This was going to be a problem for the idealistic young man at her side. Villefrancheonlysaw the world in black and white. While she sympathized with that view, her adult life had taught her that world existed only in fairy tales and dreams.
Neither man was wrong. Yet neither seemed to have the right of it. The time was long past for them to come to terms. She didn’t know what the conversation between Villefranche and the croupier entailed, but there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that the stakes were raised when those two men exchanged that package.
Nick needed to know. But, then, he hadpeople. Likely, he already knew.
She put the thought behind her and walked on in silence with Villefranche until the sky opened above them and the trees fell behind. As if provided an instructive metaphor, her mind, too, opened, and a possible solution to the problem of Villefranche and Nick began to coalesce.
She shook her head. The idea was too bold. And there was the strong possibility that it just might be a terrible idea, maybe even disastrous, like so many of her ideas since she’d arrived in Paris. She should do the job given her and leave the bold ideas to the seasoned professionals.
The vista before her widened, and she allowed herself to be distracted by the view. Before her stood a massive grotto both high and wide, composed of a brown stone that gave the impression that it had sprung directly from nature. This must be the Medici Fountain.
Her eye followed the line of the four impressive columns all the way up, up, up to find the requisite—this was an Italianate fountain, after all—classical imagery of lounging gods overseeing all from on high. And even though the fountain itself was an unimpressive stream of water that flowed into a small pool at the grotto’s base, when taken as a whole, the Medici Fountain possessed a majesty that spoke volumes about the colossal power of the woman who had commissioned its construction.
Mariana’s gaze wandered back to earth, and her eye happened upon a shadowy form some thirty yards in the distance. Her breathing went from relaxed to shallow in the space of a second, her heart an unrelenting hammer in her chest, frozen blood sloshing through her veins.
Instinctively, her gaze darted away and settled on an arrogant Greek god. When she detected no movement at the periphery of her vision, she stole a glance, and the figure was gone. Her stomach lurched in relief, and her eyes fixed on the pool at her feet, so as not to reveal the receding burst of anxiety and paranoia.
Villefranche’s voice came into tune once again. “It was Napoleon who rehabilitated the Medici Fountain after it had fallen out of fashion and into disrepair. No one had a use for a picturesque, Italian fountain in the last century.”
“I suppose it wasn’t gilded enough,” she replied, a caustic, distancing edge relieving a measure of her interior tumult.
“Exactement,” Villefranche exclaimed. “Tastes, as we know, are fickle. We are currently enjoying a recent return to the sublime.”
“Lord Byron couldn’t have said it better.”
“Ah, but it was Byron who said it first.”
Mariana regretted conjuring the late poet, already a hero to idealistic young men everywhere. That word,idealisticagain stole into her thoughts, conjuring ideas of black and white, right and wrong.
The solution to the problem of the Comte de Villefranche returned to her, and she couldn’t remember why it would be best if she left it to the professionals to solve. Wasn’tshea professional . . . of sorts?
Before she could again reverse on herself, she opened her mouth and said, “There is something you must know.” She waited for Villefranche’s full attention. “You are terrible at this. We are both terrible at this.”
His brows knitted together in confusion before releasing. “We are? Lady Nicholas, to understand the mind of a poet is perhaps too rigorous an undertaking for the delicate constitution of a mere—”
She held up a silencing hand. “At spying. You. Me.Weare terrible spies.”
His poetic eyes grew bright and serious.
“We are being used in a game neither of us fully understands.”
“You have me confused with another.” He disengaged his arm from hers and inclined his head. “I bid you good day.”
He began to turn away. She had to think fast, or she would lose him. She glanced about to insure no attentive ears were near before calling out, “The king is dying,non?”
Villefranche swiveled around, bewilderment clouding his handsome face. Buoyed by his dismay, she continued, “It is no secret that the Bourbons and your Orléans relations have little use for one another. Perhaps you hope for a fresh start.”
“Nothing will be gained from Louis’s death,” Villefranche stated flatly.
“That isn’t completely true. You will gain a new king in the Duc d’Artois,” she said, her words a testing inch forward.
“As I said, nothing will be gained,” he repeated with the emotional complexity of a block of wood. His eyes narrowed. “You show a keen interest in France’s politics.”
It was time for her to be bolder yet. She felt like a conductor, influencing the rises and falls of a symphony. “There will be war if the Duc d’Artois is assassinated, making it most difficult for your family to claim the throne.”
“Is it your implication that my family would stoop to assassinating a future king for personal gain?”
“Some might believe it,” she said. “But not I. I believe the Duc’s assassination would be for nationalist purposes, not materialist.”
