She walked toward it, and noticed the damp basement had the usual loamy, earthy smell, but there was something else—a vinegary, sour smell—and right underneath, a smoky acridity. She stopped to wonder about it, when she heard a noise in the tunnels.
There was someone else down here.
She heard the footsteps come closer and then run away in the other direction, back to the party, ba
ck to the gardens.
Who was it? Who else knew about these passageways?
She had to go—the ward would be down for only a little while longer, and Gill was waiting. So was her new life, her new name, her new reality. Good-bye to the princess, good-bye to the palace.…
Good-bye…
Good-bye…
Marie ran as fast as she could through the rest of the tunnels that would lead to the iron bars of the last gate.
Why was she seeing double? Everywhere she looked was so fuzzy, and her head hurt. She thought she might be laughing too loudly, but what Lord Stanley was saying really was so funny. Hysterical. “I think you’ve had enough, Isabelle,” Louis said firmly, taking away the glass of champagne in her hand. “Let’s get you home.”
“Give that back!” she screeched, reaching for the flute helplessly and dissolving into more giggles. “Don’t be a killjoy.”
“Aw, come on, let her have it,” William Stanley said with a sneer.
“Yeah, I heard she’s more fun with a few in her,” said Edward Finch-Hatton with a bit of a knowing air.
“You’d know, wouldn’t you, Beziers?” William Stanley said.
“Excuse me?” Louis said, holding her up by her shoulder. “What did you say?”
“Saw you leave with her last night, when she was plastered. Don’t tell me you didn’t get lucky.”
“Lucky? With Leo’s sloppy seconds?” Finch-Hatton scoffed. “That’s like shooting fish in a barrel. She’s a done deal. A sure thing.”
“Ignore them, Louis—come on, let’s leave, just let it go,” Isabelle said, coming to her senses when she understood what they were saying about her: that she was fish in a barrel. She did feel very floppy and out of water just then. She just needed to get away from this awful party, this awful city. Away from these horrid boys.
But Louis-Philippe would not let it go. He turned to the rowdy lads. “I don’t think I quite understand you. What are you saying about my cousin?”
“C’mon, everyone knows she’s been giving it up all winter to Leopold—that he had her brought here so that he could…well, you know. She’s sloppy seconds and soiled goods, right? But you’re a good man, you don’t care. All we’re saying is, maybe you could share.”
Isabelle couldn’t look at him; she knew the look of horror on his face too well. It was the same face he’d made when the healers told them their parents had succumbed to their illness, leaving them both orphans. He pulled her to one side. “Isabelle, is this true? Did Leopold…did he take liberties with you?” Louis asked, his voice hoarse and angry.
She nodded, ashamed. “Yes,” she whispered. “Because I was to be his wife anyway. Because we were engaged.”
“When did it start? In February? When he came to Orleans?” Louis asked, his face slowly draining of color. “Was it then?”
She hung her head and nodded.
“And after the engagement was dissolved?” Louis whispered. “Did you continue to—did you—did he—”
She looked at him beseechingly, and he knew the answer.
Louis-Philippe put down his drink and removed his jacket. She had never seen him look so angry in her life. “Leopold!” Louis called, his voice ringing through the party. “Leopold, come here!”
The prince, who had been marveling at a dancing bear in a tutu that was pirouetting for its trainer, looked up with a bemused expression. “Excuse me?”
“Leopold. A word, please.” Louis kept calm, though his fists were clenched in rage.
“Yes?”