The Passion of the Purple Plumeria Read Online Free PDF Page A

suspected that the terms of Talleyrand’s bargains shifted with his needs. For all his courtly aspect, the man was as slippery as an eel.
    “Certainly,” said Talleyrand smoothly. “You know I would never ask that of you.”
    Gwen stifled a snort. Talleyrand would ask what he pleased, and they all knew it.
    Talleyrand sniffed delicately at a pinch of snuff, coughing neatly into a lace-edged handkerchief of the very finest lawn. “What does the Sultan desire, if not your own fair form?”
    Fiorila twisted her hands together. Her face was still youthful, but her hands were beginning to show the signs of age. “He had a more specific token in mind.”
    “Which was?” Beneath the charm, Talleyrand was all business.
    The singer looked him in the eye. “The Moon of Berar.”
    For once, Talleyrand, Talleyrand the unflappable, was genuinely unsettled. “Good God,” he said. “Would the Sultan rather have feathers from the tail of the phoenix, or a ruby made of the final drop of dragon’s blood? They would be as easily obtained. The Moon is a myth.”
    “I sang of it in an opera once,” said Fiorila. “Not a very good opera, but the story did catch the imagination. A jewel that makes the wearer impervious to harm, bright enough to blind the most determined assassin, a shield for the body and a mirror for the soul.”
    “Stuff and legends,” said Talleyrand. “Not that one might not try to manufacture one . . .”
    “But the effects would hardly be what the recipient would expect,” said Fiorila practically. She began to turn up the fabric of her hood. “I have brought you what you required. My part is done. If you would . . .”
    Talleyrand moved to block her egress, surprisingly quickly. But then, he had been limping his way in and out of bedchambers for years, thought Gwen cynically.
    His voice was gently sorrowing. “Is this the way you requite my generosity, my dear? Feeding me fairy stories? If you think so little of our arrangement—”
    “No!” There was no mistaking the alarm in Fiorila’s voice. “I swear, I have relayed it to you as he did to me. The Sultan believes it to be real. He claims it was in the royal treasury of Berar.”
    “The Rajah of Berar kept a legendary treasure with the ordinary run of pearls and rubies.” Bonaparte’s foreign minister was politely skeptical.
    “According to the Sultan, there was nothing ordinary about any of the treasure of Berar.” Fiorila held out both hands in supplication. “If you bring him the Moon of Berar, he will break with England. But only for that.”
    “And how are we to set our hands on it?” There was no mistaking the implication of that “we.” Whatever hold he had on the singer, he wasn’t prepared to relinquish it.
    Fiorila’s voice was quiet. “He claims you have it already. He says it fell into the hands of one of your agents at the sack of Berar.”
    “One of mine . . .” The tone of Talleyrand’s voice changed.
    He knew who it was. Gwen would be willing to wager her favorite parasol on it. She leaned forward to hear better, but she misjudged. The shutters, inexpertly attached at best, rattled against the frame.
    “What was that?” demanded Talleyrand.
    Gwen didn’t wait for him to find out.
    She swung lightly off the edge of the balcony, landing with knee-jarring force in the alleyway below. Something squished under her feet, almost sending her skidding, but she had landed squarely; she had the sense to catch her balance before feinting sideways, around the back of the building.
    Talleyrand must have set guards to watch the inn. She could hear their heavy feet, their loud voices. So clumsy! She ducked neatly into a cul-de-sac, pressed against the slimed stones of the wall, waiting as the sound of pursuit pounded past. Her blood raced in her veins, filling her with a high, pure exhilaration. She never felt more alive than when evading pursuit. The dash of danger only made it more interesting.
    Botheration. One of