Serenely, Queen Clarisse acknowledged the curtsies and bows given as she and King Rupert entered the reception hall and proceeded directly to greet their hosts, the President of France, and his wife. The gathering of Europe's wealthiest and titled citizens to celebrate the re-opening of the National Opera House was a stellar social event, one of the largest she had attended since King Wilhelm's death seven years prior, and Rupert's assuming the throne.
The two couples exchanged pleasantries; she speaking in flawless French, Rupert relying on her to make sure the President and Madam understood his own halting attemptsto convey his good wishes and compliments.
"Thank you, my dear," he said with a sigh as they moved away, into the crowd. "I suppose I should have paid more attention to my tutor. I shall repay the favor next month at the Gala in Berlin."
"My grandmother was French and she insisted on our conversing in it exclusively," Clarisse reminded him. "It was learn it, or else. And, thank you- I was terrible at German!"
Rupert covered a laugh and the thought of his wife not excelling at anything she put her mind to. Grandmother or no, Clarisse Gerard would have learned what every young woman of good breeding was expected in order to be a perfect wife and mother. Without a doubt, she was an excellent mother. As to her being a wife, she was wonderful, but the situation was a bit more complex.
As she spoke with an elderly woman, someone who apparently had known her grandmother, he watched her. Clarisse was, as he knew she would be, a superb queen. She was gracious and composed, no matter the setting. Seeing her so cool and always in control of her emotions, he could not help but wonder what happened to the little girl who challenged him to a horse race…and won.
It was a pity that he and Clarisse had not fallen in love. He cared for her beyond telling and very much wanted her to be happy. Although they shared an unbounded admiration and respect for each other, but it was not passionate love. Most of his waking day entailed dealing with matters pertaining to Genovian concerns leaving little time for private moments together. He missed that for she was very pleasant company. Yet, even so, they would not have come to love each other; the spark of love just was not there.
It was only natural, he told himself, that they would grow apart as the years went by. She had her growing interest in Genovian trade and relations with other countries, along with her ongoing involvement in various committees and charities at home. In addition, there was their son to prepare for the throne.
At fourteen, Philippe showed little interest in the crown. However, Rupert knew the boy would come around. Other than Philippe, there was no other Renaldi to take the throne; it would pass to another, less desirable, in Rupert's opinion, side of the family tree. Philippe was a Renaldi, however, and would do his duty. One day, his son would be a fine king.
Rupert wanted more children, but after nearly losing Clarisse during the miscarriage six years ago, he was thankful she was alive and in good health. After the loss of the baby, he did not press her to have another child and intimate relations between them were, even now, infrequent. What was more, he could tell that Clarisse, while not turning him away the few times he came to her, had not embraced his advances and seemed withdrawn.
He frowned; he did not want to burden Clarisse with his physical needs. Even so, it bothered him that it was another area where they were no longer close. She had not expressed concern over their lack of intimacy and seemed satisfied with their arrangement, so he had to assume she must truly be content as things were.
Although he posed the question of marriage to her, theirs was, in truth, an arranged marriage. Never, in any way, had she shown regret for the decision. Clarisse had given him a son and the country an heir to the throne, fulfilling her primary obligation. He could ask no more of her, he decided. and would not make it an issue between them. He would deal with his needs in another manner.
The signal given, she took his arm as they followed their escort to the President's Box. Clarisse was beautiful and indecision tugged at Rupert as they took their seats. But, no. He would not impose his attentions on her again…unless she made the request. The house lights fell and darkness surrounded them.
Later that evening, as she was preparing for bed, Clarisse 's thoughts returned to the evening. Rupert seemed…distant. He was, as always, unfailingly polite, but it was as if his thoughts were elsewhere. Perhaps it was a matter of Genovian politics or international concerns, but she was not certain. Recalling the reception after the opera, the image of him standing close to a woman, deep inconversation came to mind. The woman had smiled; Rupert checked his watch and nodded. Clarisse's hand stilled, clutching her emerald earrings. Could her husband be planning to…?
"My dear, you looked lovely tonight," Rupert said, coming into her room. He stood behind her, one hand resting lightly on her shoulder. He was still dressed in his evening clothes.
"Are you going out again?" she asked, placing the jewelry in its case.
"Er… ah, yes, I am," he replied uncomfortably, then quickly added, "Do not be concerned…just a meeting."
Expression unchanged, Clarisse picked up her brush. There was an awkward silence.
"Sleep well, my dear." Rupert leaned down to kiss her cheek. She composed her features into a smile.
"Thank you. I will," she said, brushing her hair, as Rupert turned to leave. At the door, he stopped.
"Clarisse…may I take you to Tiffany's tomorrow? Perhaps you could find a necklace or bracelet that strikes your fancy?"
"Thank you, Rupert, but I already have plans for tomorrow."
"Ah, I see," he replied. "Good night, then, my dear."
"Good night." Clarisse put away the brush. Perhaps it would only be this once, she told herself.
"It is wonderful to see you again, Clarisse," the Duchess of Thornfield said softly, as they walked along the museum's hall, following several steps behind the other wives of heads of states. Ahead, the First Lady of France chatted amiably with the other women in the private tour of the Paris Museum of Art.
"I've missed our visiting one another, Bettina," Clarisse replied. Bettina Addington was a treasured friend from childhood, whose marriage to Morely Addington, the Duke of Thornfield, was also an arranged one. Clarisse knew Bettina's was not as comfortable a match as was hers with Rupert. "How are things with you?"
The duchess looked away, embarrassed. "Not…well. I've brought the girls to Paris for an extended stay."
"I'm sorry there's difficulty. Is there anything I can do?"
Bettina shook her head. "No, but thank you. It is the usual problems. You are fortunate in that you and Rupert were friends before you wed."
Clarisse hooked her arm through Bettina's.
"Simply being acquainted, or even friends, does not mean there won't be…problems," Clarisse answered slowly, thinking of the night before. Unable to sleep, she laid awake and heard Rupert return to his adjoining room several hours later. "Fondness is not the same as love."
"You are right, of course." Bettina saw the flicker of unease in Clarisse's eyes, the touch of sadness in her voice. They walked on, not speaking until they came to where the group waited before a set of double doors.
Bettina stopped, looking at her friend intently. "Clarisse, my dear, do not let your heart grow cold to love…no matter what happens, you must guard against that. One day, you may find love- true love."
Clarisse smiled at the duchess, squeezing her friend's arm in thanks for her understanding. The advice, though well meant, did Clarisse little good. Should that day come when love stepped into her life, it would not matter- she was not free to accept it.
Their hostess led them into the room beyond the open double doors. A murmur of delight ran through the group; tea awaited them among rarely seen Renoirs, Correggios, and Raphaels.
As she turned to enter, someone at the edge of Clarisse's vision caught her eye for a mere second or two- a man, handsome, and self-assured in his movements, ascending the gallery steps with a woman. The queen of Castilla called her name a second time and Clarisse quickly looked away, to answer.
"What do you think, Major?" Inspector Chesterson asked, around the stub of his unlit cigar.
Joseph Coraza stood with hands on his hips, his face impassive as his gaze swept over the fourteen boxes of assorted guns, ammunition, grenades, and other weapons that appeared to be a terrorist's shopping spree. He shook his head. "Not it."
"Not it! What the devil do you mean?" The British intelligence agent demanded, nearly biting the cigar in half. "The same crating, same timing, same material- everything's just as our source said it would be!"
Coraza reached a black-leather gloved hand into the container and pulled out a weapon. "Look at it," he answered curtly, tossing it to the inspector. The French detectives assigned to assist them watched uncomfortably. "It's a cheap imitation."
Chesterson checked the gun carefully, turning it from end to end. "Maybe a double cross...they'll run with the money?"
Coraza took a deep breath. "No, a decoy."
They had followed leads for two weeks, trying to intercept an arms shipment that was headed to England. Along with growing discontent across the continent came a rise in terrorist organization and activity. As a liason to British Intelligence, Coraza lent his knowledge, expertise… and opinions.
"They are on to us," he added.
"Bloody hell!" Chesterson threw the gun into the box and turned away, dismayed.
The French agent, Bernard stepped forward andspoke, hesitantly. "Major, are you certain? Perhaps the guns are simply poor quality and-"
"Monsieur, if you would kindly have your men empty the crate?" Coraza interrupted, in very acceptable, if not fluent, French.
"Of course," the agent quickly replied. He gestured to his men and in less than five minutes, the contents were spread on the concrete floor.
"Wood," Chesterson said in disgust, kicking at a fake grenade.
Coraza knelt down and inspected two authentic weapons found on the top layer of the box- a grenade and a handgun, and then finally stood. He handed grenades to Chesterson and Bernard, and held the gun out for them to see. "Notice anything about these?"
The men looked puzzled for a moment, then, understanding, Bernard answered excitedly, "Nobody uses this style pin or firing cap except-"
"Exactly." Coraza smiled. "I believe, gentlemen, we've identified the source."
"I will alert our authorities and Interpol to request all cargo from northern Spain be scrutinized when it arrives across the borders or in our ports. It should not be difficult to trace this back…now that we know where to look."
Coraza offered a small bow. "Monsieur, we are grateful for your most excellent and generous assistance."
Pleased, Bernard rapidly gave orders to his men, overseeing the impounding of the evidence. France had its own share of disgruntled citizens and he was relieved to seal off any source of weapons that might enter. He liked working with the British officer who was not actually British; Coraza let others get the credit for work well done, but did not shirk from taking the blame when a plan did not go as expected.
"Thought we had them," the Inspector Chesterson lamented, as they moved toward the warehouse door, out of Bernard's men's way.
"We will, shortly," Coraza answered. "You want to stay, or shall I?"
"Do you, by chance, have any plans, Major?" Chesterson asked, withdrawing a matchbox from his pocket.
Coraza shrugged. He was late in meeting Micha Tokrov, but knew she would wait. "Since you asked, yes."
The inspector grinned. "Pretty?"
It was Coraza's turn to grin. "Very."
"Ah, well! I'm beyond assignations with beautiful women, these days," Chesterson said, shaking his head. He quickly added, "Besides, my dear wife would kill me. You go."
"Are you certain?"
"Go! One of us, at least, should enjoy being here in Paree." A flame flared as Chesterson struck a match. He sucked on the cigar stub, puffing to get it lit. "This won't take long. You have a good evening with your lady. Oh, by the way, please accept my congratulations on your upcoming promotion to lieutenant colonel. Well, deserved, I must say!"
Coraza nodded his thanks and, with a wave, left.
An hour and fifteen minutes later, he was arm in arm with Micha, entering the Paris Museum of Art. They had met six years earlier at a military ball in London she attended with a cousin from the British side of her family. Her cousin was a lieutenant of Coraza's acquaintance and introduced them , shortly after Coraza's return from duty with the United Nations.
They were off and on lovers, seeing each other when their travels brought them together, which was recently, not often, . She worked as a model for an exclusive line of women's clothing, visiting the firm's salons throughout Europe. The designer catered not to the fashion world, but to an elite clientele who could afford his services. Her face was not seen on magazine covers across the continent as were others, but she was every bit as beautiful…and well paid.
"Darling, I hate to drag you to a stuffy museum on such a lovely afternoon, but I promised Ronnie I would take a look at his exhibit. Heaven only knows what he's come up with this time."
"Micha, simply standing in the rain with you would be a delight."
She laughed quietly. "Joseph, you are a dear! Oh, look! I do believe that's Ronnie's monstrosity on the far wall."
He followed her gaze to a huge work in acrylic. "It's…it's…"
"Isn't it, though!" she answered, with a laugh.
They stared at the black canvas with its two white dots in opposite corners.
"I shall have to lie and tell him it's brilliant," she said solemnly. "I might very well be struck by lightening for such a tale."
"I don't know… perhaps it represents man's quest to find his soul in the vastness of humanity," he said sagely.
She looked at him out of the corner of her eyes and lifted a perfect brow.
"Then again, maybe not," he said with finality.
She tugged on his arm. "I hate to tell you this, but there's more."
They stopped in front of another oversized canvas, this one filled with bloated, misshapen figures in swirls dull greens, grays, and oranges.
"Glad we haven't eaten yet," was all he could think to say.
The next three were even worse, so, deciding they'd seen enough, they went to view works more soothing, such as the Impressionists.
Mounting the stairs, he looked to his left and noticed a dozen or so people, two of whom were obviously bodyguards, entering a room cordoned off from the public by thick coils of velvet roping. It was mostly likely a party of visiting royals and dignitaries, he decided, recalling the news item he'd read about the opera house.
Then, just as the doors were closing, he glimpsed a woman who stood out from the other finely dressed members of the group. She was elegant, young… lovely. The doors closed, and the vision was gone.
"Joseph," Micha said, slowing her steps as they later strolled along the Seine, among the other couples out to enjoy the evening. "There's something I want to tell you."
He stopped, concerned. She sounded unlike her self- serious. "What is it?"
A smile played at the corner of her lips. "I met someone last July at a dinner party…I love him."
Coraza could say nothing.
"He and I are getting married in two months." Micha explained, watching him.
"Congratulations," he said, forcing a smile. "Who's the lucky man?" Even though he did not think he loved Micha, he found her marrying-his losing her- disquieting.
"A diplomat assigned here, in Paris- Count DuMer."
"I see."
She took his arm and they continued along the path, unhurried. "A surprise, is it not?"
He drew a deep breath. "To be honest-"
"-and you always are, darling-"
"- yes, it is rather unexpected. This seems a bit sudden- are you sure, Micha?"
She smiled knowingly. "Yes, I'm sure."
"You barely know him. How can you be certain?"
Micha lifted a shoulder a fraction. "My heart knows."
Coraza shook his head. "I don't see how."
"Darling, it is called love."
He was quiet, looking out across the river, to the city spreading beyond. What did he know of love? He knew of it in others, his friends Marcus and Maria. During his last visit with them, he'd felt envious of the closeness they shared in their marriages, joy that filled their homes.
He saw love from the outside, looking in; he did not know it in his life- he never had.
"Perhaps that is why. I've never been in love."
"You will be, one day," Micha quickly assured him.
Again, he shook his head, staring at the pavement. "I don't know if I would even… recognize it."
"You will," she repeated, confidently.
She saw a look of doubt cross his face and she stopped, placing her hand on his cheek, turning him to face her. "Joseph, please don't close your heart to the possibility of love. You have far too much to share, darling. One day you will meet her, your special one, and you'll know…you'll know without a doubt."
He quickly kissed her palm then took her hand in his, wanting to beleive her. "Perhaps so."
Micha touched his chest, letting her hand rest there. "I'm sure of it."
Joseph smiled, pushing away the empty feeling growing in his heart.
"Come on. Let's get a coffee and you can tell me all about your Count."
A/N: Thank you all for your reviews! They keep me writing.
Please take a moment to tell me what you think and offer suggestions...if I need togive more descriptions, make the characters more real, etc. I truly desire to improve.
Thanks!
I hope each of you will have a wonderful and blessed holiday! Merry Christmas!