Shock marched across Villefranche’s face. The man lacked all ability to hide his feelings from the world. He could use a night of poker with Nick and a pair of strumpets.
“How . . . you,” the man sputtered, “you know nothing of—”
“Oh, I know a few things,” Nick cut in. “Let’s say your plan works, and Charles is assassinated. Who do you think the blame will fall upon?”
“There are any number of people who wish for the death of the Bourbon line.”
“But who would benefit most? Your Orléans family. That’s who.”
Villefranche’s lips drew into a straight, stubborn line.
“Come down from your high ideals and think, man. Make no mistake, if you decide to see this calamity through, I shall stop you, one way or another.”
Mariana’s mouth went dry. She believed him, and if Villefranche had a jot of good sense in his idealistic head, he would, too.
He drew himself up to his fullest height and cleared his throat. “Lord Nicholas, you and your wife make an unexpectedly”—He visibly searched for the correct word—“unifiedpair. Perhaps the rumors surrounding your marriage lack substance?”
Mariana inhaled sharply, and Nick’s expression went carefully blank.
“My family,” Villefranche continued, “is hosting a soirée tonight. I shall have your names added to the guest list. A few of tonight’s invitees might be of interest to you.”
With that, he pivoted on his heel and strode down the wide gravel avenue, leaving Mariana and Nick alone. She couldn’t help noticing that with Villefranche gone they stood facing each other like combatants.
It was he who broke the charged silence. “His invitation could be a trap to draw me out into the open.”
“It isn’t,” she replied with a quiet assurance that she almost felt.
“We make anunexpectedly unified pair?” he asked without missing a beat.
“I had a word with him.”
“A word?”
“Sometimes plain language is what is needed, not subterfuge. Seduction isn’t the only weapon in a woman’s arsenal.”
“That’s a large bet you placed.”
“A bet that you matched.”
Another one of his quicksilver smiles flashed across Nick’s lips, and Mariana’s belly fluttered. Her composure threatened to slip. “There is more,” she said, her voice a raw scrape against her throat. “I saw Villefranche with the croupier. He handed the man a packet.”
“You’re certain?”
She nodded. “You still trust the man?”
The question hung between them on an open note. When Nick answered, his voice carried only far enough to reach her. “As I said before, nothing in this game is what it seems.”
He stepped forward, and her body’s awareness of his rose to the surface. He made no move to touch her and, instead, held out his arm. She intuited that they were to stroll. There was no help for it. She must touch him.
She directed her gaze at some indistinct point in the distance before reaching out and resting a light palm on his solid forearm. If a pulse of electricity jumped between them, she could ascribe it to the dryness of the air.
Their feet fell into unified step as they navigated the peaceful grounds in silence, taking in the exterior of the palace and its formal gardens so unlike the wild informality surrounding the Medici Fountain. Here, every shrub and flower was placed with meticulous care to maintain rows perfectly straight and predictable. If only life could be arranged with such precision, but life was nothing, if not imprecise.
“Have you collected the twins’ daily notes from Helene today?” Nick asked in a familiar retreat to the last ten years when they’d only discussed their children.
“Just this morning. In fact,” she said, too happy to play along with this return to order, “Geoffrey has requested the kukri knife that we procure for him for his name day be of the Eastern, rather than Western, variety. He would like, and I quote,a more easily transportable blade.”
Nick snorted. “What sort of school have you sent the boy to that he needs transportable weaponry?” he asked, the question not a scold, but a tease.
