One for All, page 17
My face turned the color of my dress. Ah, there I was. That was something familiar to hold on to.
* * *
The palace was a dream. A dream wonderful and terrifying all at once. Marble arches and columns that extended as far as the eye could see led into a courtyard, an enclosed street only the finest noblesse could enter. We gave the horses a wide berth, not wanting to risk our shoes and hemlines, and nodded at the copious number of guards and attendants as we passed through the designated entrance.
The ballroom—one of many—opened into a portico, glass doors revealing a party at its onset. The sheer volume of people was overwhelming. Their hair, their gowns and jackets, the light bouncing off all the crystals. Laughter tinkled over clinking glasses. It was like the first ball, but everything was ten times larger, ten times more extravagant. And taking into account the number of armed guards, ten times deadlier. Even the party guests were sharper, more defined—lip colors like violent wounds across their faces, gold and silver jewelry pricking at their wrists, their throats. The air was cloudy with perfume and sweat and the bite of alcohol.
The wide room descended into whispers as an attendant cleared his throat. “May I present His Royal Highness, Louis XIV, par la grace de Dieu, Roi de France et de Navarre.” Théa made to stand on tiptoe, but Madame de Treville yanked at her sleeve. Everyone was fixed on the King. They paid little attention to the rest of the royal family’s introduction. Less than a year older than me … and yet, it was hard to reconcile all this grandeur, this pomp and circumstance, for a boy. Even if you traded his palace finery for farmer’s clothes, though, no one would mistake him as un roturier, a commoner. Not with his slight frame and dark hair arranged in artful curls past his shoulders.
This was the boy we’d sworn our lives to protect. Face pale from powder and lack of sunlight. When was the last time he’d left the palace? Seen the streets of Paris? Been to La Cour des Miracles?
I clenched my fists. His life was at risk. One didn’t parade around Paris, didn’t examine workers’ conditions or the noxious state of the Seine when assassination followed every conversation and every word, shadowlike. But could I say that if things were different, if he were safe, that he would care more, would care better, for his people? He was just a boy with a crown.
I thought back to the night of the first ball, to Aria’s insistence that none of this was about “them.” Perhaps this wasn’t about the King, either. It never was—at least, not all of it. Because to Papa … to me, it was so much more. It was sisterhood and brotherhood. For the girls like me who were told they were wrong and lying about their bodies, but who didn’t wear pretty gowns or have swords strapped underneath their skirts.
The dancing resumed. Courtiers had scant interest in gawking, but guests observed him from spots along the wall. He retreated to a secluded corner along with his brother and a few others. An official taster waited at the King’s side, only retreating once he’d poured himself a sip of red wine. At the taster’s nod, the King secured his own full glass, said a few words that spurred the group into raucous laughter.
The four of us were clustered off to the side of the rotating couples. Théa was swept away by a stammering fellow who barely managed to ask her to dance. He hardly noticed that her eyes remained on the King. Portia was midsoliloquy regarding the royal portraits when Madame de Treville’s fingers tightened on my elbow. “He’s here.” She withdrew her hand. “Oh look, Duchesse de Piney! What an exquisitely crafted gown—I must procure the name of her dressmaker immediately.” Our mentor nodded as she left with Portia. The signal. The target had seen us: Madame de Treville and her new, unfamiliar-faced pupil. The mysterious girl Madame de Treville’s contacts told him about.
I let out a shaky breath. Uncurled my fingers from the scarlet fabric.
“Mademoiselle,” someone said from behind me.
Verdon, half-bowed, was not what I’d expected. A bit older; from Théa’s insistence, I had guessed he’d be in his midtwenties. Wasn’t as handsome as I’d assumed, either—though it was wrong to think such things. Perhaps it was the lighting, or the crush of people. And at the end of the day, it didn’t matter. I wasn’t here for that.
“Enchantée, Monsieur.” I let the word linger on my tongue as I curtsied. His tongue shot out to lick his lips. He was right in front of me, too close by anyone’s standards.
“Ma chère, how beautiful you look. Like a perfect porcelain doll.” His finger grazed my cheek, and I tried not to gag, tried not to wipe my sleeve where his fingers touched.
“Monsieur Baldec.” A voice, mocking and steel all at once, rang from a few feet away. A young man with a smile fixed on his face as if it were sculpted there. Memories of the first ball rushed back to me, of hazel eyes that melted above the torchlight.
No, not just any young man. The one who’d seen me struggle. The one who’d sought me out, who wanted to help, who spoke about people like me with an empathy that scorched.
The man with the hazel eyes clapped my frozen admirer on the back. “Perhaps you’d have better luck if you did not compare the mademoiselle to a child’s toy?”
Monsieur Baldec flushed as red as his mustache. “Monsieur Verdon. I thought this party was for guests of the royal family.”
Verdon’s eyes locked on mine. And then his smile grew wider, genuine. He remembered.
“I believe your wife is searching for you,” he told Baldec. “She was quite frantic, in fact. She thought you were lost on your return from paying respects to the King.”
“Merci,” Monsieur Baldec said through gritted teeth, “Monsieur, for alerting me of my wife’s distress.”
When he didn’t move, Verdon hardened. “My pleasure. Given last month’s incident, I said I’d go and find you right away.”
The two stared each other down before Monsieur Baldec blinked. “I must attend to my wife. A pleasure.” A shallow bow in my direction, then he hurried off—but not without a scowl for the man in front of me.
Verdon’s clothes were not as ornate as most. No gaudy baubles or overdone embroidery.
I recalled what Madame de Treville had told me about my target. He wanted a chase, and I’d give him one. “I suppose I’m to thank you for playing my savior? I’m quite capable of saving myself,” I said. I wasn’t the shrinking mademoiselle he’d first met. I had to make sure he didn’t see me as the dizzy girl. Just the dizzy girl.
“Playing, Mademoiselle? You wound me. Here I was thinking I’d acted my part and appeared confident without betraying my distress. But you saw right through me. A pleasure, to finally become acquainted. Monsieur Verdon, at your service.”
A memory itched at the back of my mind like it had when Madame de Treville first told me his name. Verdon. Verdon.
As I continued to stare up at him, it dawned on me. My composed expression nearly broke; it took everything in me not to shout or scream, to only curl my lips in a coy smile. A good thing, that he couldn’t hear the roaring of my heartbeat. How was this even possible? “You wouldn’t happen to know a Monsieur Verdon? I believe he lives near Bordeaux?”
“I assume you speak of Monsieur Hubert Verdon?”
“Are you of any relation to the man?” I asked.
He laughed in response, full, from behind his sternum. It sounded how his smile looked: charming—maybe even sincere. “You could say that.” I raised one brow. Madame de Treville encouraged this, said it drew attention to my eyes, dark and luminous against my skin. “Why do you ask?”
“My family’s originally from a town nearby.” This line of questioning was dangerously close to revealing personal information, so I pivoted. “His name was spoken on occasion. In conjunction with the highest praise, of course: How generous he is for donating his time and means to provide instruction for future service members of la Maison du Roi.”
His gaze was hard and deep. “Hubert Verdon is my father,” he said eventually. “I’d much rather talk about you, though.”
“Me?” I asked, hand to my chest.
“You sound shocked anyone would find you intriguing.”
“On the contrary,” I replied, “I’m merely surprised I’ve piqued your interest. Especially considering I’ve cut in line.”
“Oh?”
I glanced pointedly over his shoulder. He followed my gaze to the two women glaring at me. Both their gowns were inlaid with expensive crystals, scattered around the hems and edges of the bodices, catching the light of nearby candles. He turned back with a gleam in his eyes, but not before I caught a glimpse of Portia inserting herself between the women, drawing their attention away. “I am my own man, society protocols or not.” He searched my face before extending his hand. “But if you insist: Mademoiselle, may I have the honor of this dance?”
“But what will they say?” My question sounded earnest, even to my own ears, even though I’d practiced it a dozen times, even though I already knew what his answer would be, how his breath would hitch. “Think of the gossip. Dancing with an unknown lady in a room full of nobles?”
“Me, worried about association with the woman who’s drawn the attention of everyone here? The mystery only lures the courtiers in.”
I placed my outstretched hand in his. “And you?”
He wrapped his fingers around it, pulled gently so I had to take a step forward. A step closer to him. “Me? I love a good mystery. The best part is solving it.” His fingers were warm, his thumb skating along my knuckles, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. “Mademoiselle,” he murmured, only loud enough for me to hear. “If your hesitance to dance is informed by what happened the last time we met, we could sit, if you wish.”
“Monsieur, we are at a ball—at the palace, no less. I am sure you would prefer dancing.”
“Sitting can be much preferable to dancing … depending on the company.”
“Étienne!” I pulled my hand away as a man approached, and the two greeted each other. “I’m loath to intrude on you and your enchanting companion, but I really must insist,” the man said.
A shadow passed over my target’s face. “Business calls.” He grimaced. He found my hand again, cradled it. “We’ll have to dance another time.”
“Of course, Monsieur Verdon.”
“That’s my father’s name,” he said.
I nearly balked then and there at his forwardness. At his unsettling, disarming nature: not predatory, not leering, but very, very warm. “Of course, Étienne.”
His gaze drifted along the curve of my lips at the sound of his name, so soft only he could hear it. The courtiers wouldn’t know what was passing between us—what he believed was passing between us, that is. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”
I paused, remembered the smile the girls had practiced with me in the mirror, the one they said would dwell in his mind even after we parted. “My name is Tania.”
“Tania,” he repeated. He pressed a kiss to my hand, still in his. And all the while his eyes remained on mine. They were darker than they’d been in the torchlight, that color between brown and green melting to a shade deeper. “Until we meet again, Tania.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“UNTIL WE MEET again, Tania?” Portia scoffed. “Did he present you with a sonnet in your honor to top the whole thing off?”
“He really said you’d drawn the attention of everyone there?” Théa interjected from atop the bed, chin in her hands and ankles crossed behind her. “That’s the same as calling her beautiful, non?” She looked to Portia for confirmation. “Has she managed to win herself a suitor?”
Portia, making faces in the mirror, immediately perked up. “Upon further consideration, Tania, I do hope he pens you a collection full of sonnets, which, of course, I must be allowed to perform to the household via dramatic reading.”
“Don’t be silly,” I cut in gently, removing the rubies from my earlobes and returning them to the vanity. Gentlemen showed interest in ladies all the time without any intention of actually pursuing them. He wasn’t really interested in me. He was a flirt. He didn’t know any of my secrets; the knowledge of merely one would send him running.
But I needed to know his father’s secrets, his uncle’s. As much as I wanted to ask Madame de Treville about the connection I’d discovered, ask if she’d known, I couldn’t. That would mean revealing I’d almost given away information about my background—a definite offense for the mystery mademoiselle she’d have me be.
“Please, Tania, don’t deny me this! I bet he’s a rhymer,” she said, turning to Théa, who nodded. “He was enamored with you. And he obviously made a poignant second impression,” Portia continued as I finished taking off the jewels I was draped in. “You’ve practically said nothing since we got home!”
“You’ve hardly let her get in a word as is.” Aria was propped against the door frame.
Portia shrieked. “How long have you been standing there? You know I hate when you do that!”
“It’s not my fault you weren’t listening,” Aria said.
Portia huffed and plopped down on the edge of the bed. “It’s not fair you can sneak up on us like that. Madame de Treville says my steps are loud as a horse on cobblestone.”
“Practice helps,” Aria said gently. She continued to watch Portia, but the latter’s focus had already shifted.
“Yes, Verdon is over-the-top, but I’d still rather have him as a target than distraction duty,” Portia said. “I had to listen to that woman go on and on. Mon Dieu, how many times can one hear about fabric and cut before she loses whatever remains of her mind? No one wants to hear about your newest gown, Babette!”
“It wasn’t even that well made,” Théa said. Portia looked at her, stunned. “What?” Théa asked. “It’s true! The embroidery placement wasn’t even flattering—what’s the point of going to all that trouble if you’re going to plop that stitching on the fabric with no care for appearance?”
Despite the agony in my feet and the dizziness cool around the corners of my vision, I laughed. Then I thought back to earlier, before the ball, a shadow passing across my face in the mirror.
“Tania, what’s wrong?” I met Théa’s concerned gaze.
“It’s…” The memory of the hallway, Henri watching Théa retreat … the way she’d said his name. “Have you noticed anything the matter with Henri?”
Aria and Portia were too busy bickering about something or other to take much notice. Théa’s nose wrinkled. “What do you mean?”
“He seems—well, he seems frustrated. And angry.”
Théa placed her hand on my shoulder, peering into the glass. “I think we’re all frustrated, don’t you? Everyone in the house knows we’re just a step away from the King … oh, it’s too horrible to even think about, let alone say out loud. And I think Henri is taking on extra work at Sanson’s. He really doesn’t want to be an apprentice forever.” She studied me. “Are you sure you’re all right, Tania—I could make you a cup of tea if you wished it, although I’d have to be sneaky. Madame hasn’t let me near the teapot ever since the antique-lace-and-chamber-pot incident.” I shook my head. Smiled at her to show everything was fine. Yes, I shook my head—and yet my neck itched all through the night, as I lifted my head up, expecting to find a set of eyes staring back. Watching.
* * *
Madame de Treville declared my first lead mission a success. Now was the time to spur the youngest Verdon to action. So, I did as I was told. Donned a dress the color of the twilight sky, distracted the son of a vicomte recently returned from exile while Portia flirted with his father, kept him occupied to provide time for Aria and Théa to sneak into the Vicomte’s private quarters, his cellars, anywhere he might hide smuggled goods he’d brought back to Paris. I was getting better at this part. It was easier when I remembered what I was doing this all for. Not for the King, but for the people who would be hurt in the aftermath of his death. Sometimes, at least—other times it made me lose focus, had me picking at my fingernails and laughing too loudly, at the thought of protecting a king when Papa was gone, even if I knew there was a greater purpose. And when my gaze drifted up, it met with Verdon’s as if he knew my laugh, had heard it, had his eyes at the ready for me.
I woke the next morning with Portia’s voice barely audible over the throbbing in my head. “Hurry up! We’re supposed to train together today, or did you forget?”
I tried to sit up, but immediately regretted it.
“Tania?” Her voice was closer; she must have come into the room, must have been standing somewhere near the edge of my bed.
“I overworked myself.”
There was a pause. “But I thought…” Another pause, and when I shifted, her face doubled. “You were fine yesterday.”
I wasn’t fine yesterday. I was never fine. But even if I had been, it wouldn’t have meant today would be the same. She didn’t know, couldn’t know what her words meant, how they felt. “There are good days and bad days. I’ve had more good ones lately—which I’m sure Madame de Treville attributes to training until my body is mush—but a bad day was bound to happen.”
Portia sat near the far bedpost with a creak. “That must be hard: the uncertainty of going to sleep and not knowing what it’ll be like when you wake up.” That was a profound understatement. She was trying; it was written all over her face. But I was too tired to acknowledge it, too tired to tell her what it meant to have someone actively attempt to place themselves in my shoes. “What do you want to do?” she asked.
“It’s not what I want to do, it’s what I can do,” I snipped. Guilt immediately bloomed in my chest. And fear; the fear of her face morphing into Marguerite’s. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Don’t be. I deserved that,” Portia said. “I’ll do some drills on my own. We’ll work together soon.”
Once she left, I tried to fall back asleep. But every time my eyelids shut, faces swam in front of me: Papa, Maman, Madame de Treville, and the other girls … Verdon appeared occasionally, and whenever I recognized his profile, my stomach tumbled over itself. Yes, he was handsome and charming, but I’d prepared for that. So why had his words unmoored me? “Sitting can be much preferable to dancing, depending on the company.” “I’m not the presumptuous sort to assume a mademoiselle’s sentiments. Or the kind to write someone off who is struggling in any capacity.” What did it matter if he wasn’t the rake Madame de Treville thought him? I groaned and stared up at the canopy.
