Page 6 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)
Thomas
W e’d just cleared a large parlor overflowing with starch and silk and were making our way into the reception salon when the scent hit me—white jasmine and myrrh, a memory I wasn’t ready to recall.
I caught the scent a heartbeat before I saw her.
That was always her way: She arrived like a rumor, then lingered like a legend.
A regal lady swept into our path with the flair of a Parisian opera diva and the wardrobe of an empress. Deep amethyst silk clung to her curves like liquid, and her jewels caught every ounce of light in the room and turned it into scandal.
And her smile—damn, that smile—had the disarming charm of a saint and the sharpness of a stiletto.
“Ah! Monsieur Wainright, Monsieur Archer!” Baroness Isabella von Hohenberg cooed.
The woman was always well prepared and even better briefed, but to know our cover names, the ones we used now in Paris rather than those she knew back when we first met in Bern?
It was uncanny to the point of unnerving.
Will froze beside me. His mouth opened, then promptly forgot how to close.
The Baroness swept him into an embrace that was far too warm for protocol—and far too intimate to be anything but calculated. I watched him disappear into her silks and wondered, not for the first time, if she’d ever been a spy herself.
“My darling boys,” she said, releasing Will and turning to me with a wink. “I had no idea the Americans were still sending their finest into the field, though I am not complaining.”
I bowed slightly, brushing a kiss against the back of her gloved hand. “Baroness, you haven’t aged a day.”
“Oh please,” she purred, fanning herself with a gem-crusted clutch. “I age in decades, not years.”
Will finally found his voice. “What are you doing here?”
“Why, I was invited, mon cher . Not everyone in this palace is here for business. Some of us are simply fabulous.” She arched a perfectly penciled brow. “And just how do you suppose the likes of you two managed an invitation to a state dinner?”
“We? Well, we, uh—” Will glanced toward me.
All I could do was shrug and stare at the Baroness.
And then, just for a moment, something flickered behind her eyes, a shadow of memory, a touch of the weight we all carried during the war. I saw her glance toward the crowd, as if cataloging the room not by title, but by threat. Then she leaned forward, motioning the pair of us closer.
“I do not believe in letting peace make one soft,” she said, voice lower now. “The wolves still prowl, boys, and you always did look good in wolf skin.”
She turned, her train sweeping behind her like a royal decree. “Come. Let us catch up. I want all the sordid details—but only after the soup, of course.”
We trailed behind her like a pair of ducklings chasing their mother, and I couldn’t help a chuckle that slipped past my lips. There she went—part grand dame, part ghost, every bit of her glorious.
Ahead of us, the Baroness paused to greet a minister’s wife with a double cheek kiss and a flippant comment about the poor lighting. The woman laughed, utterly charmed.
Will watched her, his eyes warm with something just shy of reverence.
“She’s exactly the same,” he muttered.
“And twice as dangerous,” I added.
He grinned. “God, I missed her.”
We arrived at our table moments later, ushered by a well-heeled attendant with gloves so white they nearly glowed.
Place cards bore our cover names, printed in gold ink beside crisply folded napkins.
Across from us, the United Kingdom’s Ambassador to France nodded politely as his wife offered a regal smile.
The Spanish Ambassador, elegant and dour, lifted his wine glass in greeting.
Then there was the actress—her name something scandalous, forgettable, and equally unpronounceable—and her ever-present “friend,” a woman with sharp cheekbones and an even sharper tongue.
“Ah, this is delicious,” the Baroness said, settling beside Will like she owned the chair and the palace in which it sat. “A table of diplomats, secrets, and velvet. What more could one want?”
Will raised an eyebrow. “A dessert tray within arm’s reach?”
The Baroness cackled. “Still all about the food, I see. I should’ve known better than to smuggle truffle paté into neutral Switzerland with you two. Do you remember the customs agent in Bern? The one with the eyebrows like angry hedgehogs?”
I grinned. “Didn’t he accuse you of transporting contraband lace? ”
“And truffle oil!” she said proudly. “Though between us, I think he just wanted an excuse to smell my luggage. Men are so oddly predictable that way.”
“You know”—she leaned in conspiratorially—“it may surprise, but I was quite the popular girl in my youth. Noble houses across Europe sent their sons to our doors, hoping for a union between the Swiss and whoever won my hand.”
“Really?” Will was bewitched.
The Baroness nodded. “No one ever won it, though a few got to dip their quill in my ink as a consolation prize.”
Will’s eyes bugged so wide the actress sitting across from him spilled her champagne.
Never one to regret causing a stir, the Baroness barreled forward, “Being a slutty little noble in my youth was the best training I could have ever hoped for. It is all diplomacy and timing, darlings, such is sex. Learn which doors to open, which to kick shut, and when to simply cross your legs. The leaders in this room could learn a thing or two from a roll in my baronial hay.”
The actress laughed, while her “friend” gave the Baroness a long, appraising stare that ended in a coquettish smile.
“I once spent a month with an Italian count who thought Mussolini had lovely handwriting,” the Baroness continued, sipping her wine.
“And then there was the Swedish prince who cried during thunderstorms. I think it was a ploy to rest his head between my tits, but I didn’t mind. He had quite the tongue.”
I grabbed my napkin and pretended to wipe my mouth, just to have somewhere to hide my laughter.
Will rested his chin on his hand, smiling and batting his lashes like a lovesick puppy. “Tell us more, tawdry goddess. Let us worship at your naughty little feet.”
“Tawdry goddess!” The Baroness clapped her gloved hands, tossed her head back, and bellowed so loudly that heads turned at neighboring tables. Oblivious to the turbulence in her wake, she winked at Will. “Only after the fish course, darling. Scandal pairs best with citrus and a nice dry wine.”
We all chuckled, the tension of politics momentarily forgotten.
A gentle chime rang through the air—a delicate but unmistakable signal—as a man in a sharp black suit stepped forward near the center of the room and called for attention with a subtle flourish.
Conversations dwindled and crystal clinked softly as glasses were set down.
The orchestra paused on a note, strings vibrating faintly in the silence.
Then came the voice of the master of ceremonies, crisp and reverent.
“ Mesdames et messieurs , it is my great honor to present the President of the French Republic and Madame Auriol, accompanied by His Excellency, the President of the Swiss Confederation, and Madame Petitpierre.”
All heads turned as the grand doors at the rear of the hall parted.
A corridor of crimson carpet awaited the dignitaries, flanked by perfectly still honor guards in white dress uniforms whose golden buttons glittered in the lights.
Down the center aisle strode the two presidential couples—elegant, confident, and glowing beneath the chandeliers.
President Vincent Auriol, in formal white tie and sash, walked with a stately grace, his arm linked with his wife’s, who wore sapphire silk and pearls that shimmered with every step.
Beside them came President Max Petitpierre, younger, more reserved, with an understated air of command about him.
His wife wore soft ivory and carried herself with quiet nobility.
Polite applause spread throughout the room.
It wasn’t the wild cheer of adoring crowds, but the well-practiced acknowledgement of superiors by elites who treated the distance between political stations like battle lines on a map.
Diplomats stood and bowed or curtsied, acknowledging the moment.
Introduction complete, the orchestra’s harmonies returned with a flourish—a few bars of “The Marseillaise” followed by a hint of the Swiss national anthem.
I glanced at Will.
His expression had shifted .
His eyes were alert, his back straight.
It was that subtle shift from relaxed to ready, my doting better half slipping into his spy mode.
We both knew that beneath the glitter and speeches, the wheels of power ground on.
The Baroness clapped with languid grace, her gaze fixed not on the presidents but scanning the others in the room. When she caught me watching her, she smirked.
“Always watch the clappers, darling,” she whispered. “They reveal more than the crowned heads ever will.”
I smiled politely.
But I scanned the room, too.