Page 82

His gaze held hers. She saw in his eyes that it had not escaped him either, and braced for a remark about how quickly she went from being the virgin ballerina to the jealous wife.

"I too have secrets, Louise," he said. It came out tired.

She nodded. They were partners in this, were they not? They both carried secrets. She only hoped his would not destroy him.

He turned toward the stairs. He would go to his own room, and she would not see him again this night.

"Was it still there?" she finally asked.

He paused. He didn't ask what she meant. His hand rested on the rail, fingers closing around the wood.

"The damned thing is harder to kill than I gave it credit for."

Then he continued up the stairs.

Brussels, June 15

The door knocker had been cast as a lion's head. Twist it slightly, and the animal appeared to be strangling. Rodrick twisted it slightly and held it there.

He had not found Montmorency. The billet the groom had given him stood empty—a cold bed, ash in the grate, a bare hook where a coat had hung. Antoine had moved, been moved, or had never occupied the place at all. Fifteen years of pursuit, and once again Rodrick had arrived to find the quarry one move ahead.

His fingers tightened around the iron ring until the lion's mouth bit into his palm.

So this was why the tragic hero was clawing at his chest—the growing suspicion that fate was at play, driving him toward the tragedy's inevitable conclusion.

No, a spy always had another exit. A window, a lie, a bought servant, a horse saddled behind the kitchen. And if he didn't, he created one.

Tragedies were ridiculous for their predictability. One saw the blade waiting in the final act from the moment the curtain rose, while the fools onstage marched obediently toward it and called the destination fate.

Yet... For the first time, Rodrick wondered whether they had tried.

He pushed the door open and stepped into silence. His chest tightened, and he crossed the foyer in strides that failed to feel fast enough. Climbing the stairs should have been nothing. Yet by the landing his breath had shortened.

Before her room, he halted. Drew in air that did not fill his lungs. Pushed the door open.

And was promptly dazzled.

Louise's gown caught the candlelight and reflected in the mirrors. The woman should be forbidden to wear white. It contrasted with her black hair and fair skin in a way Titian could not replicate.

Of course she would look like this on a night like this. Impossibly beautiful heroines were the staple of tragedies. Why else would the tragic hero willingly step into his doom?

He stopped behind her. Close enough that when he drew a breath, it carried the scent of gardenia rising from her skin.

"Talleyrand chose well. A blend of the warrior..." He traced the golden clasps at her shoulders. "And the ballerina."

The tulle shifted beneath his hand as he let it fall. What would such beauty cost her? But he did not ask. A tragic hero would avoid hurting her by asking, wouldn't he?

"I will be ready in a moment," she said and reached for the diamond comb on the vanity, but her hand quivered, sending sparkles over the tortoiseshell surface.

"Allow me."

He could not resist sifting his fingers through her strands, smoothing once along the curve of her head. The texture was finer than it had any right to be after the road, after the wind, after him.

"Your hair is still too black."

Her gaze flicked to his in the mirror. "Black as gunpowder?"

"Don't flatter yourself, Lou. Black as a dark opal," he said. Just the most expensive black stone in Christendom.