Page 88

Louise's words replayed in his head. Louise was under this same roof. Under these same lights. And just like his sister, she was also trying to save him by destroying herself.

***

Rodrick's gaze cut through the crowd, searching for white silk, black hair, the one presence in the room that disrupted his rhythm simply by existing. She was not where he had left her—Lady Trent's orbit, the far edge of the room. He set aside the tightening in his chest and kept moving. She was here. The ballroom was large. He had been in an alcove for twelve minutes, and she had been with Lady Trent's friends, and now she was here.

He did not find her. Her absence was like a knife in his guts. He was considering ripping off the duchess's wallpaper when he saw Talleyrand.

The diplomat stood at the double doors leading from the gaming room, watching the ballroom with the omnivorous attention of a man who had been reading rooms longer than most of the people here had been alive.

He wanted to punch his aristocratic face. Break his lame leg. Clean the parquet with his powdered hair. He wanted—he fisted his hands until his nails bit into his palms, the pain traveling up his wrists.

Anger would only serve his damaged soul, not a Corsican princess who was still at large in the ballroom, doing this devil's bidding.

He drew controlled breaths until he managed to bank the fire in his chest.

Then he picked up two glasses from a passing tray, arranged his face into the expression of a man who had been attending parties in foreign cities for fifteen years and had never found a single one of them particularly interesting, and crossed the room.

Talleyrand watched him come without moving.

"In victory one deserves it," Rodrick said. "In defeat one requires it."

Talleyrand's mouth curved, as though the line had been expected. "Montfort, I wondered when you would come find me."

Rodrick offered him a glass.

"I assume," Talleyrand said, lifting the drink with a small inclination of his head, "that you have met Montmorency and his charming wife."

The name moved through Rodrick like a blade drawn slow. Charming wife. As though Talleyrand had not withheld that information for fifteen years.

"Indeed," he said. He allowed a fraction of the animosity he felt to appear on his face—no more than a tightening at the corner of his mouth. "Charming is one word for it."

Talleyrand lifted his free hand, palm outward in a gesture of light surrender. "I gave you what you wanted. If you failed to inquire after context, that is hardly my failing."

It took everything Rodrick had not to break those elegant fingers. He could end this. It would be clumsy, but possible. Perhaps a fall staged badly enough to pass as an accident in a crowded room.

"I do not blame you," Rodrick said instead. "In your position, I would have done precisely the same."

Interest sparked in Talleyrand's gaze, and then he studied him as one might examine a newly sharpened tool.

"If you ever tire of England," he said, almost gently, "you should come find me. I have always appreciated men of your… particular talents. You could rise very high."

Rodrick's mouth curved. What would it be like to train to be Talleyrand's creature? Breakfast with children's blood in the morning, then cheat widows out of their pensions in the afternoon? Perhaps feed on virgins during the long winter nights.

"I have always preferred solid ground," he said lightly.

Talleyrand turned to him fully. At the second button of his coat something flashed. It was a small cockade, but instead of the blue, white, and red of Napoleon, it was Bourbon white.

The recognition settled in his gut with lethal clarity.

"The white is making a comeback, I see," Rodrick said, as if he couldn't care less.

Talleyrand took a sip of champagne. "Fashion has always required courage. Those who persist in last season's colors often find themselves… uncomfortable by the third act."

Last season's colors. Napoleon was last season. Talleyrand had already moved on. Which meant—

"I am not the only French person changing colors tonight." Talleyrand's gaze shifted to something behind Rodrick's back. "Look at Miss Bonnechoix. How well she wears Bourbon white."

Rodrick turned. Louise was crossing the ballroom. The white gown caught the candlelight as she moved, gliding between scarlet uniforms and dark coats. His pulse beat hard against his throat.