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But he knew that face.
Charlotte.
His fingers lost their strength. The cord slackened.
"I named him Pamplemousse because the shade reminded me of the hills of Île de France." Charlotte's gaze dropped to the cord and returned to Rodrick's face. "Now, please, dear brother. I know you have a heart of stone, but I do not wish to see my husband's neck split open."
"Why, my dear, you look like a princess from a fairy tale," one of Lady Trent's friends said, smiling.
Louise looked at herself in the mirror and smoothed the folds of the tulle illusion skirt, a gauze so fine it seemed made less of fabric than of air.
The first measures of the waltz carried across the room, drawing the couples into motion. Louise closed her eyes and transported herself to another place entirely, where bees and eagles decorated every corner and voices spoke in her own tongue.
In this Tuileries of her imagination, she was a princess who received no letters with impossible missions and could dance with the prince, a prince with raven-black hair, smiling eyes, and a spicy tongue…
His eyes would challenge her as he caught her hand, and when he brought her fingers to his lips, he would find a way to bite them, and then grin wickedly just for her.
"Oh my, how handsome the Iron Duke is."
The shrill voice cut through Louise's thoughts, and she opened her eyes.
Lady Trent pointed toward the dancers. A tall gentleman moved through the set with a young brunette on his arm.
"Is that Wellington?" Louise asked.
She had expected more warning. A presentation, perhaps.
"Indeed." Lady Trent leaned closer. "And the lady is Frances Wedderburn-Webster. Quite a scandal, if one believes half of Brussels—her husband is here as well, which makes the whole arrangement infinitely more entertaining."
Lady Trent continued, but Louise no longer heard her.
Wellington crossed the floor in measured steps, straight-backed, spare. He danced stiffly but energetically. His face was rigid, slashed by a nose that seemed constructed to be haughty. This was her target. It was easy to hate him. He had caused the death of several Frenchmen, and if let loose, he would be the sword that would strike down the Empire.
He inclined his head to his partner, and then he laughed. He didn't look like a sword, or like he was made of iron. The Iron Duke looked like a middle-aged man who laughed, danced, and had loved ones. Louise shifted her weight so she could no longer look at her reflection, and the dagger strapped to her thigh cut into her skin. It changed nothing. Orders did not become optional because the enemy laughed.
She pressed her palm to the spot, driving the fabric down and forcing the blade harder into her skin.
Let it hurt.
Because she was not Cinderella.
Her breath came measured now, drawn in and held, then released with care. The gown was Talleyrand's, not a fairy godmother's. The man she would rather dance with was a British spy, and if she stayed after midnight, she would not turn into a pumpkin but face disgrace.
She found Wellington again, this time with intention. He bowed to his partner and strode to a group of officers. He was fifty paces from her. She could reach him in three minutes. The nearest door was behind her. The space arranged itself in her mind, distances measured, obstacles noted.
Yes, she was no Cinderella. She didn't come to find the prince. She came to kill the duke.
The cord slipped, and Antoine lurched forward, dragging in air, one hand flying to his throat. Rodrick's arm hung limp at his side.
A step separated him from the woman. Perhaps two. The line of her mouth, familiar. The way she held herself—different. Settled. As though the world had not broken her, only… moved her.
No. This was wrong.
He widened his stance, but the room beyond the corridor pressed in at the edges.
"Who sent you?" He stepped closer, his gaze moving between her and Antoine. "Which of you thought this would suffice? This is unusually… elaborate."
They looked at each other. Antoine shrugged.
