Читать книгу Wicked Loving Lies - Rosemary Rogers, Rosemary Rogers - Страница 21

A series of shocks, delivered one after the other, had rendered Marisa almost numb by the time they sat down to a late supper.

First there had been Fouché with his probing, relentless questions that seemed to want to rip away all the veils she had thrown up between herself and the past. He had acted as if she were a criminal with something to hide!

“Come, mademoiselle, I know how painful it must be for you to recall certain unpleasant happenings, but I assure you that I shall be discreet. Surely you realize it’s better this way, under the cover of a gathering such as this? Do continue to smile, I beg you. I am merely fulfilling my duty and attempting to spare you the embarrassment of formal questioning in my office. Please trust me. I am a father, and I understand something of your scruples.”

He wanted to know how she had arrived in France, when and with whom. And her relationship with Philip—how she had met him and how well did they know each other?

Angrily she tried to evade him, but he had merely smiled.

“If you are sensible, mademoiselle, you will tell me everything. Be assured it will not go further.”

It sounded as if he were threatening her—his manner fatherly and bullying by turns. And then, like a fisherman content to play out his line for the sport of reeling in a spent quarry afterwards, he let her go with the promise that he would speak to her later, after she had had time to think.

Soon afterwards she saw Philip making his way to her side through the crowd. An unwonted frown creased his forehead. She was reminded suddenly and forcibly of the fact that Philip was English. Dear God, did Fouché think she was a spy? Part of some royalist plot?

This evening even Philip seemed changed in some way, his manner almost abrupt. “Marisa, I have to speak to you. Forgive me, but if there’s some chance that we could converse alone—”

Marisa forced a smile as she tried to warn Philip with her eyes. “Later, perhaps. I hope you will ask me to dance.”

“It seems as if you are always surrounded by chaperones now—and admirers!” His voice sounded almost bitter, and she longed to be able to put her hand in his and run away with him, away from all the gossip and the speculation and the staring eyes that watched her, she was sure, even now.

“Philip—” she began pleadingly. She noticed how his face seemed to close up, becoming a polite, handsome mask as her aunt came fluttering up, a teasing smile on her full red lips.

“Monsieur Sinclair! But how nice to see you again. Did your friends come with you this evening? I have been wishing to meet Lady Marlowe again ever since I learned she was in Paris with her dear little Arabella. Marisa, you must meet her—such a sweet, typical young English lady, and you must be almost at the same age, too. You must be introduced, and especially if you are to go back to England with me. Lady Marlowe knows all the patronesses of Almacks, isn’t that so, monsieur?”

“Lady Marlowe knows everybody,” Philip said in a low, controlled tone as he bowed over Edmée’s white fingers. “I will be sure to tell her that you were asking about her, of course.”

“Please do!” Edmée responded sweetly, sinking into the vacant chair by Marisa’s side; and after a few murmured polite remarks Philip was forced to leave.

“How could you!” Marisa burst out in a low, suppressed voice as soon as he was out of earshot. Her aunt raised one arched brow.

“How could I—what? Chérie, you ought to be grateful that I rescued you from being far too indiscreet. It’s an open secret that his engagement to Arabella Marlowe will be announced as soon as they return to London; and yet, the look on your face as you gazed up at him! You really must learn to mask your feelings, darling child, for your own sake!”

Too angry to control herself Marisa burst out, “And for whose sake, I wonder, has the odious duke of Otranto been plaguing me with questions? While you were occupied with your friends he hardly left my side; he wants to know everything about my past, every sordid detail! What am I to tell him?”

“Oh—Fouché!” Edmée gave a shrug, but her brilliant eyes seemed to avoid her niece’s for a moment. “It’s his business to know everything about everybody, but he’s closemouthed, at least. And better to have as a friend than an enemy, believe me. Why don’t you tell him what he wants to know, and then he’ll leave you alone! Really, my pet, there’s no point in being so mysterious, although I do understand how you must feel. Tell him the truth and then forget about it. He can’t hurt you, not now.”

At that moment the whole gathering seemed galvanized to attention as Napoleon Bonaparte, surrounded by his aides, made his late entrance.

It was almost as if he were an emperor already. There was a sudden hush; the men bowed, and the women curtsied low. He walked across the room with Talleyrand at his side, his pale-complexioned face remote and unsmiling unless he recognized someone he knew, and then he would stop to speak for a few moments.

He was dressed, as usual, in his general’s uniform, and in spite of his slight stature there was something dynamic and powerful about him. Even Marisa, as overwrought as she was, could not help noticing it. He approached their small group—and, oh, God, why did Josephine happen to be dancing at that moment with a young Polish officer?

Marisa had dropped into a curtsy with the others, but suddenly she felt a hand on her wrist, drawing her upward. Napoleon said, “Come—let us dance, señorita. It’s a pleasure I have long looked forward to.”

There was nothing to do but to obey what amounted to a royal command even though Marisa realized, with a sinking heart, what this unprecedented honor meant. Like any good general, Napoleon never wasted his time, believing in making straight for his objective. How in the world was she to deny him?

They waltzed, and he was surprisingly light on his feet. She noticed that and was relieved that he did not try to engage her in conversation. Marisa tried to keep her mind on the music but could not. ‘He is only being kind—no more than that. They cannot force me into being his mistress. With all the women of Paris, of all France for that matter, at his feet, he could not possibly want me! It’s only a game, to make Josephine jealous….’

They circled the floor once, twice, and then he led her back to the gilt chairs. He smiled and there was a searching look in his deep blue eyes.

“You dance very well, little Marisa. And I enjoyed the fact that you do not chatter while you dance.”

Bowing stiffly, he left her and went to Josephine; but by then there was not a single person in the whole brilliant assembly who had not noticed her. The whispers of those who had attended the Russian ambassador’s reception the previous night had swelled into outright gossip by now.

“They say, my dear, that he’s actually installed her under his very roof! And passes her off as his poor wife’s goddaughter.”

“Who is she? A Spanish last name, I’ve heard, but is it really true her mother was French? Where does she come from?”

“I cannot remember that the Countess Landrey ever mentioned a niece before,” Lady Marlowe sniffed. “And I really cannot say that the girl has much to recommend her! I noticed her at the theater last night—such a very unsuitable gown for a child her age!” She lowered her voice so that her daughter could not hear. Tapping the British minister’s arm with her folded fan, she said, “Fast! But then what can one expect…”

Whitworth, who had noticed young Sinclair go up to speak to the same young woman earlier, merely frowned and held his peace. Strange that he hadn’t mentioned being acquainted in those circles. And yet, understandably, he’d had other things on his mind last night. While Whitworth pretended to pay polite attention to Lady Marlowe’s chatter, his rather protuberant eyes were searching the room for his American counterpart. Livingston was a civilized fellow, for all that he was an American. Perhaps, if he were approached in a casual, roundabout fashion he might shed some light on the mystery that had Philip Sinclair so perturbed. A damnably awkward thing, if Sinclair were right and this American privateer with the improbable name was really an English viscount, long presumed dead. Royse’s heir? It did not seem possible! He would have spoken to Talleyrand, but it really wasn’t advisable to let that wily statesman suspect the reasons for his sudden interest in an obscure American captain. Being a diplomat was by no means easy when one had to cope with so many sly intrigues! And speaking of intrigues—where the devil was Sinclair? High time he asked Arabella Marlowe to dance.

Philip Sinclair, rendered bold by the unusual amounts of wine he had consumed, and in despair by what he had just witnessed, had just bowed before a still-flushed Marisa, asking her to dance with him. At this point he didn’t care if Arabella, her formidable mother, or even Napoleon himself were watching. Damn it, she didn’t belong here! She was too innocent to realize what was happening—what people were whispering about her! It was all the fault of that accursed aunt of hers, a married woman notorious for her many and varied lovers. He had almost forgotten his original purpose in coming here and his intention to ask her questions.

Everyone else was dancing, even the pregnant Hortense, and Marisa had begun to feel herself isolated when thankfully, Philip appeared out of nowhere. She had just glimpsed the duke of Otranto begin to make his way towards her, and her aunt Edmée was nowhere in sight, so it was with an unfeigned exclamation of gladness that she smiled up at Philip and took his hand without hesitation. He had sensed her distress and had come to her. Here at last was someone she could trust!

Unfortunately, the musicians had just begun to play a quadrille, and the dancers formed sets and faced each other, giving them hardly any opportunity to talk privately.

“I must speak to you!” Philip said again, doggedly, and Marisa gave him a worried inclination of her head. The dance led them apart and then together again, and in response to the pleading in his eyes she murmured breathlessly, “Soon—I shall contrive to be very tired and in need of a drink and some fresh air. On the terrace outside?”

“I’ll look for you there. I’ll wait, if I have to.”

The urgency in his voice and the almost desperate pleading in his eyes made Marisa’s pulses begin to race. Philip was in love with her! He was jealous, of course, but tonight he meant to ask her to elope with him, and she would—she would!

What did it matter if he had little money of his own? They would be happy. Perhaps her papa would relent and give her a dowry, and Philip would go to New Spain with her, and there would be a touching reconciliation with papa, and everything would end happily. They would make it so!

Lost in her suddenly happy visions of the future, Marisa did not notice that her manner had regained the sparkle and vivacity it had lacked earlier, and that she was actually smiling in a dreamy fashion. But there were others who noticed—and reacted according to their respective natures.

Joseph Fouché grinned in an ugly, narrow-lipped way, and the prince of Benevento raised an eyebrow in mock dismay, even while his cunning mind raced. Napoleon’s face grew cold and forbidding, and Edmée, stepping in breathless and flushed from the coolness of the gardens, gave a smothered exclamation of annoyance.

“Oh, no! How could she—the very minute my back was turned. The little fool, what does she think she’s about?”

In her anger and irritation she had said more than she would have wished to, but the tall man who stood beside her merely gave a sardonic grunt.

“So, chère amie, your so-called ‘little’ niece has more than one admirer?” His voice was a hard drawl, but his face, if Edmée could only have seen it then, had become a mask carved out of granite, betraying no emotion save contempt.

“Don’t talk that way!” Edmée responded distractedly. “The young Englishman is merely a friend, of course, but she should not be so indiscreet as to dance with him, and especially not now!”

“So Caesar’s mistress is very much in the same position as Caesar’s wife? You ought to have schooled her not to wear her feelings so openly.”

Dominic Challenger’s voice was lazily indolent, but there was a certain tone underlying his sarcastically uttered words that made Edmée cast him a reproachful look over one white shoulder.