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Adrien out no matter what he did with Catherine. More important, Philbert had the ear of Louis’s most pious wife, Madame de Maintenon. He’d run straight to her and lament—as he had in the past when someone fell out of favor with him. Louis was absolute ruler on matters of state, but when it came to religious observation and devotion, he looked to Madame de Maintenon, his second wife. She’d greatly influenced a vice-ridden King and his court, curbing their ways.
    Madame de Maintenon didn’t think much of hedonists like Adrien.
    She’d been cordial to Adrien. Respectful of him the entire time he’d spent at Versailles, keeping her opinion of him to herself. But a dalliance with the future wife of someone she considered a dear friend would loosen the woman’s tongue. It would likely convince her that Adrien was corrupt by nature, and therefore unredeemable. And she’d express to the King her vehement displeasure at having Adrien permanently at Versailles.
    Madame de Maintenon and Philbert de Baillet were about to aid in his cause and become Adrien’s unwittingly allies. As would the lovely Catherine.
    He felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth, pleased for the first time since this conversation began.
    Charles’s brow furrowed. “Why are you smiling?”
    “Why, Uncle, you just made Catherine de Villecourt even more appealing.”

3

    “Odette, we’re leaving!” Catherine announced the moment she located her maid in her rooms, her insides still quivering.
    Odette was holding two of Catherine’s gowns, one over each arm. Her brown eyes widened. “But, madame, you’ve only just arrived. I was unpacking—” Catherine’s belongings were spread across the bed.
    “Gather everything. We must leave right now.” She’d leave the country. Where could she go? She had virtually no money. Perhaps Suzanne could advance her some funds. Dear God, he knows your name . . . Her hands shaky, she snatched up one of her gowns off the mattress and tossed it back in her trunk, then turned and grabbed another and tossed it in, too.
    Perplexed, the older woman watched her haphazard packing. “What has happened? What is amiss?”
    Catherine pulled the gowns from Odette’s arms and tossed them into the trunk as well. “I’ll tell you what is amiss. The gentleman whose wine you spiked five years ago is here .”
    Odette’s mouth fell agape. She clamped it shut and swallowed. “He—He is?”
    “Yes, and that’s not all. He isn’t from Vienna. He’s French.”
    Ashen, Odette sank into a nearby chair, looking suddenly older than her forty-nine years. “He—He is?”
    “He is! And will you stop repeating that.”
    “Has he . . . seen you?”
    “Oh, yes. He has seen me. And recognized me as being the woman who tainted his wine then gave herself to him.”
    Odette blinked. “Pour l’amour de Dieu . . .”
    “Oh, and it gets better,” Catherine continued. “Would you like to know who his father is?”
    Odette wound her apron around her finger. “Well . . . to be quite honest, madame . . . not really .”
    Catherine crossed her arms. “I shall tell you anyway.”
    “I feared as much,” she mumbled to her lap.
    “His father is well-known. A rather important man. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? The. King .”
    Nervous, Odette smoothed her hand over her hair and mustered the semblance of a smile. “Oh? And which King might that be? Some small nation somewhere far—”
    “Of France.”
    “Oh. That King.”
    Catherine threw up her hands. “Odette, you told me he was from Vienna.”
    Odette rose. “It’s what I heard,” she defended, then stopped and thought for a moment. “Or was it Venice? No. No. No. It was Vienna. I’m certain.” She scratched her head. “Well, someone at that masquerade was from Vienna.”
    Catherine placed her hands on her maid’s shoulders. “Odette, please focus. The man we tricked that night was the Marquis de Beaulain. He’s the King’s son. And he’s demanding answers.