Read Chapter 26: The Clash of Loyalties

The servant passage spat her out behind a gilded tapestry in the antechamber of the Hall of Mirrors. Élise pressed her palm flat against the cold stone, breathing through her nose, listening. Beyond the velvet, she heard the low murmur of hundreds—the assembled nobility, the parliamentarians, the press. And above them all, the Duke’s voice, rich with false grief.

“—and so it is with a heavy heart that I must inform you all. His Majesty, my beloved brother, is no longer fit to hold the scepter of France.”

A ripple of gasps. Then silence, heavy as lead.

Élise slipped through the tapestry’s edge. The Hall of Mirrors blazed with candlelight, the long gallery packed shoulder to shoulder. At the far end, upon the dais beneath the throne, stood the Duke of Orléans, resplendent in ducal blue, a paper in his hand. Beside him, the Grand Chamberlain nodded stiffly, his face a mask of deference.

“The physicians have confirmed it,” the Duke continued, raising the paper. “A degenerative malady of the mind. Louis XVI cannot rule. He cannot even speak for himself.”

“Liar.”

The word cracked through the hall like a whip. Every head turned. Élise felt her heart seize as she followed the sound.

Louis stood in the doorway at the opposite end of the gallery, flanked by young Aubin, who held a service revolver aimed at the ceiling. The King’s clothes were stained with tunnel dust, his hair wild, but his eyes—his eyes were clear and blazing.

“You,” Louis said, walking forward, the crowd parting before him like water before a prow, “are no physician. And you are no brother to me.”

The Duke’s composure flickered. Only for an instant. Then his smile returned, thin as a blade. “Louis. How touching. The madman escaped his keepers to stage a scene.”

“I am not mad.” Louis reached the center of the hall. “But you are treacherous. You conspired with mercenaries to have me killed, and when that failed, you conspired with the Consortium to steal my throne.”

“This is outburst of a diseased mind—” the Duke began.

“I have the physician’s report,” Louis cut him off, louder. “The one you commissioned. The one that says I am perfectly sane. You paid him to write a second, false one—for the parliament, for the press, for anyone who would believe you.”

The murmur became a roar. Journalists scribbled furiously. A deputy from the Assembly rose from his seat, face pale.

The Duke’s eyes darted left, right. He gestured with two fingers—a signal Élise knew from the ledger’s codebook.

From the side galleries, men in plain clothes began to move. Not courtiers. Mercenaries. Twelve of them, hands sliding under jackets.

“Captain Moreau!” Louis called out, without turning. “Now would be an excellent time.”

Élise stepped out from the tapestry, the microdot reader held high in one hand, the cipher key glinting in the other. “Gentlemen of France,” she said, her voice carrying the flat authority of the security service, “I carry the complete financial ledger of the Duke’s Consortium. Three hundred and forty-two names. Payments to every prefect and police chief who sold his loyalty. Payments to the men who fired on the carriage of the heir to the throne.”

The Duke’s face went white. “Seize her!”

His mercenaries surged forward. But so did the royal guard.

From the gateway behind Louis, a flood of scarlet-coated soldiers poured into the hall, led by a captain Élise did not recognize—one of the King’s own household regiment, the men the Duke had believed bought and paid for. They met the mercenaries in the center of the hall with a crash of steel and shouting.

A pistol shot rang out. A chandelier shattered above them, raining glass over the crowd. The Duchess of Berry screamed. Deputies scrambled for cover behind the gilt chairs.

In the chaos, Élise shoved forward against the tide of panicked courtiers. The Duke was retreating toward the dais, dragging the Grand Chamberlain with him, shouting for his men to form a line.

She reached the edge of the dais just as one of the mercenaries broke through the guard line. He lunged at her. She saw the knife flash in the candlelight, and she was already moving—a step inside his reach, her left hand catching his wrist, her right slamming the cold weight of the cipher key into his throat. He fell without a sound.

The Duke was at the throne now, his hand on its arm, as if he might claim it by touch alone. His eyes met hers.

“You,” he said, quiet, almost amused. “You have caused me no end of inconvenience, Captain. But you will not stop me. I have the votes. I have the money. I have—”

“You have nothing.” Élise reached him, snatched the false physician’s report from his hand, and tore it down the middle. “Your signature is on the land sale that financed the attack. Your correspondence authorizing the death of your nephew is in this ledger. The world is watching, Your Grace. And the world can read.”

The Duke’s jaw tightened. He glanced past her, at the chaos—his mercenaries were being driven back against the walls, outnumbered by the King’s loyal guard. The press was still scribbling. The parliamentarians had stopped running and begun to watch, faces changing from fear to calculation.

“This isn’t over,” he said.

“No,” she agreed. “It’s just beginning.”

A hand closed on her shoulder. She spun, ready to strike, and found Louis there, eyes bright with something that might have been triumph or terror.

“Captain,” he said, breathless. “I believe you have something that belongs to France.”

She held up the microdot reader. “I believe I do.”

From the far end of the hall, the Grand Chamberlain—who had slipped away during the fray—suddenly shouted, his voice cracking with alarm. “The King! Where is the King?”

The room went still.