Chapter 23
Carry witchet: A sort of conundrum, puzzlewit, or riddle.
A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue
Francis Grose
Nick spotted Mariana across the starlit garden, and confirmation, deep and true, settled in his gut. She was his.
A smile that refused to be suppressed opened wide across his face, stretching muscles that hadn’t been used since childhood, and possibly not even then. If he appeared foolish, then that was the price he must pay. He wanted everyone to see his feelings for her, but, even more, he wanted her to see them.
With every step he took toward her, his world shifted into balance by increments. His feet ticked along at a pace, swift and sure, as he navigated through the party, maneuvering around effusive waiters, knowing Society smiles, and obstructive topiary animals.
With only a dozen feet to go, the path to Mariana cleared, and it was only him and her beneath a low-slung crescent moon that shone solely for them. Even if the moon had shone full and bright tonight, it couldn’t match the tide of her smile inexorably pulling him toward her.
He hesitated just shy of her and silently held her gaze. Words weren’t necessary. Not after this afternoon.
“Nick,” she began, “there is something you must know.”
Unable to resist the feel of her, he stepped forward and slipped his arms around the supple curve of her waist. He tipped his head and met the pulsing bend of her neck with his lips. A soft sigh released from her. Emboldened, his mouth trailed up to her ear, and beneath his lips a light dusting of goose bumps rose. “Play along as nicely as you did earlier,” his voice rumbled, “and I’ll reward you . . . again.”
A duo of heartbeats later, her body stiffened into a rigid line, and she slipped entirely out of the circle of his arms. Perhaps she thought they were scandalizing Society?
Strangely exposed and uncertain, he opened his mouth to question her when yet another hush descended over the crowd, drawing all eyes. He quashed his unease and followed the collective gaze, where he found the king’s heir Charles, the Duc d’Artois. Nick couldn’t help a grudging respect for the pretentious coxcomb. It was a savvy and bold move, walking into the lion’s den, even as his brother, the Bourbon king, lay on his death bed.
Nick glanced down to find Mariana quietly taking in the scene. They would have to set aside their future until the matter of the Duc’s assassination was put to bed. He angled his mouth toward her ear. “Louis is expected to die tonight.”
“And the Duc d’Artois is attending an Orléans soirée to shore up the support he needs for his claim to the throne,” she finished for him.
“If the death is announced”—He needed to ask one more favor of his wife—“rush over to the Duc and create a little scene.”
“Why?”
“We need a distraction at that precise moment.”
“And who are we?”
His eyes narrowed on her. She held herself with a mien of disinterest, but a closer inspection revealed the opposite. Her eye held a sharp light. There was a correct answer to her question, but he wasn’t certain what it was. “I have another agent placed in the garden,” he said carefully.
“Ah,” she said, a brittle smile curving her lips. “Should I seduce the Duc right then and there?”
“Over my dead body,” he stated, sudden ferocity rearing up within him.
The smile froze on her face. “I thought I was to use any means,” she threw back at him. Before he could reply, she continued, “Since we’re on the subject of cloaks and daggers, I feel somewhat obliged to tell you that I saw Villefranche engaged in a rather heated discussion with my Uncle—”
“Bertie,” Nick finished for her.
“Of course, this isn’t news to you. Who in my family isn’t involved in your spy intrigues?”
It dawned on him that something was wrong. How was it possible?
They’d been about to confess their love for one another this afternoon. Now she acted as if she couldn’t stand the sight of him. His sense of balance shifted away. “What happened between this afternoon and now? This afternoon we—”
“We?” she cut in, her voice a shard of mockery. “There is no we. There never was.”
Nick felt winded as if he’d been gut punched. He moved closer to her. He wouldn’t leave her side until they sorted this out.
A sudden and cacophonous tapping of metal against glass rang out and demanded everyone’s attention. An expectant silence descended as the collective gaze swung toward the raised dais where the Duc d’Artois sat, coolly staring out across the garden. A frustrated Nick had no choice but to wait.
A courtier stepped forward, a grave expression on his face, and proclaimed, “Le roi est mort, vive le roi!”
In unison, the gathered sank into low curtsies before their new monarch, the man who would be crowned Charles X.
Mariana finished off the last of her champagne in a single swallow. “Actors take your places.”
“Hang the assassination plot,” Nick found himself not only saying, but also meaning with every ounce of his being. “You and I are—”
“Far less important than the fate of two nations, correct?”
“Not even close.” His fingers wrapped around her arm when she made to step away. Her eyes flashed fire over her shoulder, and his stomach sank.
“You must do as you will. Just as I must.” She shook off his hand and fled toward the dais to set the plan into motion.
He’d been delivered a message in no uncertain terms. His suspicions coalesced into a fully formed conclusion, unavoidable: something was again broken between them.
This line of thought was interrupted when Percy, in the guise of a ubiquitous, faceless server, caught his eye. Nick’s feet sprang into motion. He located Mariana in time to see her barrel into the new king of France. The startled smile lighting up her face combined a flawless mixture of vacuity, sheepishness, and awe. He couldn’t resist a swell of pride, even as the prickle of anxiety remained constant. He must focus on the task at hand and see this night through. Mariana must come later.
His feet accelerated into a light sprint as he and Percy converged on the fringe of the crowd just rising from their deep curtsies and bows. Their footsteps fell into a unified rhythm as they rushed toward the same destination: the Comte de Villefranche.
“Get Villefranche out of here,” Nick spoke under his breath.
“For how long?” Percy asked.
“Tonight, at the very least. A few days would be ideal.”
“Consider it done.”
“Your cover will be blown,” Nick continued. “It is only a matter of time before Montfort knows that you are alive. Perhaps it is time for you to go home, too.”
“Perhaps,” Percy allowed, his tone indicating the opposite. Percy would follow his own path. “But Nick,” he continued, “we must discuss your wife.”
“Now isn’t the time.” Eyes trained on Villefranche some twenty yards away, Nick didn’t want to halt their forward momentum.
“There is something you must know,” Percy pressed.
“Not now, Bretagne,” Nick snapped. They were so close. Villefranche was in his sights, and nothing short of a force of nature would stop him from completing this mission.
As he and Percy closed in, Villefranche’s body shifted and visibly tensed. The inevitable was striding toward him, and there was no avoiding it.
Villefranche’s gaze met Nick’s for a fleeting second before the man excused himself from his guests and beat a hasty retreat to a nearby dark passageway. Percy, then Nick, followed. Nick took one last backward glance, his senses on the alert for a trap. Perceiving nothing untoward, he slipped into the shadows.
The three men standing in a close, uneasy triangle, Nick spoke first. “The assassination won’t be happening tonight. Your new king only awaits his crown.”
Villefranche hesitated, his wide gaze shifting back and forth between Nick and Percy. His chin jutted toward Percy. “He was your agent all this time?”
“Oui,” Nick replied. A watchful Percy remained silent.
A humorless chortle escaped Villefranche. “Your wife was correct about my espionage skills.”
“Leave Mariana out of this,” Nick said, his body suddenly tensed for battle. Percy’s fingers discreetly closed around his upper arm.
“Is there more we need to know?” Percy asked.
“I told Bertrand Montfort to leave France with no delay, or he would be charged as an enemy of the state for plotting the death of the king.” Villefranche drummed impatient fingers on his thigh. “My part in the plot is done, but it is the Englishman who will decide if it is truly finished.”
Nick switched his attention to Percy. “You know where you’re taking him?”
Percy nodded, and Villefranche began to protest, “I refuse to be told what—”
Percy’s gaze shot toward Villefranche. “You will follow me. And you will not leave my side until I allow it. Understood?”
Villefranche remained stubbornly silent.
“Or will force be necessary?” Percy asked in a voice at once eerily calm and utterly capable, leaving no doubt that the man behind the words could carry out the implicit threat.
A wary Villefranche shifted on his feet before assenting with a single nod. Percy threw a farewell glance Nick’s way before striding down the stone passageway, Villefranche close at his heels. Nick pointed himself in the opposite direction and stepped out of the shadows as he scanned the interior grounds for Bertrand Montfort.
His gaze landed on the massive and imposing man . . . already watching him. Montfort was the perfect spider, and spiders didn’t appreciate having their webs destroyed. He would be out for revenge over tonight’s destruction of his carefully laid plans.
Bertrand Montfort was now his enemy, a fact Nick understood with crystal clarity. He also understood what was needed in this situation: proof linking Montfort to the plot to assassinate the new king of France. It was his best, and only, insurance policy.
But where did such proof exist?
As his gaze held Montfort’s patient one, it came to Nick. Villefranche’s rooms. He must find the proof before one of Montfort’s agents did. Montfort never left a job unfinished. But, then, neither did Nick.
He tipped an ironic nod toward the man before setting his feet into motion. First, he must lose the agent surely tailing him on Montfort’s orders. Then he could finally finish this mission.
And Mariana?
As if pulled by a magnet, his gaze once again locked onto her. Even from this distance he could see her skillfully handling a visibly charmed King Charles. Again, pride surged. The woman standing there with a king wrapped around her pinky was his wife. He would make her so again.
The time had long passed for him to allow the specter of his parents’ doomed union to fade away. He should have spoken the words this afternoon, but he’d wanted to give her time to reflect on the whirlwind of the last few days.
The hard glint in her eyes returned to him, and he experienced a note of portent. He shook it off. All would come out all right. It had to. The universe had given him another chance with her. Just a few minutes more and they would start planning the rest of their lives together.
But there was no future until this last piece of business was settled.
Then he would finally be free to speak the words to her he’d never had the courage to speak.