“Desjardins was discussing how preoccupied you seem of late and how best to manage it. It was suggested that Mademoiselle Piccard was to blame for your decreasing participation.”

Philippe tapped his fingertips atop his knee. “Do you know who this visitor was?”

“No, I am sorry. He departed through a different door than the one I waited outside of.”

As he blew out his breath, Philippe’s gaze moved to the banked fire in the grate. This parlor was considerably smaller and less appointed than the one he shared with his wife, yet this residence was home to him. Because of Marguerite.

Who could have foreseen how a reluctantly accepted invitation from the Fontinescus would become the turning point of his life?

Thoughts of Marguerite filled his mind, and he smiled inwardly. He had been unaware of how the many diverse and competing aspects of his life had been affecting him negatively until she’d brought his attention to it.

“You are so tense,” she noted one night, her slender fingers kneading into the sore muscles of his neck and shoulders. “How can I help?”

For a brief moment, he had considered forgetting his troubles with a few hours of passionate sex, but instead he found himself telling her things he told no one else. She had listened, then engaged in a discourse with him that brought to light alternate solutions.

“How clever you are,” he’d said, laughing.

“Smart enough to choose you,” she replied with a mischievous smile.

There was no doubt that even had he known how meeting her would affect him, he would change nothing. Her beauty was astonishing and a source of endless delight, but it was her pure heart and innocence that won his deeper regard. His love for her filled him with contentment, an emotion he had come to think was not meant for a man such as himself. His joy was nearly complete; his only regret was his inability to offer her the security of his name and title.

Philippe inhaled deeply and looked again at Thierry. “Is there more?”

“No. That is all.”

“You have my gratitude.” Philippe rose and moved to the escritoire in the corner. He opened it and withdrew a small purse. Thierry accepted the proffered coin with a grateful smile, then departed immediately. Philippe exited the parlor after him and sent the butler back to bed.

A few moments later he rejoined Marguerite. She lay curled on her side, her lustrous blond curls scattered atop a pillow, her sapphire blue eyes blinking sleepily. In the light of a single bedside taper, her pale skin glowed with the luminescence of ivory. She extended her hand to him and his chest ached at the sight of her, so soft and warm and filled with welcome. Other women had told him they loved him, but never with the fervency that Marguerite expressed. The depth of her affection was priceless. Nothing and no one would ever take her from him.

He shrugged out of his robe and rounded the bed to slip between the sheets behind her. He draped an arm over her waist and her fingers linked with his.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing for you to be concerned with.”

“Yet you are concerned, I can feel it.” Marguerite turned in his arms. “I have ways to make you tell me,” she purred.

“Minx.” Philippe kissed her nose and groaned at the feel of her warm, silken limbs tangling with his. He related the conversation with Thierry and stroked the length of her spine when she tensed. “Do not be alarmed. This is a minor irritant, nothing more.”

“What do you intend to do?”

“Desjardins has high aspirations. He needs to feel as if every man working with him is as committed. I am not, which was proven when I began rejecting any mission that would send me to Poland.”

“Because of me.”

“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 communiqués 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 décor 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.