Page 133 of The Boxing Baroness

The story of how you came about is, in some ways, known by most of the world. Your father discovered Joséphine had taken a lover. The letter he wrote her was passionate and filled with pain. The British captured the courier with the letter and the subject was used to humiliate him all over Europe.

There is one part of the story that only a few know. When your father returned to Paris, it was not his wife he went to first. It was me.

Am I ashamed that I received him?

I find that I cannot be.

My husband has his mistress.

Joséphine has her lover.

And Napoleon has numerous women.

What I did is not, for our sort, unusual.

But to have a child when my husband was obviously not the father?

No, I could not allow that to be known. It would have destroyed too many lives.

I have deprived you of much you should have had as my legal daughter. Why did I do so? I cannot lie that a great part of my reason was to avoid the shame and scandal. I knew you would always bear the stigma of your birth. Life at court is a shallow, pointless existence and I despise it. I wanted better for you.

But it is also true that I feared for your life, Marianne. To be the child of Napoleon is not a safe or comfortable burden. The attempts on his life have been legion. No. I wanted you somewhere safe and secure.

Do you hate me for what I have done to you? Do you hate me for keeping you in ignorance of your birth until now? Can you forgive me? Although I can never acknowledge you as my daughter, I like to think that perhaps one day . . .

But that is a foolish desire, and I shall put it aside.

As I look down at you now, lying beside my desk in your cradle, I think of all I will miss—but I pray you will live a freer, more joy-filled life than I could ever give you here.

My love to you always,

Your mother, Désirée

The writing wavered on the page, and Marianne stared at the parchment, her mind whirling as she tried to absorb what she had just read.

She didn’t want to look up—to be pulled into a discussion about desserts and lazy servants. She wanted to creep out to the caravan and lock herself inside and pull the blankets over her head.

“Just what the devil is going on!”

Dominic’s angry voice jerked her head up and she turned to where he was staring.

An old woman stood in the doorway, hunched over and dressed in the clothing of a laundry woman or kitchen servant.

“Who the hell are you? Where is Frau Meyer?” Dominic demanded.

“I am Gerta—I work in the kitchen.” Her voice was shaky, as was her person.

“What are you doing up here?”

“Men came—men with guns—and all the others ran off.”

“What men?” Dominic screeched as he shoved back his chair hard enough to send it clattering to the floor. In his hand was the pistol that had been on the table; he pointed it at the old woman.

The king, Sin, and Marianne all got to their feet.

“Put down the gun, Strickland,” Sin said.

Dominic took a step back, moving the gun from the woman to Sin. “I think it would be a good idea if you sat back down, Your Grace. Now,” he ordered when Sin hesitated.