorry for the imposition."

  "There will be no imposition. I had in mind that you might—earn your keep."

  He had deliberately used the word she had objected to earlier, she was sure of it. She looked up at him, steeling her features in the effort to prevent the alarm she felt coursing in her veins from showing on her face. “What do you mean?"

  Roderic watched the flush slowly stain her cheekbones and wished he knew what she was thinking, what she expected from him. Did she remember their conversation on the night they had arrived in Paris? If so, he saw no consciousness of it, no coquettish side glances, no embarrassment other than for her state of dress, or undress, earlier. That
she could forget was almost enough to convince him that her amnesia was authentic. Almost.

  "My majordomo is a fine man; there could not be one more loyal or devoted. Sarus has been with me all my life, and was my father's valet and majordomo years before. His own father, grandfather, and great-grandfather served mine as both serfs and free men. I tell you this so that you will understand why I cannot simply discharge him for neglect of his duties, the results of which you must have seen. In fact, it isn't neglect: it's age. Sarus no longer sees well, nor is he able to work as he once did or even to move much beyond his room in my apartments. And yet, because his life has been the service of my father and me, to replace him with a younger man would be to kill him."

  Roderic paused a moment, then went on deliberately, “The only arrangement he might accept without feeling that his place was usurped would be for me to give the household affairs into the hands of a woman."

  "You mean hire a housekeeper?"

  "A middle-aged harridan all bustling efficiency and contempt for Sarus's poor efforts? Hardly. I mean a woman he will accept because he can feel she is attached to me. The rights of my wife he would acknowledge without question, or, if I insisted and she was tactful, my mistress."

  That suggestion, coinciding so neatly with her need, raised her protective instincts. “You mean—"

  He raised a brow, a wicked smile curving his mouth as she floundered for the right words. “Not at all. Only the appearance, unless you prefer the actuality?"

  It wasn't necessary, surely it wasn't necessary, not now. In addition, Mara had the feeling that it would be dangerous to agree to any part of this peculiar proposal. “No, but—"

  "I understood that you objected to being kept by me, that you would rather earn your own way in some fashion. If I am wrong, only say so and it will be forgotten."

  His voice was silken. Her mistrust grew, though she could see no way to avoid the answer he expected. She must stay here in this house with him. “I don't care to be dependent on you, but this is so—so unusual."

  "There are many women directing the households of men in Paris. No few such arrangements are irregular."