after, he’d received his second shock of the evening when Dominic had followed Talleyrand into Napoleon Bonaparte’s box. ‘Perhaps Marisa will be able to tell me what he’s doing here, and what name he is using,’ Philip thought feverishly. God, but she looked lovely tonight! If things had been different, he would have thought of nothing else.
Joseph Fouché, duke of Otranto, had also been watching but for different reasons. It was his duty to watch all that was going on, and make his own deductions—helped, in part, by the efforts of his agents. Tonight had proved exceptionally interesting, and a chilling smile curled his thin lips as in his mind he began painstakingly to fit tiny pieces together that would eventually form a whole picture. All visitors to France during these tense times came under the surveillance of his men, and especially since there were more rumors of royalist plots in the offing.
Loyal to no one but the first consul himself, he trusted no one, not even Napoleon’s own wife and her friends—especially those out of the past. Now he allowed his eyes to rest again on the young girl in the golden gown who sat just behind her aunt. Such a strange reappearance, that! Her mother had been executed as an enemy of the Republic, and the girl had fled France as a child, only to return unexpectedly and mysteriously as a young woman. But how had she got here? With whom—and why? He had burned to question her from the beginning and had been put off; but now, at last, he had been given his instructions. Napoleon, his master, was inexplicably interested in the chit, and like any one of his prospective mistresses, her background was open to investigation.
He would enjoy questioning her, Fouché thought slyly. Was she really as innocent as she seemed or merely a pawn in someone else’s game? He would find out.
12
Unaware of all the intrigue swirling around her, Marisa tried to force some semblance of gaiety into her manner when at last they left the theater to drive to the magnificent hotel of the Russian ambassador. Far from being ended, the evening was only just beginning!
Josephine was silent, suffering from one of the migraines that made her husband so impatient with her of late, and Hortense was her usual quiet self. But the Countess Landrey seemed exhilarated as she teased her niece softly, “You seem very quiet, all of a sudden, my love. Surely one night in Paris cannot have left you bored? That dull performance at the theater tonight was only a prelude—I’ve heard that the Russians are lavish entertainers!”
Edmée’s high-strung mood drove Marisa to ask herself whether perhaps her aunt was expecting to meet her latest lover again here. Marisa drew in her breath sharply, in order to dispel the angry thoughts that flooded her mind. No, she couldn’t tell her aunt, not yet. And having seen her and learned of her true status, she hoped that Captain Challenger would not dare intrude his presence upon her again. If only she could forget and force herself to act as if nothing had ever happened between them! If only…
Her preoccupation with her own problems led Marisa, who was usually sensitive to the moods of those about her, to be impervious to the subtle difference in the atmosphere since they had left the theater. She was not to know that Napoleon had had a quarrel with his latest mistress, the actress in the play they had seen, and that when he had returned to their box in a rage, he had suddenly noticed her, as if for the first time.
It took her some time to realize that she was being singled out—and even that realization came only when the dark-visaged Lucien Bonaparte, the one brother-in-law whom Josephine disliked excessively, had drawn her away from under the very nose of the Russian prince who had paid her so much attention at Malmaison.
“The Russians are our allies for the moment, but there’s no reason why they should be allowed to get too friendly! Do you regret losing such a determined admirer, mademoiselle?”
Both relieved and puzzled at the same time, Marisa held herself stiffly in his arms, finding herself unable to either trust or like him. However, she shook her head as she answered mechanically, “No. As a matter of fact I don’t like the prince at all. He’s far too bold.”
“And you don’t like boldness in a man?”
While she sought for a light answer to his forward question, she wondered why he suddenly spoke to her so familiarly.
“I don’t like men who presume too much on the strength of a slight acquaintance. I suppose I am not worldly enough by your standards!”
He gave her a rather cynical smile. “Why, my standards are broad enough to embrace the whole world, mademoiselle ! However, my brother is surprisingly old-fashioned, and—shall we say conventional? Especially when it comes to women—of late, that is.”
‘What is he talking about?’ Marisa wondered, while at the same time she decided she did not blame her godmother for disliking this particular Bonaparte.
She was even more confused when after a few turns across the crowded ballroom floor, Lucien brought her to a halt before his brother, who had been engaged in a low-voiced conversation with Tsar Alexander.
Not knowing what to do or how to act, Marisa dropped into a low curtsy, hoping that the embarrassed flush that had spread across her face would go unnoticed. She kept her head bent, wishing that she did not have to rise, and it was Napoleon whose extended hand helped her erect again.
“And this is my charming little guest, the Señorita de Castellanos, who is goddaughter to my wife. You see, she is still young enough not to have forgotten how to blush!”
Finding herself presented to the tsar, Marisa’s tongue stumbled over her words, but he seemed flattered at her obvious confusion and gave her a gracious smile. She was all too conscious of Lucien Bonaparte’s dark, enigmatic presence at her side, and the fact that the eyes of all the gathering must be fixed on her at this moment. What did it all mean? Why had Lucien suddenly asked her to dance with him and then brought her here?
Napoleon Bonaparte’s blue, deep-set eyes seemed to hold her gaze against her will as he said softly in his accented French, “You are looking exceptionally lovely tonight, señorita.” Did she only imagine that his hand squeezed her nerveless fingers slightly before he released them? In his resplendent white full-dress uniform, laced with gold and decorated with glittering decorations, he seemed so imposing and quite frightening as well! It was hard to believe he was the same man who at Malmaison, would join the younger set in their games and had treated her as if he were a fond, but absentminded uncle. Why was he looking at her so strangely and consideringly tonight?
“You little innocent!” the countess of Landrey scolded Marisa some twenty minutes later when they had retired to one of the smaller salons leading out into the magnificent gardens. “Don’t you understand that he’s quite taken with you? Chérie, you are a success! And even more so than I had hoped. And now, you understand, you must be very discreet—never more than two dances with the same man. And do not flirt too obviously, he can be jealous once he’s fixed his interest on a particular woman. We must—”
“Stop, please! I do not understand.” Marisa pressed her fingers to her temples, staring at her aunt as if she had taken leave of her senses. She said, “What are you trying to say? That General Bonaparte—that he—but no, you are mistaken. You know he’s always been kind to me and my godmother….”
Edmée sighed, one small silk-sandaled foot tapping impatiently on the carpet. Why must Marisa be so deliberately obtuse? After all, for all her youth and rather touching naivete, the child had been through certain experiences that should have made a woman of her. And, as a result, she had made sure with the broths and bitter tisanes her niece had swallowed so obediently that there were to be no unpleasant reminders of the
