There were diplomats and noblemen from all over the world; she had never heard so many foreign languages spoken under one roof. The walls were hung with silk in the colors of the Republic and interspersed with garlands of freshly cut flowers whose cloying scent mingled with the odors of food and the perfume worn by the women. It was a warm night and an enormous pavilion had been set up in the magnificent walled garden for dancing. The musicians were playing already. The crush was so great that Marisa began to wonder despairingly if she would ever catch sight of Philip. In the meantime Edmée kept her close to her side even though her eyes too seemed to wander sharply from one face to another.
They had passed through the reception line at last. As honored guests they were escorted by Talleyrand himself, dressed in his usual somber black, to a group of gilt chairs placed a little apart from the others on the terrace.
Immediately Josephine and Edmée were surrounded by friends and admirers, leaving Marisa a little space to look around. She saw a few faces that were familiar to her, and she bowed and smiled politely. But heavens, how conspicuous she felt! ‘It’s almost as if we were royalty,’ she thought wryly. At least Philip surely could not fail to notice her.
She was so occupied studying the crowd that she could not help the start she gave when a soft voice addressed her.
“Ah, mademoiselle, what good fortune to see you here. You look charming, as usual, and I’m your servant.”
Joseph Fouché, duke of Otranto, bowed over her unwillingly extended hand, his cold lips brushing it lightly.
Fouché. She did not, could not like him, Marisa had already decided. He reminded her of an ugly black bird of prey, hovering lazily before it struck. Always present—watching—his cold eyes hooded and unreadable. And she remembered that he was one of the original revolutionaries, a friend of Robespierre and one of those who had voted to guillotine all the “aristos” who could be rounded up. Why did she have the impression that he was always watching her? Even when he paid her meaningless compliments his cold eyes remained remote, almost assessing.
‘The Terror is over—and in any case there’s no reason why I should fear him,’ Marisa reminded herself.
Marisa wished he would leave, but he surprised and angered her by lingering, his urbane voice murmuring polite civilities all the while. She must try to remember that he was here tonight as the duke of Otranto and not in his capacity as chief of police. What a ridiculous thought; what did she have to feel guilty about? Funny—now she almost found herself wishing that Napoleon would arrive and “rescue” her!
“I wonder, mademoiselle, if I might have the honor of taking you in to supper? If you have not already promised it to someone else, that is.”
Taken aback, she could not find anything to say. Looking at her aunt for support she found that Edmée’s attention was elsewhere. Her heart sinking, Marisa saw a satisfied smile cross Fouché’s thin lips as he drew up a chair to seat himself beside her.
“I am excessively flattered and grateful that you should be kind enough to spare me a little of your time. Do you know, mademoiselle, that you are a fascinating enigma? I am sure I cannot be the only admirer to be curious about you! Yes, I must confess that I am intrigued….”
Growing hot and cold by turns, Marisa was forced to listen as his soft voice went on and on, his eyes holding her pinned in place like a helpless butterfly against a wall.
13
A series of shocks, delivered one after the other, had rendered Marisa almost numb by the time they sat down to a late supper.
First there had been Fouché with his probing, relentless questions that seemed to want to rip away all the veils she had thrown up between herself and the past. He had acted as if she were a criminal with something to hide!
“Come, mademoiselle, I know how painful it must be for you to recall certain unpleasant happenings, but I assure you that I shall be discreet. Surely you realize it’s better this way, under the cover of a gathering such as this? Do continue to smile, I beg you. I am merely fulfilling my duty and attempting to spare you the embarrassment of formal questioning in my office. Please trust me. I am a father, and I understand something of your scruples.”
He wanted to know how she had arrived in France, when and with whom. And her relationship with Philip—how she had met him and how well did they know each other?
Angrily she tried to evade him, but he had merely smiled.
“If you are sensible, mademoiselle, you will tell me everything. Be assured it will not go further.”
It sounded as if he were threatening her—his manner fatherly and bullying by turns. And then, like a fisherman content to play out his line for the sport of reeling in a spent quarry afterwards, he let her go with the promise that he would speak to her later, after she had had time to think.
Soon afterwards she saw Philip making his way to her side through the crowd. An unwonted frown creased his forehead. She was reminded suddenly and forcibly of the fact that Philip was English. Dear God, did Fouché think she was a spy? Part of some royalist plot?
This evening even Philip seemed changed in some way, his manner almost abrupt. “Marisa, I have to speak to you. Forgive me, but if there’s some chance that we could converse alone—”
Marisa forced a smile as she tried to warn Philip with her eyes. “Later, perhaps. I hope you will ask me to dance.”
“It seems as if you are always surrounded by chaperones now—and admirers!” His voice sounded almost bitter, and she longed to be able to put her hand in his and run away with him, away from all the gossip and the speculation and the staring eyes that watched her, she was sure, even now.
“Philip—” she began pleadingly. She noticed how his face seemed to close up, becoming a polite, handsome mask as her aunt came fluttering up, a teasing smile on her full red lips.
“Monsieur Sinclair! But how nice to see you again. Did your friends come with you this evening? I have been wishing to meet Lady Marlowe again ever since I learned she was in Paris with her dear little Arabella. Marisa, you must meet her—such a sweet, typical young English lady, and you must be almost at the same age, too. You must be introduced, and especially if you are to go back to England with me. Lady Marlowe knows all the patronesses of Almacks, isn’t that so, monsieur?”
“Lady Marlowe knows everybody,” Philip said in a low, controlled tone as he bowed over Edmée’s white fingers. “I will be sure to tell her that you were asking about her, of course.”
“Please do!” Edmée responded sweetly, sinking into the vacant chair by Marisa’s side; and after a few murmured polite remarks Philip was forced to leave.
“How could you!” Marisa burst out in a low, suppressed voice as soon as he was out of earshot. Her aunt raised one arched brow.
“How could I—what? Chérie, you ought to be grateful that I rescued you from being far too indiscreet. It’s an open secret that his engagement to Arabella Marlowe will be announced as soon as they return to London; and yet, the look on your face as you gazed up at him! You really must learn to mask your feelings, darling child, for your own sake!”
Too angry to control herself Marisa burst out, “And for whose sake, I wonder, has the odious duke of Otranto been plaguing me with questions? While you were occupied with your friends
