"You are far more charming than the Polish, mon amour." He kissed her forehead. "There are others who will give him the level of dedication he requires."
Marguerite pushed up on one elbow and gazed down at him. "And he will allow you to simply walk away?"
"What can he do? Besides, if he feels that my effectiveness is so diminished that he must concern himself with my private life, then my withdrawal should be a relief to him."
Her hand slid over his chest. "Be careful. Promise me that much.'"
Philippe caught her hand and lifted it to his lips. "I promise."
Then he tugged her down and took her mouth, soothing her fears with the heat of his passion.
The gathering of close friends and political acquaintances in Comte Desjardins's dining room was loud and boisterous. The comte himself was laughing and enjoying himself immensely when a movement in the doorway leading to the foyer caught his eye.
He excused himself and stood, moving to the discreetly gesturing servant with calculated insouciance.
Stepping out to the marble-lined hallway, he shut out the noise of his guests with a click of the latch and arched a brow at the courier who waited in the shadows.
"I did as you directed," Thierry said.
"Excellent." The comte smiled.
Thierry extended his hand and in it was an unaddressed missive bearing a black wax seal. Embedded within that seal was a ruby, perfectly round and glimmering in the light of the foyer chandelier. "I was also intercepted a short distance up the street and given this."
Desjardins stilled. "Did you see him?"
"No. The carriage was unmarked and the curtains drawn. He was gloved. I saw nothing more."
The same as always. The first letter had arrived a few months past, always delivered through a passing courier, which led Desjardins to the conclusion that the man had to be a member of the secret du roi. If only he could determine who, and what grievance the man had with Saint-Martin.
Nodding, the comte accepted the note and dismissed Thierry. He moved away from the dining room, heading toward the kitchen, then through it, taking the stairs down to the cellar where he kept his wine. The missive went into his pocket. There would be nothing written within it. After a dozen such communiques he knew that for a certainty.
There would be only a stamp, carved to prevent recognition of handwriting, imprinting one word: L'Esprit. The ruby was a gift for his cooperation, as were the occasional delivered purses of more loose gems. A clever payment, because Desjardins's wife loved jewelry and unset stones were untraceable.
The volume from the bustling kitchen faded to a dull roar as Desjardins closed the cellar door behind him. He rounded the corner of one floor-to-ceiling rack and saw the smaller, rougher wooden planked door that led to the catacombs. It was slightly ajar.
"Stop there." The low, raspy voice was reminiscent of crushed glass rubbed together, grating and ominous.
Desjardins stopped.
"Is it done?"
"The seeds have been planted," the comte said.
"Good. Saint-Martin will cling to her more tenaciously now that he feels threatened."
"I thought he would weary of the same bedsport months ago," Desjardins muttered.
"I warned you Marguerite Piccard was different. Fortunately for you, as it has led to our profitable association." There was a weighted pause, then, "De Grenier covets her. He is young and handsome. It would be a thorn to Saint-Martin to lose her to him."
"Then I shall see that de Grenier has her."
"Yes." The finality in L'Esprit's tone made Desjardins grateful to be this man's associate and not his enemy. "Saint-Martin cannot be allowed even a modicum of happiness."
Prologue 2
"The Vicomte de Grenier has come to call."
Marguerite lowered the book she was enjoying and stared at her butler. It was the middle of the day, not a time when Philippe was known to be visiting with her. Regardless, only those privy to the secret du roi felt such urgency that they would seek him out at his mistress's home.
"The marquis is not here," she said, more to herself than to the servant who knew that already.
"He asks for you, mademoiselle."
She frowned. "Why?"
The butler said nothing, as was to be expected.
Frowning, she snapped her book closed and rose. "Please send for Marie," she said, desiring her maid's company so that she would not be alone with the vicomte.
When the maid arrived, Marguerite descended to the lower floor and entered the parlor. De Grenier rose upon her arrival and bowed elegantly.
"Mademoiselle Piccard," he greeted with a gentle smile. "You steal my breath."
"Merci. You also look well."
They sat opposite one another and she waited for him to reveal why he would seek her out. She should have, perhaps, refused him. She was another man's mistress. In addition, she would be de Grenier's wife now, if she had followed her mother's wishes. From the slight flush along de Grenier's cheekbones, that uncomfortable realization did not elude him either.
The vicomte was a young man, only a few years older than she was. Tall and slender, he bore handsome features and kind eyes. He was dressed for riding and the deep brown color of his garments created an attractive contrast against the pale blue decor of her parlor. The smile she offered him was genuine, if slightly bemused.
"Mademoiselle," he began, before clearing his throat. He shifted nervously. "Please forgive the importunateness of my visit and the information I am about to share with you. I could conceive of no other way."
Marguerite hesitated a moment, uncertain of how to proceed. She glanced at Marie, who sat in the corner with head bent over a bit of darning. "I have recently gained a new appreciation for bluntness," she said finally.
His mouth curved and she was reminded that she'd always liked him. The vicomte was charming, making it easy to feel comfortable around him.
Then his smile faded.
"There are matters of some delicacy that Saint-Martin oversees," he murmured. "I am aware of them."
Her breath caught as she realized what he was attempting to tell her. How extensive was the secret du roi?
"Is something amiss?" she asked, her fingers linking tightly in her lap.
"I fear for your safety."
"My safety?"
De Grenier bent forward and set his forearms atop his knees. "Saint-Martin has proven to be very valuable to the king. In addition, he is well respected, and when it comes to traversing certain… intimate channels, he is unsurpassed. And missed."
Marguerite's stomach knotted with jealousy. Of course the women who had known Philippe intimately would want him back. But would that be enough to jeopardize either of them? "What are you saying?"
"He has withdrawn from service and assists with matters only when they do not take him from your side. This has led to some unrest."
The vicomte steepled his fingers together and lowered his voice to barely a whisper, forcing her to bend forward to hear his words. "The king has begun to pressure Desjardins to bring Saint-Martin back into the fold. So far, his efforts have met with failure, leading Desjardins to a state of frustration and aggravation that concerns me. I overheard him mention your name in a discussion with one of his associates. I suspect he has some plan to remove you. He sees you as an obstruction, yet the more he urges Saint-Martin to set you aside, the more contrary the marquis becomes."
Her gaze moved to Marie, then rose to the portrait of herself above the empty grate. Saint-Martin had commissioned it soon after their affair had begun. In the swirls of colorful paints she was forever arrested in her youth and innocence, her blue eyes dreamy with love and desire.
"What can I do?" she asked.
"Leave him."