Darcy’s manservant helped him into his most formal attire and accompanied him to Velaudin’s stately townhouse. He was shown into the august presence of the duc, who haughtily informed him that he did not believe a word of Edward Harcourt’s story and believed him to be an English spy. Exactly in keeping with the script the War Office had set up.
Darcy played his part, protesting his innocence and suggesting that the question be taken to the Minister of Police, who had approved hispasseportand safe conduct.
“The Minister of Police!” cried Velaudin scornfully. “I will take it to the emperor himself. He is the only one I trust in these matters. I will set up the audience.”
The secretary beside him referred to a piece of paper. “He is reviewing the troops in front of the Tuileries tomorrow.”
“Inform the emperor’s chamberlain that I wish to approach him then, with this Englishman.” Then Velaudin looked scornfully down his beaked nose at Darcy. “You will meet me there, and His Imperial Majesty will judge you.”
Darcy bowed. “It will be my very great honor.”
And so they concluded their piece of theatre, performed for the benefit of hangers-on and servants, to convince them that the Duc de Velaudin could not possibly be conspiring with an Englishman.
Even if he was.
Darcy tried to hide his jubilation as he left Velaudin’s townhouse. A troop review was perfect. Outdoors, in the great open square where he could bring his horses charging through. Where illusory gunshots would produce chaos. His chances of both success and escape would be much better outside than at an indoor public audience. And he had avoided the worst possible outcome – a private audience with Napoleon, which would be almost impossible to escape.
Since time was short, he stopped to make his final arrangements and to pay a second visit to the area around the Tuileries, refreshing himself on the locations of streets and potential hiding places. He could not choose the angle for the horses to come from until he knew where the troops would be, but he could consider possible options.
If he was very fortunate, by this time tomorrow, Edward Harcourt would be no more, and Darcy would be on his way back to England.
He would do his duty to the best of his ability. Drawing on the power of Pemberley and the dragon magic inside him would make his illusions strong. He had the dragon Artifact to assist his escape, and his plans for leaving Paris were as solid as he could make them.
And yes, there was still a good chance he would die tomorrow, but he would not dwell on that. Particularly when his final contact with Elizabeth before facing Napoleon was coming soon.
The message took no effort.Tomorrow afternoon, my love.Flavored with all the affection he could pour into it.
A gasp, a moment of fear, and then something that felt like an embrace.I love you.And then she was gone.
If only the connection lasted a little longer! But he should be grateful it existed at all, that his final memories of Elizabeth could be something beyond her tear-stained face that morning in her bedroom.
A knock at the door made his pulse quicken. Could their plan have been discovered, even at this late date? Had the conspirators lost their nerve? He opened it, fully expecting to see soldiers on the other side.
But it was only a liveried messenger with another letter. No, not just a letter, but a formal, sealed document, tied with a ribbon. He gave the boy a coin and sent him on his way.
The seal showed Napoleon on his imperial throne. Dread filled Darcy as he opened it. The formal language commanded him to appear with the Duc de Velaudin at the Tuileries palace the following morning for a private audience with His Imperial Majesty Napoleon, Emperor of the French, King of Italy, and Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine.
He stared at it in horror, his blood turning ice cold. There it was, in black and white. His chances of survival had just dropped to the same abysmal level that they had been when he first accepted the mission, before he had met Elizabeth and learned to hope.
It was a death sentence.
He would never see any of them again. Not Elizabeth, nor their child, nor Pemberley, nor England.
Dropping the paper, he dug his fingernails into his palms until it hurt. He still had a task before him. His brother had died to stop Napoleon. Could he do no less? Tomorrow he would save countless lives across Europe and avenge Jack’s death. He would protect England from invasion and make the world safe for his child.
It was worth the price. It had to be.
Chapter 20
The Tuileries was enormous,a palace on a vast scale, with an interior designed to impress, every inch decorated with marble, sculptures, and larger-than-life paintings in gilded frames. If Darcy could have felt awe, he would have. But inside he was numb, his mind racing to the confrontation ahead of him, all the possible plans for distracting the guards. How could he prepare when he did not know where their audience with the emperor would take place? Would there be windows that the soldiers could be drawn to? If not, there was little he could do beyond sounds and mist. Did such an effort even have a chance of success, or would his sacrifice prove useless?The only person he might be able to ask was Velaudin, but the plan called for him to remain disdainful of Darcy until the end. Both of them needed to play their parts.
After showing his invitation and his papers, Darcy mounted the grand staircase between two lines of soldiers, and then followed a page through a series of elaborately adorned rooms before reaching a large hall filled withmen in uniform. Dozens of them stood, and more sat in chairs along the walls. The ceiling bore a giant painting of Mars driving his chariot, looming over Darcy with the knowledge that there was no escape from this place.
His papers were checked yet again, and they patted him down, searching for weapons. Then he was directed into the next room, where exquisitely dressed men and women awaited their audiences. Darcy’s new clothes did not come close to meeting their sartorial standards. Velaudin was across the room, chatting with a several others and ignoring Darcy. If he was nervous, it did not show, but the young man beside him – presumably the cousin who was to help him – was pale and drawn.
Chatter rose around him, and there was hardly room to move. He received supercilious looks from those who deigned to notice his existence. His skin itched. It was a far cry from his beloved silent cottage in the woods. And there was no escape. The room had only two doors, one into the guardroom and one on the opposite side, leading to wherever the audiences were held.
The inner door opened, and three men walked out, looking pleased. A chamberlain called a name, and an attractive young woman and a much older gentleman went through. They were out again in less than five minutes. The parade continued, new petitioners entering the august presence as the previous ones emerged.
