Page 131 of The Boxing Baroness

Rather than be offended, he grinned. “I did give it some thought, but I knew your uncle—er, Barnabas—would have made a stink about such a theft. And I was in no position to deal with Barney’s wrath on the issue . . . at the time.” He shrugged. “But no matter, the idea had been planted, and eight months ago I was finally able to do something about it, so I paid the crown princess a visit. It was not difficult to find her . . . Even though she is supposedly living incognita, everyone knows of her.”

“Why in the world would she agree to see you?” Marianne asked.

He took a sip of wine, unruffled by her scathing tone. “The reason she agreed to see me is because I mentioned having seen two rather fascinating miniatures in a lovely locket.”

“Two,” she repeated, rising from her chair. “You did steal from Barnabas. You thieving—”

The king lifted a pistol from beneath the table and aimed it in her direction, his shaking hand revealing that he wasn’t entirely comfortable handling a firearm.

Dominic carefully reached over and laid his hand over the king’s. The two men stared at each other for a long moment before Gustav scowled and released the pistol.

Dominic set it down beside his wineglass and turned to Marianne. “Please sit.”

Sin’s hand landed on her arm. “Marianne,” he murmured softly.

“Yes, do listen to him, dear,” Dominic advised.

Marianne sat. “You stole that other miniature.”

“I did not,” he said, his expression one of wounded virtue. “No, my dear, that miniature was in Barney’s possession until only a few nights ago—when I took his precious satchel from him.”

Still grinning like a maniac, he reached inside his coat and took out a small fabric-wrapped package. “Would you like to see it, Marianne?”

Marianne’s temples pounded as he slid the miniature across the table. She picked it up, stared at it, and gave a sharp bark of laughter. “You are mad!”

“No, my dear, I’m afraid it’s true.”

“May I?” Sin asked.

She handed him the miniature without speaking.

“Good God.” His head whipped up. “What sort of idiocy—”

Dominic raised a hand. “If you listen, I will tell you a story.”

He paused long enough for Marianne to jerk out a nod.

“Not quite a year after Bonaparte married Joséphine, he was on campaign when he received a letter informing him of his beloved wife’s infidelity with a French officer. He crossed hundreds and hundreds of miles like a madman to return to Paris. His confrontation with Joséphine was . . . explosive. Never again would he worship the wife to whom he’d once penned pages and pages of love letters. While he was in Paris, he went to see a woman he’d once loved—a woman he’d treated shabbily. He had been engaged to Désirée but had done the unthinkable and broken off the engagement. In spite of that, the two remained close friends, and, on that occasion—became lovers. Both Désirée and Bonaparte were married to other people, of course. Nine months later Désirée found herself in a rather delicate position. You see, she had not seen her own husband for almost a year, as he was also on campaign, and so she had a difficult decision to make. That was you—my dear Marianne, you were the decision.”

She looked down at the miniature again, as if it would tell her something. The man in the portrait had an infamous face—she’d seen countless renderings in newspapers, but never an actual painting. Yes, his nose, perhaps his jaw, and most especially his mouth, resembled her own, but many people looked like somebody else. It happened all the time.

She looked up. “It could be a coincidence.”

“Perhaps. But the letter, that is no coinci—”

“Barnabas told me about the letter from Sandrine—”

“No, my dear—not that letter,” Dominic said. “The one from your real mother.”

Her chest hurt, as if she’d been punched. “My mother? But—I don’t—” She broke off and glared at Dominic. “Even if this is true—what does it mean to you?” She turned to the king. “Or to you? Do you really believe you’ll be able to blackmail money out of a royal?”

“Think about it for a moment, you fool!” Gustav snapped. “If the Crown Princess of Sweden gave birth to Bonaparte’s child while married to the crown prince—how eager do you think my people will be to go through with a coronation? Who is to say that their son—their only child as far as my country knows—isn’t Bonaparte’s, as well? Already there is unhappiness about Désirée and the fact that she refuses to live in the country that has chosen to take her as its queen. But to take Napoleon’s whore as its queen?” He gave an ugly laugh. “Impossible!”

“You really believe that my existence will be enough to force the crown prince to step aside?” It was her turn to laugh. “Who is the fool?”

Gustav shouted something in his own language. Marianne suspected it was less than flattering.

“We shall use you however we see fit!” the king snapped, his hand curving around his table knife so tightly his knuckles were white. “You can either come along quietly—and politely—or we can tie you up and put you in a crate.”