The Duc's servant found her eventually, and Alexandra was forced to retire to their rooms to prepare for dinner. She kept the letter tucked in her dress, not mentioning it to anyone. She slid it into one of her unused gloves in one of the many drawers of her oversized dressing room when she arrived, but it preoccupied her while she was undressed, smeared in unguents and perfumes and then redressed in something frilly and frothy, more suitable to a dinner at court than her traveling dress had been. She studied herself in the mirror while a maid servant whose name she does not know and does not care to ask for, brushes and pins her hair into an outrageous and rather garish updo. Alexandra never understood exactly what drove fashion, since simplicity spoke to her own inner sense of sophistication, but her father insisted that she always be directly on the cutting edge. It wouldn't do for a Cabot to be seen as falling behind.
Finally, she looked like a cake covered in frosting and little shaped sugar flowers topped with a whipped confection of blonde hair. Her father, on the other hand, had become distracted by something he was yelling at a small, wiry looking man about so she knew they would undoubtedly be late for dinner. It was an opportunity, though, so she took it and slipped into her dressing room to retrieve the letter from its hiding place. Cabot's were not rude. They were infinitely polite, even to their social inferiors. Reading someone's mail was not polite at all. It was gauche. The Musketeer had been dashing, however, and romantic. The letter smelled distinctly like a woman. Undoubtedly it was some sort of love letter and theirs was a grand, all consuming passion – something Alexandra would only ever get to experience vicariously since her sale as a glorified breeding heifer for some smarmy courtier was imminent.
She sat on the little bench amongst the many shoes her father insisted that she bring for their stay and unfolded the letter gingerly. The handwriting was flowing and precise, the hand of a woman certainly. The address was informal – the Musketeer and his lady must have known each other for some time. And then she stopped, her eye catching and she simply couldn't dislodge it. To my dearest Olivia. It was a woman's name, then the letter must not have been the Musketeers. Perhaps he had stolen it from a suitor? She keeps reading, hoping for some sort of clue to the shape of this mystery.
Rodrigo has taken me to his seaside estate and the salt air has made him vigorous indeed…Alexandra skimmed down the page, the bulk of the first part of the letter was a rather steamy description of what Rodrigo and the letter writer were getting up to at his seaside estate in southern Italy. She blushed slightly, glad that there was no one around to notice. Then halfway down the page she noticed something which caught her again. But Rodrigo is nothing compared to you, Olivia, and I miss you deeply. At night, I lay awake and think of you and your damn hat. Surely they designed those just to make you more dashing to the young women. Undoubtedly you are covered in more pretty young things then you know what to do with and for that I am eternally jealous. You won't forget me just because there is a fresh crop of smooth flesh, I sincerely hope. If you are very good and write me back promptly to assuage my loneliness, I shall send you a new rapier of Italian steel to help beat them off with. Rodrigo knows the finest swordsmith…
Alexandra sat back, looking up from the letter to focus her clear blue eyes on the hanging gowns across from her. Olivia was certainly a woman's name, but there was no more dashing of a figure then a fully dressed Musketeer. And a rapier for a woman? That was an unsuitable gift, especially if it was meant to keep other women off. She glanced back down at the letter, skimming it to the finish where it was signed: With all of my eternal love and affection, Abigail Carmichael. Next to the signature was a lipstick mark in the shape of lips, as if the letter writer had punctuated it with a kiss. It was a shockingly intimate gesture, especially in a letter from one woman to another.
She folded the letter back up and tapped the creased edge against her palm thoughtfully. Now she would simply have to find the Musketeer and return the letter, if only to get a better look at whatever sordid affair was going on. That was the danger of extremely bright women with nothing but playing dress up to occupy their minds, they got curious about things which they would be better off leaving alone. She stood, tucked the letter into the bodice of her dress and brushed the wrinkles from her skirt.
"Alexandra?" Her father's voice cut in just as she was preparing to step out of the dressing room, still only half in the world. Her mind was churning over and over the information she had just read. There was something gloriously romantic about the idea of hoping around Europe from rich lordling to rich lordling while keeping up some sort of unrequited love affair by letter with a dashing Musketeer. This was something else, though. Either the Musketeer was a woman, or the Musketeer had stolen the letter from a rather unorthodox woman for some purpose.
She didn't even notice as her father took her arm with a gloved hand and began to steer her toward the door. "Alexandra." His voice was sharp this time. "Could you please act like you are not touched in the head?" She glanced up into her father's dark eyes that were hard with annoyance.
"Of course, papa. I'm sorry."
***
Captain Olivier was paler than usual. Elias thought about commenting on it, maybe making a joke, but thought better of it. It wasn't the sort of drained look one got after a hearty twenty minutes in the closet with one of the maids followed by too much drinking – which was how he usually ended up looking like that – it was a sort of sick, nervous pale that indicated that there might be something genuinely wrong with Olivier. The Captain of the Palace Musketeers was wringing his fencing gloves in his hands and clenching and unclenching his jaw. Maybe he was just upset about having to be under the Viscount's command for the duration of the festivities, which had been scheduled to last for the next four days. The ball was only the showcase of a much larger social event, the kind the King was forced to hold rather regularly to maintain the power and glory of his court.
Olivia was sick to her stomach, actually physically, painfully sick to her stomach. She had lost the letter from Abbie, but it was not for sentimental reasons that she had become ill over its disappearance. If anyone found the letter and realized who it belonged to, who it referred to, then her ruse would be up. After a decade of service to the crown as a loyal Musketeer, she would probably be burned as a heretic and a witch. Abbie's letters were the only chink in her perfect disguise. Usually after reading them over and over again, breathing in deeply of her perfume and pretending the woman herself were nearby, she burned them in the little grate in her room. Abbie was not a woman prone to sentimentality, so she would understand why Olivia didn't keep them. But now one of those letters was running around.
The only person that could have seen her with the letter was the attractive blonde woman she didn't recognize and so presumed was one of the many guests of the King that had begun to flood into the palace that morning. Maybe, if she was lucky, she would catch sight of the woman tonight at the dinner and ask her discretely about it. After all, the woman was obviously a lady and ladies didn't read other people's mail. Right?
Elias elbowed her in the side, breaking her concentration, "Captain, I think its time we got out there. Everyone else is in place." She nodded curtly at him and began to pull on her gloves before gesturing for him to follow her.
Down a corridor, around a corner, through a room, and then another corridor, two more turns: a right and a left, a second room and then they were in the grand hallway that lead through the palace to the vaulted dining room. The palace was like a labyrinth and it had taken years for Olivia to grow comfortable enough with its layout to not have to count her turns to arrive at her desired destination.
The hallway was already lined with smartly outfitted Musketeers at ready intervals. They were an impressive bunch with the pressed tunics, floppy hats and fondness for elaborately landscaped facial hair. Indeed, Captain Olivier was the only clean-shaven face in the bunch – a style choice which was highly unfashionable. She made up for her unfashionability by having an uncanny way with the ladies and wicked skill with her rapier.
She walked down the hallway, glancing back and forth to ensure that each Musketeer appeared his best. After her unpleasant meeting with the Viscount, she intended that every single one of her men would appear more martial, more capable and more handsome then any single one of the Viscount's Palace Guard. Everything was living up to her expectations. At the end of the hallway she was met by the Viscount, dressed to impress in an outfit that appeared to be sewn entirely of brocade. It was a little busy to Olivia's mind and it did nothing to hide the unflattering process of aging that he was experiencing.
"The guests will be arriving soon, Captain. It's a pleasant surprise to see that everything is in order," he offered his backhanded compliment in a smug tone of voice.
"We live to serve," she replied through gritted teeth.
"I would like you to keep an eye on everything during the dinner. The King has invited me to sit at his table." Only a social coup like that would ever entice the Viscount to leave the operation of Palace security entirely in her hands. Another double-edged sword cutting as it came and as it went. However, she had already steeled herself for the evening and another prick wouldn't hurt her.
A horn blared from somewhere before she could reply, and the pair were pressed against the wall by the tide of courtiers that flooded down the hallway. She swept the hat off her head and pressed it to her chest as she was jostled. At one point she was bumped into the Viscount, causing her to hiss through her teeth with displeasure. Footmen flung open the door to the grand dining room, allowing golden light to spill out into the hallway and across the torrent of guests that made their way inside.
As uncomfortable as her position was, it did afford Olivia a view of every person that was preparing to dine. Somewhere in the middle of the flood, surrounded by the best dressed retinue she had ever seen and accompanied by a powerfully built man wearing the seal of the duc de Bourgogne, there was the blonde. Maybe the distraction of a letter from Abbie had done it earlier, but Olivia had not noticed how stunningly beautiful the woman was. Her self-possession made her stand out like a candle in the darkness. She was magnetic. Olivia could feel her jaw go slack, but reality hit her hard. That was the Duc Alphonse Cabot holding her arm, and that must mean that the gorgeous, delectable blonde was his daughter, Alexandra Cabot – the most eligible heiress in all of France. And she probably had Olivia's letter.
It would be conduct unbecoming of a Musketeer to blow her own head off with her flintlock pistol, but she considered it for a moment before deciding that there had to be an easier way to retrieve the incriminating document. She would make inquiries as soon as she could move again to find out which maids were seeing to the Duc's quarters. Maids loved her because she kissed them softly, talked to them sweetly and never, ever took advantage of them. It should be a simple enough thing to get one of the maids to discretely search the lady's things and see if an out of place letter might be hanging around. Failing that, Olivia would have to break into the rooms herself. That letter could not be laying around for just anyone to see.
The entire procession took nearly thirty minutes to be seated. Everyone had to be seated in the proper manner in the right place with all the pomp and circumstance that surrounded everything that social superiors did. The long wait allowed Olivia's to linger on the Duc's daughter. Her dress had a rather daring décolletage which exposed a smooth, alabaster expanse of flesh. Her collarbone, the slender column of her throat up to the perfectly chiseled jaw – Olivia's eyes drank it all in. She was talking to her father, the long fingers of one hand resting on his bicep as her lips moved. There was no way for Olivia to hear what she was saying, but the way her lips formed each letter, revealing and concealing straight white teeth, nearly drove Olivia out of her mind. While the other women surrounding her were giggling and batting their eyelashes and their fans, the Duc's daughter was composed, self-possessed. She didn't need to simper because beauty radiated off of her naturally.
And then they were all gone. The sudden silence and emptiness of the hallway felt like a vacuum. The Viscount had disappeared as well, leaving Olivia alone to prepare for the second phase of the evening – retrieving her letter while making sure the Palace didn't burn down and the English didn't invade. She set her hat back on her head and set off toward the guest wing to find a maid.
Her search came up empty, at least for a maid that could get her into the Duc's rooms. She had managed to fondle a rather buxom lass in a dark corner, if only to keep up her reputation as a Musketeer. She found herself standing in the hallway in front of the door to the Duc's daughter's suite fumbling nervously with the door. Pop! She slipped the long, flexible piece of metal back into her tunic and pushed the door open. No one inside, but she knew that already. She had knocked first. She glanced around once again to make sure the hallway was empty and then slipped inside, closing the door softly behind her.
The lamps were on low so that she could just make out the shadows of all of the furniture. Clothing lay strewn about. Half unpacked chests were stacked against one wall. Olivia knew from experience that the daughter's suite would be attached to the Duc's through the dressing room, but it was obvious her father did not supervise the daughter's maids. The general disarray did not seem like the sort of thing that a man of Duc Alphonse's reputation would accept.
The entire process of searching took longer than she expected and by the time she was done she was nearly jumping out of her skin at every noise. She had tried, and failed, to come up with a good excuse for why she was rummaging through the Duc of Burgundy's rooms, in case she was caught. Nothing in the drawers of the vanity. Nothing tucked in any of the shoes or under any of the folded dresses. Nothing under the pillows or the corner of the mattress. A strange sense of déjà vu swept over Olivia at some point, but she chalked it up to the unorthodox situation.
If Alexandra Cabot had the incriminating letter, it was not in her rooms. It could be on her person somewhere. Without meaning to, the idea of searching the Duc's daughter as thoroughly as she had her rooms distracted her, but the sound of approaching footsteps snapped her back from her pleasant reverie. Someone was coming and Olivia was in the middle of a place she had no business being. Her reflexes were honed to a razor edge and without hesitation she ducked into the dressing room. There were not many more places to hide in there, but with any luck no one would even come in.
The door to the hallway opened slowly just as Olivia pushed her way into the hanging dresses, forcing herself back into the corner and pulling the fabric around her. If nobody looked closely, her boots should be nearly invisible. She held her breath to hear what was going on in the next room better. There was the quite sound of two pairs of footsteps.
"Really, Marie, if you will just help me get ready for bed that will be enough. I'm feeling just a little off, but I'm not going to die." The elegant diction, the melodious tone – surely the voice belonged to Alexandra Cabot. It fit her perfectly, and like her physical presence, it affected Olivia profoundly and physically. There was a pause and Olivia did her best not to imagine what exactly was involved in getting the blonde ready for bed. "Really, my father is overreacting. Can you hand me the brush?" The voice of her companion was too quiet for Olivia to catch. "The travel has worn me out and that dinner was far too rich. Lady Gaudet is really a boor too. I do not want to know what her husband had to do to get them a seat next to us."
Olivia shifted her weight from foot to foot nervously. The two women chattered softly for another ten minutes or so and then the door opened and closed again. The maid leaving, Olivia figured, much to her relief. That still let her trapped here by the presence of the lady in the other room, though. She didn't have long to think about it, because immediately after the outer door closed, the door to the dressing room opened.
Alexandra was dressed in a diaphanous white gown that reached her knees, carrying a candle in one hand. Her hair had been brushed out, falling around her nearly bare shoulders and her face had been washed clean of make-up. Her presence was shockingly intimate and even sensual, despite the fact she couldn't possibly know Olivia was there. The evening had gone from bad to worse for the Musketeer. The blonde closed the dressing room door behind her, then set the candle on the little bench amongst her shoes before sitting next to it. Her nightgown rode up, exposing her lower thigh. Olivia did her best to breath shallowly through her nose as silently as possible.
The blonde produced from somewhere that Olivia couldn't see, a folded piece of parchment. Not just any folded piece of parchment, the very letter that the Musketeer had been skulking around like a bandit looking for. Her elegant fingers were caressing the paper, opening it…
"That's mine!" Olivia acted entirely on instinct, from the reptilian part of her brain, the part that wasn't in charge of keeping track of things like how she wasn't supposed to be here, and she shouldn't frighten attractive women. Alex's eyes grew wide at the sudden noise in the quiet room. The force of her surprise sent her backward into the pile of shoes.